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  She smiled at him and somehow stifled a yawn. "I look forward to it. Perhaps I might begin cataloguing the works."

  Stephen chuckled. "Perhaps you should first worry about acquainting yourself with your new home. Uncle Andrew's paintings won't disappear."

  "I must earn my keep, Mr. Lowell," she answered lightly. This position was important to her. Without it she had nothing to call her own.

  "Fear not, darling girl," he said as they turned to head to their rooms at opposite ends of the hall. "Soon you will long for the days when you had time on your hands."

  When she walked into her room, she noticed the gas lamp on the night stand had been lighted and her room looked most inviting. Janine had re-made the bed, which had been rumpled from her nap, and her day clothes were neatly hung inside the armoire.

  How wonderful it was going to be to sleep in a bed that didn't roll with the waves, to rest her head on a pillow that smelled of fresh air and sunshine, not mildew and salt.

  She was about to begin the laborious process of unhooking the back of her dress when her hand touched her throat.

  Her pearls! The clasp had become entangled in a runaway lock of hair while she and Stephen were playing chess and she'd unfastened the necklace and placed it on the game table near the captured chessmen. Certainly no harm would come to it were she to wait until morning, but the necklace was the most valuable thing she owned, a gift from her late father to her mother in the days before her birth. "These pearls are not the finest but at least they aren't dipped," Marisa had said when she handed them to Alexandra upon her sixteenth birthday, but to Alexandra they were more precious than a string of diamonds.

  If not for that necklace, she would have absolutely nothing to prove that Richard Glenn, an English officer, had ever lived and walked the earth—or fathered a child. Should anything happen to the pearls, she would lose her only connection with her father.

  Draping a light shawl around her shoulders, she kicked off her high heeled slippers and hurried through the hall to the staircase. The foyer was silent as a tomb and she shivered as she made her way in the darkness toward the library.

  The French doors were still opened wide and the ocean breeze ruffled some papers on the desk in the corner of the room. Arthur had yet to put away the chess pieces or collect the dessert tray and to her intense relief, the pearl necklace was still coiled exactly where she'd left it.

  Swiftly she snatched it up, cupping it in her palm. How cool they felt, how silky. How much she—

  Her heart thudded wildly against her ribcage as she became aware of two figures standing on the terrace just beyond the doors.

  The man's back was to the door, his broad shoulders silhouetted in the moonlight, head bent toward the woman in his arms. Even in the dim silver light, Alexandra recognized the sensuous beauty of the doll-sized woman. The artist in her was fascinated by the cafe au lait skin tones, by the large dark eyes focused so intently upon the man, by the glossy dark brown hair spilling over her shoulders.

  What a beautiful pair they made, standing there in a circle of starshine. Had Stephen a wife or a lover he'd failed to mention? The man dipped his head lower to hear the soft musical sounds of the woman's voice and in that instant Alexandra knew it wasn't Stephen at all.

  The man was Matthew McKenna.

  McKenna with his knowing eyes.

  McKenna with his sardonic smile.

  She looked away, pushing deeper into the darkness as the woman in her felt a hot stab of something deep inside her chest, something that forced her to look back toward the French doors, no matter how sharp the pain.

  The young woman's slender body was pressed near to his and the sight of his large, tanned hand resting on her silky head caused Alexandra's breath to suddenly catch in her throat, as if it were she who felt his heat.

  "It's late," he said, his deep voice carried on the ocean breeze. "You need rest."

  To Alexandra's horror, the lovers—for that was what they must be—entered the library and closed the French doors after them. She crouched behind the leather wing chair in the corner, praying the violent thudding of her heart wouldn't give her away. How humiliating it would be to be discovered spying on their private moments.

  "A moment," said the girl and Alexandra held her breath as the gentle sound of rustling skirts moved closer to where she hid.

  "Let Arthur see to it, Dayla." Matthew's voice was a rough caress. Who would have imagined so much tenderness could be conveyed by so few words. "You're asleep on your feet, woman."

