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Southern Belle
Fiona Hood-Stewart


Elm MacBride belongs to a world of wealth, politics and Southern hospitality. But when her husband, a self-absorbed politician who will stop at nothing to seize power, betrays her, Elm flees Savannah to her old friend's chalet in the heart of Switzerland.Meeting a beautiful woman on the ski slopes is the last thing Irishman Johnny Graney thought would happen when he agreed to a family vacation in Gstaad. After all, no woman has been able to capture his heart since the terrible day his young wife was killed. But there's something intriguing about Elm MacBride, in whom he senses an incredible strength.And Elm finds herself equally drawn to Johnny's passion for his home, the Thoroughbred horses he raises–and for her.But the ties Elm has to the world of old politics are not easily severed and she finds herself an unwilling pawn in her husband's game of power, forced to maintain appearances with a man determined to control her every move. And when his desperate actions threaten to destroy her, Johnny must save not only their love, but Elm's very life…







“You spend the night in my arms then walk out as cool as you please to a date with your ex? Oops, I forgot, you’re still married to the man. Perhaps you never meant to leave him? I can assure you that from where I was standing the two of you looked awfully cozy.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“I happened to walk into the Palace Hotel at lunchtime today. Unless I’m much mistaken, you were on a sofa by the window of the lounge smiling at someone who was kissing your hand. You didn’t seem too upset about it.”

She drew back, shocked at just how angry he was. “Harlan came here to try and persuade me to return to Savannah—he’s worried that my absence makes him look bad. I told him that wasn’t an option right now. We had lunch and now he’s leaving again.”

“Do I look stupid, I wonder?” Johnny asked conversationally, hands stuffed in the pockets of his corduroys.

“No, you look jealous,” she retorted, matching his tone. “And with no reason to be.”

“Jealous? Ha! That’s a good one. Why on earth would I be jealous? After all, we’re just having a holiday fling, aren’t we?”

“Yes. I suppose we are,” she replied quietly, looking him straight in the eyes.

“If that’s what you really feel, then I agree wholeheartedly,” he responded stiffly.


Also by FIONA HOOD-STEWART

SILENT WISHES

THE LOST DREAMS

THE STOLEN YEARS

THE JOURNEY HOME

Look for the latest novel by

FIONA HOOD-STEWART

SAVANNAH SECRETS




Southern Belle

Fiona Hood-Stewart





www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


To Carter Parsley,

the other Southern Belle

With love




ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


Many thanks to all those who have helped me while writing this book. To Remer and Susan Lane, Howard and Mary Morrison, Remer and Christina Lane and Fran Garfunkel of Savannah, Georgia, for their generous hospitality and helpful input. To Bill Riley for the reference to the Samovar, which he told me over dinner at a castle in Switzerland, and last but not least to those whom I share my life with and who patiently bear with my writing every day: John, Sergio and Diego. As always my thanks to my editor Miranda Stecyk and the team: Dianne Moggy, Amy Moore-Benson and Donna Hayes.




Contents


Part I (#u17409cca-4b9e-5482-9f77-324ca0da86fc)

Chapter 1 (#u967b044d-08ff-5569-ba5d-a5e44d84e4e9)

Chapter 2 (#u5ccdf0f5-be24-59ab-b2a9-c9c935a1a06a)

Chapter 3 (#uf86530ec-6746-5a06-bf50-b5889aab43ed)

Chapter 4 (#u45c2207c-d9e5-5895-88d9-2e7d0190b1cd)

Part II (#u6c974833-51b1-5030-893f-2e3451014be3)

Chapter 5 (#uad54503d-e085-517e-a27e-2e28339c823a)

Chapter 6 (#u9106d594-0d4d-5a61-a00a-c8fd57371912)

Chapter 7 (#u4d3149da-1c40-5a90-87d7-a619286a896c)

Chapter 8 (#u15b0acc9-fa78-5a39-9608-33bfc79f643f)

