In the Light of Day Page 6

  Lizzie grabbed Annabel's arm. "Ssh! Everyone is staring. Please, do not argue now." And she gave Melissa a stern look. "And please do not use that horrid word again in conjunction with our sister."

  "You are always on her side," Melissa huffed, and she went to their table, sitting down beside John, who had jumped to his feet.

  Annabel and Lizzie exchanged glances. "Do forgive her terrible mood," Lizzie finally said. "You know how upset she is right now."

  "I am trying to be compassionate, but she makes it so very difficult," Annabel said. "The fact that she cannot conceive is not my fault—yet she is taking it out on me."

  Lizzie nodded unhappily and took her hand. "Just ignore her," she whispered as they approached their table.

  Adam was standing, waiting for them, and he smiled at both Lizzie and Annabel, holding out their chairs for them. "Isn't this place spectacular?" he asked Annabel. "Have you ever seen such views?"

  Before she could respond and agree with him, at least about the countryside, Annabel realized that two couples at the very next table were openly staring at her. They had been as rude last night at supper. The women were about her own age, but they sported huge diamond rings on their left hands and had several young children with their nursemaids at an adjoining table. They were talking in hushed tones, but Annabel knew what they were saying. She could hear them. She was quite certain the ladies wished for it to be that way.

  "It is absolutely true. Marion knows someone who was a guest at her wedding. She ran away with a burglar two years ago. That is her. Can you imagine? Leaving the poor groom at the altar like that? Talbot, has, of course, long since married. He would have none of her when she returned. How can she show herself in polite society?"

  "What nerve," her friend agreed.

  Annabel twisted in her seat and leveled a cold stare at the women. "It is actually quite easy to partake of polite society," she said. "It hardly requires nerve. One makes a few reservations, gets on a train, and voila, one arrives. But I would question whether this is polite society, actually." And she gave the flushing women her back. Annabel stared at her place setting. Her pulse continued to race.

  As soup was served all around, Lizzie placed a hand on hers. "Don't let one rat get your spirits down. This is a wonderful hotel. Most of the guests are so very nice."

  To you, perhaps, Annabel thought. "There is always a rat or two, everywhere I go, and I am thoroughly tired of it," she said. She was more than tired of hearing about how fast and willful she was, or that other popular refrain: poor, unfortunate, oh-so-wild Annabel Boothe. Other than the fact that she had been served up a very large dose of a broken heart by her own reckless nature, why, there was nothing unfortunate about her.

  She did, after all, have her freedom. Which was all that she had ever wanted anyway. It was women like the two behind her who deserved pity, not herself.

  Melissa leaned forward. "If you led an exemplary life, perhaps everyone would forget the past, Annabel. You choose to defy every norm there is—and then you expect people to like and accept you? How can anyone forget, for goodness' sake, when you refuse to let anyone forget!"

  Annabel stared at her sister. Was Melissa right? If one entertained Missy's perspective, then she certainly was correct, but Annabel knew that she could not live the way her sisters did, or the way that most of society did. Was something wrong with her? Why was her nature so inquisitive, so reckless? "I do not want to discuss this," she said, lifting her soup spoon. The split pea soup was far too hot and she set it down abruptly.

  Curiosity killed the cat.

  Annabel inhaled, stabbed by words spoken by someone she did not wish to identify, not even in her mind. She had no wish to remember either his words or him.

  "Our soups are getting cold," Adam said firmly, also taking up his spoon.

  For a moment they sipped in silence. Annabel stared at her pea soup, having lost her appetite. In Europe no one seemed to find her behavior so odd that it was worthy of censure. But in Europe, she did not frequent society. Annabel had spent the holidays in Paris, where she had run into an acquaintance from the art class she had taken several years ago. Melissa would die if she knew that Annabel had kept such late hours that she had not arisen until the late afternoon, that she had passed the evenings at the theater and afterward in bistros and cabarets, drinking red wine and brandy and smoking cigarettes and cigars.

  He had not disapproved of her. In spite of what she had done.

  Braxton was haunting her again.

