In the Light of Day Page 8

  Annabel could feel all the coloring draining from her face. Her heart, which felt as if it had halted, now resumed beating, but violently. She had never dreamed he would dare to show himself. Even if he was in disguise— somewhat.

  He smiled slightly at her and inclined his head. Annabel turned abruptly away. Was he insane? He had added thick streaks of white to his hair, changing it from a lustrous blue-black to an iron gray. He had done something to his mouth, she was not sure what, but the bottom lip was fuller and protruding. His nose too had changed, it was larger and crooked. But as far as Annabel was concerned, he was quite remarkable, and anyone who knew him would recognize him instantly.

  "So where did you get that dress, Annabel?" Melissa said petulantly.

  Annabel blinked, only hearing her sister when she had repeated herself. "It was a part of my trousseau. You can have it if you wish."

  "Really?" Missy brightened. "I would certainly wear it, again and again."

  "Do not give that dress away!" Lizzie said, glaring at Melissa. Then, "Annabel, what is wrong?"

  Annabel realized she was twisting her neck to get another glimpse of Braxton, damn his hide. But when she saw that her entire family was also turning to gaze in his direction, she abruptly looked away, filled with fright. She stared at Lizzie, her mind going blank, unable to respond. Had they seen him?

  Had anyone recognized him?

  "You look as if you have seen a ghost," Adam said, his tone kind. "Are you all right, Annabel?" .

  "I am fine. I, er, did think I saw someone I knew, but I was quite mistaken." She flashed a smile, certain the world could see how contrived it was.

  Lizzie was regarding her, her scrutiny unnerving. There were few secrets Annabel could keep from her youngest sister. Then she glanced one more time in Braxton's direction. Annabel dared not turn. Finally Lizzie smiled and stepped closer to her. "Thomas Frank is staring at you, Annabel. He is going to come over here at any moment. And so is James Appleton Beard!" There was glee in her tone.

  Annabel darted a glance over her shoulder, and saw Braxton in a group of men, chatting in a congenial manner. But the moment she turned, his glance found hers, and briefly they made eye contact.

  Annabel put her back to him, extremely flustered. And Lizzie was right. Mr. Frank was approaching, smiling at her.

  She stiffened, dismayed. She had no wish for Braxton to see her courted by an old man—as if she were an old maid herself. And then her gaze fell upon James. The moment their eyes connected, he smiled at her, blushing, and he bowed.

  Annabel was not the least bit interested in him anymore, but she gave him her most encouraging smile and a graceful curtsy. An instant later he had entered their group, cutting off the advent of Thomas Frank. "Good evening," James said to one and all.

  "Evening, Beard," Adam said, not smiling.

  Lizzie nodded coolly. Neither one had forgiven him for the way he had treated Annabel earlier that day at lunch.

  But Annabel smiled at him. "Good evening, James. How is your ankle faring?"

  His cheeks remained red but he faced her with wide eyes. "Thank you, Miss Boothe, for your concern. Actually, I seem to be making a miraculous recovery."

  "How wonderful," Annabel lied.

  "Perhaps I will even be able to play a little tennis when the weather clears," he said, the hint clear.

  "Well, I do hope that is the case," Annabel said, and she grinned at him, hoping her manner was alluring and filled with guile. She could not help herself, and had to glance over her shoulder at Braxton. Although he remained among the group of gentlemen, he was staring openly at her, watching her dalliance with the attractive and very eligible James Beard.

  And how wonderful it felt! Annabel beamed at James and laid her hand on his forearm. "If you recover, I shall be more than glad to test your mettle."

  James smiled widely in return. "I have heard you are a premier player, Miss Boothe. But I should be honored to have you test my mettle, so to speak."

  Annabel attempted a coy smile. "Let's do speak on the morrow, for undoubtedly it shall be a pleasant day.

  They are expecting good weather, I have heard."

  James bowed. "On the morrow, then," he said, and he took his leave of their group.

  Annabel felt quite smug, could feel Braxton's gaze on her back. Then she realized that Lizzie and Adam were regarding her very oddly. Melissa and John were also watching her. Melissa said, "Well! He has certainly changed his tune! It must be the gown."