Chapter 9 (#u4c262dc7-9d16-59df-b543-06f58ed23ff1)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Part III (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)

Part IV (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)



Part I




1


The much awaited rain—the rain everyone had been praying for, because the drought had been so bad—poured heavily down in doleful drops, battering the roof, dripping from the tiles and the gutters, past the windows of the wide, netted porch, before streaming relentlessly onto the grass. Within a few hours the yellowing lawn was nothing but a broad, soggy puddle stretching down to the Ogeechee River, giving the plantation’s freshly planted gardens an abandoned, almost forlorn look.

Curled in the rocker in the enclosed section of the porch that had once served as the nursery, Elm MacBride stared blindly out the window, her fingers tweaking the tiny red shutters of the well-worn dollhouse that dated back to the turn of the century. Only a week earlier she’d sat in this very spot, begging for rain. Old Ely—whose great-granddaddy was the trusted slave who’d helped her ancestors save the Hathaway family fortunes by stashing gold in the plantation’s well—had talked about it day after day for a month, how the land was too dry, how the garden so desperately needed it. Yet now, as she stared at the rivulets tracing irregular patterns down the windowpanes, her mind overflowing with the bewildering events of the past few days, the rain seemed strangely irrelevant.

What did seem relevant was just how blind she’d been—how profoundly dim-witted and completely oblivious to the affair her husband had apparently carried on right under her nose. She shifted restlessly, still trying to assimilate Harlan’s betrayal—and the fact that he’d had the gall and total lack of sensitivity to drag her through the humiliation of adultery within their own circle. She swallowed a suffocating rush of shame and frustration and brutally reminded herself that she’d needed a snide remark from the woman her husband was sleeping with before she’d realized what was going on.

The corner of the tiny shutter dug into her palm and she drew her tense hand quickly away from the miniature house and its many memories. In her anger, she’d almost crushed it. Taking a deep breath, she straightened her stiff shoulders and blinked. That Harlan had taken a mistress was inexcusable. But worse, she reflected, cringing, was learning that he didn’t care that she knew.

At first, just thinking of him in bed with Jennifer Ball, her all-time nemesis since play school, had left her feeling physically sick. Then, once she’d mastered the nausea that rose in her throat after hearing Jennifer mention blithely at the tennis club that Harlan was “a great fuck,” she’d carefully finished her lunch, signed the club voucher and driven back to their town house, determined to confront him.

She’d found Harlan in the bedroom, straightening his tie in the gilt mirror above the mantelpiece. Their eyes met in it before he turned, checked his cuff links and prepared to leave for his congressional office.

“Hey,” he’d murmured noncommittally, the practiced smile not reaching his eyes.

“Hey.” Elm had felt strangely nervous, as though the man before her was a stranger and not her husband of twelve years. She’d watched, disbelieving, as he’d stood, arrogantly at ease by the pocket windows, and chitchatted as if nothing were amiss, when surely Jennifer had called him, crowing about her run-in with his stupid wife. He’d even remarked that they were expected for dinner at the Thomas-Leighton house that evening, to please not forget to send flowers; the same things he always remarked upon in that slightly cynical, somewhat patronizing tone she’d become used to.

Elm had watched as he’d picked up his briefcase, bereft of speech, desperately trying to summon up the feverish flood of abuse—so alien to her nature it frightened her—that she’d prepared on the drive home, and been ready to hurl at him.

But the words just wouldn’t come.

Then, before she could gather herself, he’d flashed her a calculated smirk—one that said he knew she knew, but also that he doubted she had the guts to do anything about it—and left the room before she could find the language to hold him back, to ask him why. But the message couldn’t have been clearer: he expected her to ignore what had happened and get back to being a dutiful wife.