  Annabel stared at her soup. It had been two years since the fateful day of her almost-wedding. He still, from time to time, appeared in her mind, haunting her oddly with bits and pieces of the brief time they had shared. Her heart was no longer broken, so she could not understand why this ghost of a memory would not go away and leave her in peace. What was even stranger was the fact that his expression in her mind's eye was always the same. It was filled with regret.

  Which was romantic nonsense. The man was a thief and a charlatan, and while Annabel now felt that she was as much to blame as he was for what had happened—she had, after all, seduced him—she would never forgive him for leaving without a word the next day, or worse, for pretending to love her that night.

  But he had not disapproved of her then, and he would not disapprove of her now. Annabel had not a doubt.

  She reminded herself that as he was a professional thief, he was hardly a suitable judge of anyone's character.

  An unladylike elbow jammed in her side. "Annabel! It is that gent from last night, the one who invited you to play tennis today!" Lizzie was full of excitement. Her pretty cheeks were flushed pink.

  Annabel looked up, saw a young, handsome fellow approaching their table, and felt her own cheeks go hot while her eyes widened in surprise. She watched James Appleton Beard as he wound his way through the dining room. Last night he had singled her out after supper, and after a brief chat, they had agreed to a tennis match the following afternoon. It had been ages since a real gentleman had shown any interest in her—it had been exactly two years, in fact.

  James paused at their table, bowing. His cheeks were flushed. Helios were passed round. Annabel regarded him but remained silent. And gazing at him, seeing his discomfort, she knew.

  Her heart sank. She should have expected this, fool that she was.

  "Miss Boothe." His smile was brief, strained. "I am afraid the weather will prevent us from our match today." He avoided her eyes.

  Annabel thought dully, he knows about Braxton. "Yes, the grass will be far too wet to play."

  A silence fell.

  "There is always tomorrow," Adam said. Annabel knew that he meant to be helpful. But the effect was the opposite.

  "Actually," James said, growing more flushed still, "I have twisted my ankle this morning. Perhaps at the end of the week." He bowed and quickly turned, leaving their table.

  Annabel knew her cheeks remained red. She picked up her spoon, resisting the sudden surge of anger that made her want to flip soup all over the table. She was fast. Unacceptable, an outcast. But this was what she had wanted, in order to be free. She had no right to feel sorry for herself, and by damn, she was not ashamed. Yet she had never known that such ostracism would be so painful.

  An intense silence had fallen.

  "He has probably heard that you are an outstanding tennis player. The poor fellow undoubtedly knew he would not stand a chance," Adam said kindly.

  Annabel felt hot tears filling her eyes. She knew that she must not let anyone see that the stupid clod had hurt her feelings. Or had he? She was thinking about the damn thief again.

  "Everyone knows that you are unbeatable at tennis," Lizzie said emphatically, agreeing.

  "Well," Melissa began. "If Annabel ever wants to catch a husband she should lose at tennis a few times or so."

  Annabel had composed herself and she looked up. "I will do no such thing." She locked gazes with Melissa.

  "You are a fool, Annabel. No man wants
to be with a woman who is stronger, smarter, and a better tennis player than he!" She turned to John. "Am I right, dear?"

  "You are very right," John said, nodding.

  Annabel had had enough. She was not hungry and she set her soup spoon down. "We all know that tennis is not, and has never been, the issue."

  "Yes, let's do change this boring subject," Lizzie said quickly, her tone high. "Have you all heard that the Countess Rossini is arriving today? She is one of the wealthiest women in Europe!"

  "I should hope so," Melissa replied, reaching for the bread. "She was seventeen when she married the count— and he was sixty-five. Everyone knows she married him for his money. Her family was quite impoverished. But no one expected him to live another fifteen years!"

  "She is a widow, newly so," Lizzie said to Adam and Annabel.

  Annabel had no interest in the countess or her money. She stood. "I am sorry. But I have a terrible migraine and I have lost my appetite. Please excuse me. I will see you all for supper." She pushed back her chair and swiftly left the table, aware of dozens of pairs of eyes in the hotel dining room following her as she crossed the room, which had suddenly become far too spacious. A gentleman was entering it as she was departing. They collided head-on.