  Lizzie glared. "He has merely come to his senses," she said. She took Annabel's hand. "You are acting more strangely than ever. You were flirting with him! And I know you, Annabel Boothe. You would never give someone who has cut you a second chance. Whatever is going on?"

  Annabel was as demure as she could possibly be. She lifted her eyebrows innocently. "I do not know what you are talking about."

  Lizzie stared.

  Annabel smiled at her and turned to see if Braxton continued to watch her. He did not. He was staring intently in the opposite direction, at the doorway of the salon.

  Annabel followed his gaze. Her heart slammed to a stop.

  The Countess Rossini had paused on the threshold of the room. She was so lovely, so striking, that everyone else in the room seemed to disappear. In fact, all of the guests had immediately noticed her appearance, and they were all staring—conversation had dimmed and ceased. Annabel also stared. The countess wore a stunning, narrow, extremely bare black lace gown, with the most spectacular diamond and ruby necklace dripping from her long, elegant neck. Annabel felt as if, in that one moment, she had been turned by a witch into ugly black stone. The countess, in contrast, was probably one of the world's most beautiful women.

  The contessa smiled at the room at large and entered it, followed by two couples and her escort, a very attractive blond, mustachioed gentleman. She nodded and smiled at those she passed.

  Annabel tore her gaze from the countess's overwhelming presence to Braxton. He seemed as mesmerized as everyone else. Slowly, he looked from the Italian redhead to Annabel.

  Annabel felt like sticking her tongue out at him. How childish she would then seem—when in reality, he must think her a child in comparison to the stunning and worldly older woman. Annabel could not believe how upset and unnerved she was. It struck her then that she was a complete fool. That she still harbored feelings for Braxton, strong ones, or she would never be so concerned about the other woman.

  "Miss Boo the? Good evening."

  Annabel was about to turn and respond when she saw Guilia Rossini stop and stare at Braxton. She made no effort to disguise her interest. He, in turn, smiled at her and bowed.

  Annabel inhaled, stabbed with hurt.

  "Miss Boothe? Might I mention that you are quite breathtaking tonight?"

  Annabel watched Braxton purposefully approach the countess. Although she could not hear him, clearly he was introducing himself. The countess was smiling. He was smiling. She extended her hand and he took it to his lips.

  Miserably Annabel turned away, to face her admirer, the ancient Thomas Frank.

  As the hotel staff had forecast, that next day was clear. It was far too early in the morning to tell if it would be warm and sunny, for it was not even nine o'clock, but the rain had ceased and the clouds were lifting. Annabel paused beside a sprightly tree, not far from the beach. Behind her the path she had followed led to the Acadia's back lawns and tennis courts; ahead, it led to the swimming inlet on the beach.

  She leaned against the tree, digging into her simple straw bag, trying to forget last night. She had made a fool of herself, she had no doubt, allowing Thomas Frank to escort her into supper and walk with her afterward in the galleria. Annabel grimaced, extracting a small box and from that a cigarette, hearing in her mind the gossips giggling over the old maid and the old man. She stuck it between her lips, digging deeper for a matchbox, wishing she had not behaved like an idiot. But then, how could she have not done so, when Braxton had danced att
endance on the Countess Rossini all night long, until the countess's escort had exchanged such sharp words with him that the two men had nearly come to blows? Oh, how the countess had seemed to enjoy that!

  As her fingers finally slid around a small matchbox, there was a sharp hissing sound behind her. Annabel whirled.

  "May I?" Pierce St. Clare said with a smile.

  She was so surprised by him that the cigarette fell out of her mouth. She caught it against her chest as the man she had no wish to see, not now, not ever, continued to hold out the flaming match. Trembling, angry, Annabel jammed the cigarette back in her mouth. She inhaled deeply as he lit it for her.

  He watched her closely, shaking and dropping the match. "Since when did you become a smoker?" he asked.

  "Oh, sometime after the abduction," she said tartly, between puffs.

  "There was hardly an abduction," he returned, his tone as pleasant as hers was not.