And there was the crux of the matter, she realized bitterly, gripping the well-worn arms of the old chair and rocking rhythmically. It wasn’t so much Harlan going to bed with another woman—though that had hurt dreadfully—particularly as it was only six weeks since she’d subjected herself to one last, unsuccessful in vitro fertilization treatment. Or that their sex life—the one area of her tottering marriage she’d desperately wanted to believe had remained intact—was clearly a sham. It was the knowledge, the glaring recognition, that the man she’d known for as long as she could remember had little or no respect for her.

And so she’d run to the plantation, to the welcoming safety of Oleander Creek, to hide from the harsh new truths about her marriage. It was what she always did, she reflected, angrily pitching a faded, flowered cotton cushion across the room. And worse, in the five days she’d been here, she’d solved nothing. All she’d done was ask herself repeatedly why her husband was risking their marriage—and his political career—for the sake of a white-hot affair, right here in Savannah, the community that had twice elected him to Congress.

Elm’s hand dropped in her lap and the chair stopped rocking. What had she expected from him? Embarrassment? Defensiveness? Shame? That she would have understood, could have tried to deal with—might even have made an attempt to bridge the gap and mend the rift.

But he’d demonstrated neither. She’d reviewed the scene repeatedly since that awful morning, and realized that his complete lack of emotion or contrition had turned the ache in her heart numb.

It had also cast a healthy damper over her prickly rage.

Nothing seemed important any longer, neither the facts nor the words nor her stunned feelings. In fact, she’d spent the better part of the week in a haze.

Then, finally, this morning she’d woken with a new focus for her fury: herself. Elm Hathaway MacBride, who at thirty-four years old should know a damn sight better, still hadn’t taken any action, had done nothing to alter the status quo, she reflected with disgust. It was especially galling to know that was exactly what Harlan was counting on.

It was as though she’d been fast asleep and someone had abruptly drawn back the drapes, exposing her to harsh, glaring light. At first she’d blinked, then all at once she’d seen clearly, realized that it wasn’t only Harlan she despised, but herself for having lived for twelve long years like a myopic mouse, making pathetic excuses for his absences, justifying his late nights at committee meetings, applauding his campaign-planning reunions, in a desperate desire to pretend everything was fine. Now, as she sat swaying in the rocker, arms hugging her slim, T-shirted torso, she felt more than just hurt or betrayed; she felt foolish.

For a few moments Elm tried to clear her mind by listening to the rhythmic sound of pattering rain, that relentless, decadent, passionate Southern rain that could rant and rave like a banshee, weep till it tore out your soul, make you yearn as it dripped sensually from trailing Spanish moss perched on the ancient branches of the live oaks that bordered the house and the lawn, and stretched on and on, all the way down to the river. Turning, she gazed out across the property toward the Ogeechee, aware that it was in the same state she was: bursting and about to overflow. Yet even as she whipped up her anger again it felt suddenly remote, as though in the past few hours she’d distanced herself mentally and physically from what, only yesterday, had represented a major disaster. Perhaps, she considered thoughtfully, it wasn’t quite as catastrophic as she’d first imagined.

She glanced at her watch. It was nearly 2:00 p.m. Tracing a pattern on the faded carpet with the toe of her loafer, Elm faced the truth: her well-ordered world had been turned upside down, and the protective barriers she’d so carefully built around herself had collapsed as thoroughly and dramatically as an imploded building. Worse, this dreadful lack of inner peace she was experiencing would continue to haunt her until she took action.

Shoving her fingers through her straight, blond shoulder-length hair, aware now that she hadn’t washed it in two days, Elm took a long, stark look at the wreckage. It was time, she realized with a jolt, to pull herself together and get a grip, instead of hiding out at Oleander Creek.

Usually her family’s centuries-old plantation afforded immediate comfort in times of distress. But not this time. Neither had immersing herself in her painting, the one area of her life that Harlan hadn’t taken over and that afforded her not only pleasure, but the beginnings of success, as her landscapes and portraits—usually Southern scenes and people that she captured with a bold, distinctive brush stroke—became increasingly known throughout the country.