  "I am sorry!" They both cried at the same time, extricating themselves from one another.

  "Miss Boothe!" The fellow was tall and a bit stocky, gray-haired with a darker mustache, about her father's age. He now smiled at her. "Have I hurt you?"

  They had been briefly introduced the previous evening after supper. Annabel scrambled to recall his name. "Mr. Frank, no, you have not."

  "You have finished dinner already?" he cried in disappointment, his smile fading.

  "I am afraid so," Annabel said, preparing to walk around him. "If you will excuse me?"

  "Miss Boothe." He detained her by his tone of voice. Then he swallowed. He was beginning to flush. "I would like to say that I so enjoyed making your acquaintance last evening, and I had hoped, the weather permitting, of course, that you might join me for a stroll along the beach later, or perhaps in town, if that is your preference." He smiled at her.

  Annabel stared in dismay. Thomas Frank was interested in her? She recalled now that he was a widower. "I am not feeling well," she said quickly. "But thank you." And she lifted her pale, striped skirts and hurried from the room.

  Relief filled her once she was in the large lobby. There the floors were dark oak and strewn with Persian rugs, the walls were paneled and covered with works of art, and three large crystal chandeliers were hanging from the high ceiling. Soft sofas and chairs in brocades and damask with occasional tables made the room very inviting, and it was usually filled with hotel guests, engaged in quiet conversation or sitting alone and reading. Through the tall windows, Annabel saw that it had indeed begun to pour, and in the drive outside, she saw a large, gilded carriage arriving. There were two liveried footmen standing in back, and watching the conveyance, drawn by four blacks, halt in the downpour, she felt sorry for the servants.

  Annabel sighed. She had no headache, and hardly felt like locking herself up in her room. She plopped down on one red damask sofa, picking up yesterday's copy of The Sun, a New York daily which had been left lying about and which the hotel provided for its guests. She had barely scanned the headlines on the first page when she heard voices on the threshold of the lobby, behind her. A woman was talking, her Italian accent very pronounced. "How good of you to accommodate me and my staff with such short notice," she was saying. "I can hardly believe we have made it in this weather. I feel like a drowned eat." She laughed, the sound husky and pleasant.

  "Contessa, I am so sorry that you had to endure such weather today, but please, let me assure you, anything you desire, it shall be yours."

  Annabel openly regarded the woman as she entered the lobby with the hotel manager, whom Annabel recognized. She was a small woman fabulously dressed in gold velvet, but when she turned, Annabel saw that she was a gorgeous redhead with a perfect porcelain complexion. So this, she thought, was the infamous countess Lizzie had referred to earlier.

  "You are too kind to me, darling," the countess purred. The manager bowed over her hand and kissed it before the countess could even remove her gloves.

  And then he barked out orders. Annabel watched with some amusement and some fascination as trunk after huge trunk was carried by both the countess's staff and the hotel's through the lobby and into the elevators.

  "My dear Contessa, you need not linger in the lobby. I have sent champagne and caviar to your suite, should you wish a bit of refreshment, and of course, we will keep the dining room open for you."

  "You are too kind," she cried and, gold skirts swirling about her, she disappeared into one of the lobby elevators, followed by several ladies who were undoubtedly her maids.

  Annabel watched the brass elevator door closing. Briefly, her gaze met the countess's just before the door closed.

  She looked up at the dial above the elevator. The hotel had eight floors. The big arrow went from one to eight. But of course the countess would have a suite on the top floor.

  Annabel was laughing softly to herself, unable not to be amused by the entire display, when she heard footsteps from behind her in the entryway, followed by the doorman's "G'day, sir." The lobby had settled down now that Guilia Rossini had gone to her rooms and was once again filled with quiet. Annabel reached for The Sun.

  "I believe you have a room for me," a male voice said, the accent perfect, patrician, and British.

  Annabel's head whipped up and she felt as if someone had punched her so hard that the air had been knocked from her lungs. No! This could not be—she was making a mistake.