  His boots scraped against the Turkey carpet as he approached the girl he called Dayla and the sound echoed inside her head.

  "To bed with you," he said, drawing the girl toward the door. The girl's low murmur of assent was the last thing Alexandra heard.

  Suddenly the fragile challis shawl lay with the weight of a hundred blankets across her shoulders and she yanked it off, wishing the French doors were still open and she could give herself over to the cooling night wind. The library had seemed large and imposing when she sat here with Stephen not more than an hour before, but now the walls pushed inward, the towering stacks of books threatening to engulf her.

  She waited, scarcely breathing for what seemed like an eternity. Surely enough time had elapsed since Matthew and the girl left the room. Quietly Alexandra rose from her uncomfortable position behind the wing chair and moved toward the door to listen. The foyer was silent and she eased the large walnut door open. One lone gas globe against the far wall was still lit and the pale yellow glow cast eerie shadows against the shimmering marble floor.

  Satisfied that all was clear, she crept into the foyer and hurried toward the staircase, her skirts lifted high above her ankles. She had made it almost to the second floor landing, hoping the steps wouldn't creak the way they used to in Gabrielle's cottage, when she heard them at the foot of the stairs. Alexandra stopped one step before the landing, torn between her desire to flee to her room and the urge to stay quietly where she was and pray they wouldn't notice her. The girl's back was to the staircase as she said something to Matthew. He answered her but his eyes—those devastating blue-green eyes—were fastened on Alexandra.

  Don't look at him, her mind screamed. Turn and walk away.

  But she was powerless to move so long as he watched her and the heat she'd felt rise within her in the library took possession of her once again, flooding her face and making her wish she could blink her eyes and become invisible.

  Finally he rested his hand on the dark-haired woman's shoulder and with a wry smile for Alexandra, he and the woman disappeared toward the back of the house.

  Alexandra found her room then stumbled through her bedtime ritual as if in a trance. She had no recollection of unfastening her gown or undoing the countless hooks on her lace-covered corset. Her skin was clean and her mouth felt fresh, so she must have attended to all that was necessary but as she climbed into the big bed she felt certain someone else must have performed those tasks for her.

  She closed her eyes and the vision of Matthew McKenna flooded over her like the April moonlight as her unruly mind conjured up vivid images of the woman Dayla in his arms.

  Somewhere in that big house, Dayla and McKenna lay together, limbs entwined. Somewhere in that big house, love words were being whispered in the heart of the night, words Alexandra had never known, words she could only guess at.

  How many nights had she lain awake until dawn, hearing the soft cries and sounds of passion from the room overhead in Gabrielle's cottage. In the morning Gabrielle would look flushed and pretty while Luc strutted around with the satisfied confidence of a prize stallion and it was all Alexandra could do to meet their eyes without blushing a violent shade of red.

  What was it that happened between a man and a woman when they were alone? She understood the physical act but found it terribly hard to imagine what could possibly be so transforming about such ungainly behavior. What inspired all that was wonderful in art and music and poetry? Luc was a broad-fa
ced, stocky farmer but on those mornings Gabrielle looked at him as if he'd gathered the moon and the stars in his wide-palmed hands and laid them at her feet.

  A vivid image of Matthew McKenna sprang to life in the darkness and she punched her pillow in despair. Why was it McKenna's face she saw when Stephen Lowell was obviously the better man. Stephen was handsome; he was uncomplicated and easy. It was he who made her introduction to life in the United States much less frightening than she had feared it would be, while Matthew McKenna had done nothing but make her understand—in no uncertain terms—that he wished she'd never come.

  "Too bad, Mr. McKenna," she whispered as she rested her head on the feather pillow. She was there and, for the time being, there she would stay.

  #

  The next morning Andrew Lowell held court from the huge cherrywood bed positioned before the French doors leading out onto his balcony. Morning was his best time if, indeed, any time could be considered better than another. He awoke with pain; he fell asleep with pain; pain followed him through his day and was his constant companion at night.