But this time, nothing seemed to help.

As suddenly as it had started, the torrential rain slowed abruptly to a trickle, its intense fury spent. Rising quickly from the wicker rocker, Elm knew an urgent need to get outside, to wander around the plantation’s grounds, desperate to rediscover the sense of serenity that the place had always brought her in the past. She longed to be enveloped in that hazy, magical soothing cloak of oblivion that always caught her unawares the minute she stepped past the ancient wrought-iron gates of the property.

Moving through the dining room, Elm automatically straightened the Hepplewhite chairs surrounding the wide mahogany table and reflected that since Harlan’s betrayal she had experienced no delight at the ancient wisteria covering the Oleander’s trellised walls, nor captured that wistful touch of recognition when she’d stepped—as she always made herself—in the crack in the river-mud brick steps where some careless Yankee soldier had smashed his rifle butt almost a century and a half before. Nothing.

Not even a gentle sigh escaped her as she stepped onto the wide porch, home to the balmy breezes that blew softly in from the river, where she’d spent so many dreamy nights of her girlhood, gazing at the full moon shining bright and clear, while moonbeams played a stealthy game of hide-and-seek over the river and the ever-present scent of lavender and thyme seeped gently past the oleander trees and the camellias. Not even the sight of the old canvas hammock, strung up between the two live oaks a few paces from the hunting lodge, had helped one iota. And reluctantly Elm realized that for the first time in memory Oleander Creek had failed her.

Even as this occurred to her, she wondered if it wasn’t she who had failed Oleander Creek. The plantation had long been home to people of great courage and initiative, rare individuals who’d faced stark, seemingly insurmountable obstacles with decisiveness and grace. Maybe it withheld its pleasures from those who didn’t deserve her.

At the thought, she ran from the dining room, through the study—an addition built in the 1920s by her grandmother—into the hall, and grabbed her jacket, confused. She felt irritable, antsy, shaken and desperate, as though the needle of her compass was suddenly spinning. Opening the front door, she headed quickly down the steps to the old Jeep Cherokee parked on the gravel and shells, unwilling to admit that her safe haven wasn’t safe anymore; that the long hours spent churning up trowel-loads of earth in the gardens had resulted in nothing; that slashing swabs of thick, rich, brightly colored oil paint on endless canvases had in no way assuaged her feelings. And that, like it or not, she was going to have to delve inside the closed Pandora’s box deep within herself to find the answers.

Letting out something between a huff and a groan, Elm turned the key in the ignition, drove around the flower bed and down the bumpy drive that stretched for two miles before it reached Ogeechee Road, knowing definitively that her world had changed and was engulfed by a wave of nostalgia. Nothing would ever be the same again. She’d only felt this way once before, when her mother had died—robbed, defiled and defrauded. But back then she’d been too little to understand, with no one to blame except cruel fate and the cancer that had taken her mother, two bewildering forces that had seemed too huge to counter.

But this was different.

Now, she acknowledged, veering past the gate and waiting for a break in the oncoming traffic, she had a say in the matter and knew where the blame lay. It was her own damn fault for choosing to remain oblivious, aloof, content to sail blithely along, pretending—to herself and others—that everything in her marriage was just dandy, never once admitting that her life was not quite the picture-perfect postcard she’d tried so hard to project.

Elm shifted gears, sat straighter and peered to her left before turning onto I-16 and heading toward Savannah, reflecting as she gripped the wheel tighter that perhaps if she’d done something about the situation sooner, she might have—

The harsh, urgent honking of an oncoming car made her sit up and swallow as she wrenched the Cherokee back apologetically into her own lane. She must stop being so distraught and take action. After all, things weren’t going to fall conveniently back into place simply because she wanted them to. It was too late for that.