  "That is not what society says." She waved the cigarette airily.

  "And since when have you ever cared what others think? It is a part of your vast and unique charm, Annabel."

  For an instant she believed that he was sincere, then she caught herself and blew smoke as directly as she could at his face.

  He waved it away with his hand. "It's quite early in the morning for a stroll. Much less a smoke."

  "I rise at six," she retorted. "And I have come down to the beach for a swim." That wasn't true, but Annabel was beyond analyzing herself. She wanted to do battle, and badly.

  He grinned. "The ladies are not allowed to swim before two," he said mildly. "But then, I imagine you already know that."

  "I do." She puffed harder than before.

  "Does the kindly Thomas Frank know about this habit of yours?" There was laughter in his tone. "I don't imagine he would allow his wife to smoke."

  Her eyes widened. "I beg your pardon. Nothing has changed in two years. I am hardly interested in marriage."

  He stared, remaining silent.

  Annabel felt herself blushing. He was clever, and he probably knew that no one would have her even if she did wish to wed. "I would certainly never marry that old man, kind or not."

  "I know," he said.

  Her heart turned over, numerous times. "You know nothing. And you followed me," she said sharply, unnerved.

  "Yes, I did."

  "What's wrong?" She was snide. "Did the countess throw you out of her bed before breakfast could be served?"

  His gaze was searching. "Your jealousy is showing." "I am not jealous," she flashed, throwing down the cigarette.

  He eyed her, then ground out her smoking butt with his heel. "You could have fooled me, Annabel." "It is Miss Boothe to you."

  "Actually, I am flattered, that after all this time, you still care enough to be jealous of another woman."

  "I do not care at all!" she cried, turning her back on him and starting rapidly down the path.

  He fell into step beside her. "Well, in truth, I have not been in the countess's bed, although I doubt you would believe me."

  "I don't."

  "You also have nothing to be jealous of." Annabel snorted.

  When he did not reply, merely kept pace with her, she had to look at him. If only he were ugly. "She is probably one of Europe's reigning beauties."

  "Probably," he agreed.

  Annabel wished he had denied it, "so her stride quickened. She could see the two of them entwined. It more than upset her—it infuriated her and it hurt her. What was wrong with her? How could she still care?

  "Ten years ago," Pierce said, his tone conversational, "I would have enjoyed the attentions of a woman like Guilia Rossini, but call me jaded if you will, she offers little for a man like myself now."

  Annabel harrumphed. "Why are you trying to placate me?"

  "Perhaps because J care," he said.

  Annabel stumbled. He caught her arm. She pushed him away. "Don't bother," she cried.

  He shrugged. "She is not bright. Beauty without brains is hardly attractive. And she simpers, by God." He shook his head.

  For one more moment, Annabel stared, almost ready to believe him. And then she recalled how he had been fawning over her all night long. "Uh-huh." She knew

  she was being coarse, but could not help herself. She continued down the path. He strode alongside her.

  And then it struck her, hard, so hard that she halted in mid-stride, facing him in amazement. "If you are not interested in her as a paramour, you must be interested in her as a thief!"

  He did not blink. "You always were astute."

  He was not even denying it! And all Annabel could think of was that he would get caught, this time, in the act of burglary. "Are you mad? Why do you do it? Surely by now you have stolen enough to live like a king for the rest of your life."

  He smiled slowly. "I have."

  She stared, shaking her head in disbelief. "Then why, Braxton, why put yourself in danger, again and again?"

  "You know why." He was smiling, his gaze direct. "And my name," he said softly, "is St. Clare."

  And her heart turned over, but hardly with revulsion. "The thrill. It is the danger which motivates you, thrills you."

  "Yes," he said, "it is because of the thrill."

  For one more moment Annabel held his gaze, and then she looked away, remembering how exciting that day had been when they had eluded the police after he had robbed her father's safe. Her pulse raced. He would never quit his habit, he was addicted, no less so than some poor wretch addicted to opium. But she understood.

  "It's not safe for you here," she finally said. "Someone is bound to recognize you, especially if you rob the countess. Perhaps even someone from my family."