  Pain had been part of his life for many years now. Indeed, he was hard pressed to remember a time when his body had moved easily and without the outrage of enflamed joints and muscles that refused to respond at command.

  He was strong enough to accommodate his life to pain and get on with it but this strange malaise of the mind was proving to be his downfall.

  Beyond these brief golden moments at the beginning of each day, Andrew found concentrated thinking—the type of thinking that had been part and parcel of his artist's psyche—to be beyond his grasp.

  He would awaken with his mind filled with images of cerulean blue and titian and cadmium yellow, ablaze with the curve and angle of a long-forgotten chateau in the Loire valley. His hand would move instinctively to hold the camel hair brush as the smell of turpentine and oils and perfectly stretched canvas filled his head with dreams only to find himself growing weary and disoriented before he could capture a fraction of the splendor he'd glimpsed.

  This morning was like all the others.

  He awakened with the coming of dawn to the sweet vision of Dayla moving quietly about his room, the hushed rustle of her cotton skirts a benediction to his ears. He couldn't remember a time when she hadn't been beside him, a touch of gentleness acting as a balm to his violent nature.

  "The day is beautiful," she said, the musical sound of her South Sea Island home still in her voice. "Perfect for work."

  He smiled and slowly pulled himself upright, pleased that his hands ached less than usual. "Where is Matthew?"

  "Right here." Matthew stepped into the room, bristling with the same raw power that once was Andrew's to command. "We need to talk, Andrew."

  Andrew put his fingers through exercises a concert pianist once taught him. "Later," he said as the hum of color and form began to build inside. "It can wait." He caught the sudden exchange of looks between Matthew and Dayla. "Keeping secrets?"

  "Your new assistant arrived yesterday afternoon."

  "Put him in the cellar with the wine bottles." Andrew winced as a sharp pain shot through his wrist and up his forearm.

  Stephen and his damned fool ideas. God knows, he hadn't meant it when he mentioned needing an assistant. An assistant was useless to him. He needed a new pair of hands. He needed a mind that didn't grow weary before the noon hour and legs that could carry him down to the beach at sunset.

  What he didn't need was a callow art student with a peach fuzz face and bad breath who rhapsodized about "technique" and "inspiration."

  Matthew's face was impassive. "Stephen gave her the guest room overlooking the beach."

  "My assistant is a female?"

  A slight twitch at the left corner of Matthew's mouth. "A female."

  Andrew's eyes closed for a moment in disbelief. "Stupid and shallow, I daresay." He ignored Dayla's cluck of disapproval. "What in hell was he thinking of?"

  "Himself," said Matthew, his voice sharp.

  "Then let Stephen think of a way to tell her she is not needed. He should be taking care of my European business, nothing more."

  Again a look flashed between Dayla and Matthew.

  "There is much else to be done," Dayla said, her voice soft. "So many paintings hiding away."

  "Let them hide," Andrew said, frustrated and angry that his life should come to this. "The only painting that matters is the one on your easel."

  "I think she should stay."

  Andrew looked up at Matthew in amazement. "Do I hear you right, my boy? Are you agreeing with Stephen?"

  Matthew shrugged, feigning diffidence, but Andrew had known him too long to fall prey to his charade. "It occurred to me last night that we should play into Stephen's hand for the moment." He hesitated, jamming his large hands into the pockets of his black trousers. "Perhaps this is the best way to learn once and for all what he is up to."

  "I know damned well what he's up to," Andrew snapped. "He's trying to ingratiate himself with his feeble old uncle Andrew, that's what. Only a fool would question his motives."

  "All the more reason we should give him more rope," Matthew shot back. "Sooner or later your beloved nephew will misstep and we'll have him dead to rights."

  "And you mean to use the girl to hang him with?"

  Matthew's gaze never wavered. "I mean to watch what happens. Stephen will trip himself. You can be certain of that." He turned his head toward Dayla. "I'll get the carriage. We leave for town in ten minutes."