A clear stretch in traffic allowed her to put her foot on the accelerator. Glancing down, she glimpsed her old beige Gucci loafers and her smooth feet—still tanned, even though it was early December. That she should notice something as trivial and insignificant as a tan when her life was spinning out of control seemed almost funny. It was also superficial and ridiculous, she reflected, pinning her attention back on the road, a knot in her throat. Typical of the person she’d allowed herself to become.

She let out a small sound of repressed frustration. She didn’t smoke, drank only moderately and didn’t chew gum—that was unladylike. But right now, Elm felt like driving straight to the beautiful mansion featured in Southern Living that she’d shared so dutifully with Harlan for the past twelve goddamn years and getting rip-roaring drunk.

Instead, habit won and she drove carefully into town and made her way sedately through the squares and streets she’d frequented all her life. Waving her manicured hand at Mrs. Finchely on the corner of Abercorn, she parked neatly in front of her own garage, turned off the ignition and took a quick peek in the rearview mirror.

What she saw was a brutal reminder of all that had changed since she’d last been home. Her dark eyes, such a contrast with her hair, had rings under them; her usually healthy skin looked dull. For once she actually looked her age, she reflected, making a feeble attempt to right the offending hair that fell lank on her shoulders. Not that it mattered, she argued, glancing at her hands—well tended despite the daily contact with the earth and all her work gardening. Sliding them over the thighs of her beige chinos, she tried to think. She must talk to someone or she’d go crazy.

But whom?

Aunt Frances, her mother’s sister and her lifelong confidante, was out of town. Anyway, she was an elderly lady and shouldn’t be worried by her niece’s problems.

Elm alighted absently from the car, but instead of entering the house began walking. A passing acquaintance nodded, and automatically she plastered on the practiced, obligatory smile of a senator’s daughter and congressman’s wife, still wondering who, in the whole of Savannah, she could talk to.

Really talk to.

Of course there was Meredith, but Elm recalled her friend mentioning that she was working on a big case, so she’d be too busy right now. But after several steps and a quick review of her long list of acquaintances, she realized, shocked, that there was no one else, simply no one, whom she trusted enough not to broadcast her private hurt, her status as betrayed wife, to the world.

Crossing the road into Forsythe Park, Elm shuddered at the spectacle she would afford. The mere thought of her private life being relayed in murmured confidential whispers at the gym or over chardonnay-drenched lunches at the tennis league was too appalling to contemplate.

Oh, God. Down the street, approaching rapidly, was General Mortimer. He would want to stop for a chat, tell her the weather forecast. Usually she listened, smiled, nodded at the same remarks she’d heard, day in, day out, for years. But not today. Right now she simply couldn’t face it. Dipping her chin, Elm hid behind the curtain of long hair, hoping her black designer shades would disguise her sufficiently, and swerved up the nearest path, realizing as she did so that she’d instinctively walked in the direction of Meredith’s law offices. For a moment she hesitated, then stopped on the curb and closed her eyes tight shut. She simply had to let loose or she’d explode. However busy Meredith might be, she was the one and only person Elm needed right now.

Opening her eyes once more, she stared past the old-fashioned street trolley packed with eager tourists, necks craning as they hung on to their guide’s practiced description of precise locations where Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil was filmed, and walked determinedly across the street. She’d witnessed this scene countless times, typically with good humor, sometimes laced with a mild flash of irritation for the notoriety Savannah had achieved.

But not today.

Today she couldn’t have cared less how many tourists invaded the city. She felt strangely detached from her surroundings, could visualize herself—tall, well dressed despite the casual nature of her clothes, waiting to cross the street—like an out-of-body experience.

How many affairs had Harlan had, she wondered suddenly, stepping absently into the street. It was as though, all at once, so much of what she hadn’t understood—hadn’t wanted to see—made perfect sense. It must have been obvious to all those surrounding her. Yet she’d refused to get the message, refused to face reality inching its way insidiously into her world, had remained trapped like a rabbit in headlights, dazed by Harlan’s charisma, her father’s ambitious plans for his son-in-law, and her own dogged determination that the marriage shouldn’t fail, couldn’t fail.