  "Perhaps I will be long gone by the time that happens," he said smugly.

  She looked at him. He returned her regard. "I think you care, more than you will ever admit," he said after a long pause. "You are afraid for my safety."

  "No. No." Annabel shook her head adamantly, knowing he was right, but refusing to accept it. "I don't think we should be meeting like this," she said.

  He chuckled. "Why not?" And he caught her hand. "Why not, Annabel?" His smile was gone.

  His touch undid her. Desire she had no wish to ever entertain consumed her, but because Lizzie had been right, because she loved this man, she pulled her hand away. If she succumbed to his charm, he would love her and leave her again. He had killed her once. She could not survive a second time. "I am going swimming. Go back to the countess and plan your next escapade."

  "Perhaps I will swim, too. With you."

  Annabel stared, horrified. And then she enunciated every word as clearly as she could. "Go away," she said.

  "I cannot seem to resist you," he said without hesitation. "I could not resist you then, and I cannot seem to resist you now." He was grim. "For better," he said, "or for worse."

  Annabel stared. It had become crystal clear to her where this chance encounter was leading. She lifted her skirts and ran.

  Chapter eight

  "Adam, Annabel is not in her room."

  Adam laid a reassuring hand on his wife's small shoulder. "Why don't I take Evan for a walk and we will see if we can find her? I thought I saw her leaving the hotel earlier, although I am not sure."

  Lizzie stood with her husband and her son just outside of the dining room, which was mostly empty at this time of the day, for the hotel guests preferred taking toast and coffee or cocoa in their rooms. "It would be just like Annabel to go walking at such an early hour!" Lizzie cried. She wrung her hands. "I am worried about her. Something is going on. I know her. She is hiding something from me," Lizzie said, frowning.

  "Darling, I do not want you to worry about anything other than having an enjoyable vacation and taking plenty of rest." Adam kissed her mouth lightly and hoisted his son up onto his shoulders. "Remember, you are bearing our second son."

  Lizzie smiled. "I am with our first daughter, dear."

  He grinned. "We shall see." He
left his wife after he had seated her in the dining room, Evan on his shoulders. "If you see Annabel, Evan, let me know."

  "Anbel, Papa," Evan replied happily, clutching his father's head.

  But Adam was no longer smiling. He was positive that he had glimpsed Annabel hurrying across the back lawns half an hour ago, when he had casually glanced out of the window of his dressing room. He believed his wife to be correct. Annabel was hiding something, and because he had grown very fond of her in the past five years, he was as concerned as his wife.

  He strode across the back lawns, which were damp from yesterday's rain and the morning dew, with Evan in his arms. Ahead, emerging from the brush, he espied a tall gentleman, coming in his direction.

  Adam did not slow his pace. The gentleman, clad casually in tan slacks and a tweed hacking coat, was close enough for Adam to recognize him as the fellow who had so enamored the Countess Rossini last night. They nodded to one another as they came abreast. Last night they had not been introduced.

  "Good morning," Adam said, carefully extending one hand, the other firmly upon his son's ankle. "Adam Tarrington."

  "Wainscot," the gentleman replied, his blue eyes unwavering.

  "Have you by chance seen an attractive blond lady strolling these grounds?"

  "No, I have not. Sorry I cannot help you." Wainscot smiled at Adam and his son and continued on.

  But Adam did not move. He turned to stare after him, consumed with an odd feeling. Last night he had also felt perplexed. He knew this man, he was almost certain of it. Yet he could not place him, and did not recall his name as one he had already known.

  "Papa? Anbel, Anbel!" Evan shouted with glee.

  Adam shoved his thoughts aside just in time to see Annabel trudging up the same sandy path, barefoot, her skirts wet. Her shoes and stockings were dangling from one hand. Had she been swimming? He smiled reluctantly, shaking his head. Annabel would never change.

  No, I have not. Sorry I cannot help you.

  Adam froze, his smile gone. The stranger's words echoed in his mind. How could he have not seen her? Adam had taken this path several times; it led to the inlet, and that section of beach was small. It was impossible that they had not seen one another.