  Matthew closed the door behind him and for a long moment Andrew was quiet, letting a strange mix of sensations wash over him.

  "She is beautiful, is she?" he asked, taking Dayla's hand.

  Her dark brown eyes were wide and luminous. "He believes so," she said, voice soft. "I have seen her not."

  Andrew nodded as the pieces came together.

  For weeks Matthew had raged about the coming of the art assistant, vowing to toss him out on his hind quarters the moment he crossed the threshold of Sea View. Stephen needed no accomplices, he'd fumed, no help to disrupt Andrew's life further.

  Andrew closed his eyes and sank back against the pillow. Let it go, he warned himself. Turmoil sapped his energies and he had little to spare. He could ill afford to expend what strength he had in worrying about his money-hungry nephew or his addle-brained assistant. After breakfast he intended to sit at his easel in his studio and try to work before the bone crushing fatigue set in, pushing him into that twilight world he was powerless to escape.

  But the images—dangerous and compelling and old as time—lingered.

  A fortune-hunting man looking for the easy way out.

  A beautiful young woman of uncertain allegiance.

  And Matthew, whose anger and rage hid a vulnerable heart.

  When the blood ran hot, the risks were great.

  Sooner or later, someone would be hurt and he prayed that someone would not be Matthew McKenna.

  Dayla took his hand in hers and pressed a kiss against his cheek and he wondered about a God who would give an angel to a sinner such as he.

  #

  "Good mornin', miss."

  Alexandra looked up from her breakfast as Janine bustled into the dining room and began collecting the silver candlesticks on the sideboard.

  "Good morning, Janine."

  "You don't know the half of it, miss. That gypsy poacher was on our land again last night. Cook's husband swears he saw the beggar at first light—right on the back porch he was, bold as brass." Janine brushed a red curl from her forehead with the back of her hand. "Saw him stealing daisies, he did."

  Alexandra finished the last of her coddled eggs and shook her head. "Then he's not a gypsy, Janine. Cut flowers are a symbol of early death to them."

  Janine's face crinkled into a look of almost-comical skepticism. "Meaning no disrespect, miss, but how would you know that?"

  "My stepmother was born into the Rom," she said, remembering Esme's colorful stories about carava
ns and carnivals and the merry jingle of the tinker's bell.

  Janine blushed berry red. "If I talked out of turn, miss, I hope you won't hold it against me."

  The girl was so obviously embarrassed that Alexandra sought to change the subject. "I am surprised to see you working down here this morning. I thought the upstairs rooms were your province."

  Janine's relief was painful to behold. "Year-round jobs are hard to come by out here in the country and I thank St. Joseph every night that I have this one."

  How odd, Alexandra thought as she polished off the last scrap of sausage and glanced longingly at the fat corn muffins and pot of beach plum preserves near the teapot.

  Andrew Lowell was obviously a man of wealth. Every corner of his house boasted magnificent artwork and treasured antiques; why the sale of just one of the marble sculptures in the library alone could support Gabrielle's family for a year. One would hardly think he would find it necessary to cut back on help. Yet, if she had learned anything in the English boarding school, she had learned that the rich behaved in ways which often made no sense at all to those not to-the-manor-born. Girls spent their last farthing on silk camisoles, enduring rooms cold as ice rather than purchase coal to warm a December night.

  Janine whistled as she filled her snowy white apron with candlesticks. "I hope you had a good rest last night, miss, what with a new bed and all."

  "I had a fine rest," Alexandra hedged. Sleep, unfortunately, had eluded her. Each time she closed her eyes she'd seen Matthew McKenna at the foot of the stairs, his arms about the dark-haired girl. "The room is beautiful."

  "It is that." Janine plucked the silver salt cellar from the table and tossed it in her apron. "I'll be in service here five years this All Saints Day and you are the first visitor ever to use it."

  The grandfather clock in the library tolled the half-hour and Alexandra reached for her tea to calm her nerves. "I thought breakfast was at eight," she said. "It seems I am the proverbial early bird this morning."