  Annabel could not move. She stared.

  "The name is Wainscot," he said in that unforgettable voice of his.

  Annabel slowly came to her feet. His back was to her. He was tall, slim, dark-haired. And she was not deluded. She did not have to see his face in order to recognize him. Even from behind, this way, she would recognize him anywhere.

  Oh, dear God.

  He bent over a register now, signing it. Annabel became aware of the alarming rate at which her heart raced, and the deafening roar in her ears. She felt faint.

  He straightened, pushing the register at the clerk, turning slightly, so that Annabel could see both his profile and his hands. He was smiling. And she would never forget his hands.

  Those incredible, capable hands.

  "Mr. Wainscot." The hotel manager had appeared and was introducing himself and wishing Braxton an enjoyable stay. Annabel really did not hear. It was him. Braxton. The man who had taken her heart—and then thrown it back at her.

  Annabel stared, not hearing his reply. Aware now of a huge and terrible anger—and also aware of the hurt. Incredibly, it had never fully gone away.

  Suddenly his shoulders stiffened. Annabel knew, in that instant, that he had become aware of watched.

  Braxton turned. He saw her instantly, and their locked.

  Chapter Six

  He seemed to recognize her instantly. Braxton appeared to be even more severely shocked than she. His blue eyes were wide and his visage was white. Annabel remained frozen, in disbelief.

  His mouth opened and closed. As if he wanted to say something, but abruptly changed his mind.

  Annabel realized that she was shaking. Like a veritable leaf. He was here. How could this be? And why was she reacting like this, as if he were still important to her? What had happened had been so long ago—and she had long since recovered. She should not care that they were face-to-face!

  "Your keys, Mr. Wainscot. Your rooms are on the third floor. But let me remind you that dinner is now being served, and the dining room is closed from four o'clock until seven in the evening, when it reopens for suppertime."

  Braxton came to life, smiling and facing the manager. "Thank you, my good man." He handed him a coin. "My valet will need some help with my luggage."

  "Certainly." Th
e gent bowed and strode briskly back to his office, around the corner of the front desk.

  Which left Annabel and Braxton quite aione in the lobby, except for the clerks.

  He turned toward her, his regard level and steady, his gaze impossible to read.

  Annabel clenched her fists. The urge to strike him was overwhelming. Instead, she remained immobilized. All her instincts screamed at her not to make a scene—that to do so would be a dire mistake.

  He moved first—toward her—his strides long and sharp. And he dared to bow. "I do believe we are acquainted, Miss, uh, Miss Boothe, is it not?" His blue eyes held hers.

  Acquainted. Annabel was as sick as she was furious. "Are we acquainted?" Even to her own ears, her tone dripped sugary sarcasm. "Oh, yes," she said in a rush. "We met, oh, when was it? It is so hard for me to recall!"

  His smile flashed, but it was twisted. Very quietly, he said, "I believe we met at a reception in New York City in honor of the mayor."

  She was so very ill. "Oh? Then your memory apparently serves you far better than mine does me!" Tears were interfering with her vision. Damn it. Damn him.

  "Miss Boothe." His tone was gentle. "In case you have forgotten, the name is Wainscot. Bruce Wainscot."

  Forgotten—in case she had forgotten! "I have forgotten nothing," she cried harshly. "But I thought the name was Braxton!"

  He stared, unmoving, mouth grim.

  And Annabel, afraid she was about to burst into tears, turned and ran—crashing directly into her sister.

  "Annabel! Are you ill? What is wrong?" Lizzie cried, steadying her with a firm grip on her shoulders.

  Annabel looked blankly at her youngest sister, hardly assimilating her words. Braxton was here, in the hotel, by God. How could this be?

  "I am so worried about you," Lizzie was saying, her brow furrowed in that familiar way she had.

  Annabel could not help herself. She turned, but Braxton was gone. He had vanished as effectively as any ghost. Of course, he was no spirit from another world, oh no. "I do have a horrible migraine," Annabel managed, and it was the truth.