The panicked blast of a horn and the screeching of tires made her jerk up, aghast. She’d wandered into the street and hadn’t noticed.

Sending the outraged driver of the enormous SUV an apologetic smile, she hurried to the opposite pavement. Shit. That was the second time in under an hour she’d lost all sense of reality. But the pang of—not pain—that was something you endured, something you went through for a worthy cause, and this certainly didn’t qualify—but the strange, angry torment she was experiencing, directed as much at her own obtuse need to go on believing in the dream she’d so carefully constructed as at Harlan, wasn’t allowing her to think straight. Perhaps she was being ridiculous and this happened to most marriages at some point. But deep inside she knew that, too, was a lie.

By the time she took stock of her whereabouts, Elm realized she was opposite the Oglethorpe Club and Meredith’s office. Rollins, Hunter & Mills, attorneys at law, practiced in the magnificent mansion standing on the corner. She crossed the road, carefully this time, and rang the buzzer at the ornate wrought-iron gate, feeling as though someone had pressed the button on a stopwatch and put her life on hold.




2


The buzzer buzzed.

Elm pushed the gate open and walked up the shallow steps to the law office’s imposing front door.

As soon as she stepped inside, she was plunged into the high-powered, hectic world of Savannah’s most prominent law firm, of successful attorneys barking sharp orders to Mylanta-popping paralegals in high heels and T.J. Maxx power suits. She stood for a moment and studied the pleasant face of the pregnant receptionist sitting unfazed in a bright pink smock behind a large antique desk as wide as she, trilling out the firm’s well-established name every few seconds, juggling calls, while anxious, six-hundred-dollar-an-hour clients were put on hold, waiting impatiently to be connected.

“Mrs. MacBride?” Ally, Meredith’s rake-thin secretary, halted her sprint down the hallway and stopped, surprise evident on her pallid face. “Were we expecting you?” she asked, an anxious frown appearing as she mentally reviewed the day’s agenda.

“No. I don’t have an appointment,” Elm replied. And for the first time in memory she did not apologize or add if it’s not convenient I’ll return another time, or don’t bother Meredith if she’s in an important meeting. Right now—to use Meredith’s language, rather than her own—she didn’t give a flying fuck how busy her friend was, she needed to speak with her. Now.

“Right.” Ally, immediately businesslike, took charge. “If you’ll wait here just one second, Mrs. MacBride, I’ll check if she can see you right away. Why don’t you take a seat?” She indicated the group of studded leather sofas and armchairs strategically placed in the inner alcove, overshadowed by a gigantic Christmas tree, that looked out over the secluded garden and served as a waiting room.

“Thanks. But I’ll just wait here.” Elm smiled politely in the poised manner that was a part of her nature, and stayed put.

“Sure. I’ll—” Ally smiled nervously, indicated Meredith’s door, and after the briefest of knocks disappeared.

“Elm!” A booming baritone echoed behind her and a large palm clapped her on the shoulder. “What are you doing here, young lady?” Ross Rollins, senior partner, ex-state supreme court judge, and intimate friend of her father, Senator George Hathaway, shook her hand with delight. “Well, if this isn’t a wonderful surprise. Best get one of those gals in there to find us some coffee.” He gestured to the hall at large.

“Actually, I just popped in to see Meredith.”

“Sure. Now, tell me, Elm—” Ross slipped a broad arm about her slim shoulders “—how’s that handsome husband of yours doing, eh? Getting ready to win another term, I’ll bet. A little bird whispered to me that he has some pretty ambitious aspirations this time round. Particularly now that Jeff Anderson’s gone,” he added, lowering his voice. “Sad he went so young, very sad indeed,” the older man muttered, donning a suitably concerned frown for the recently deceased house minority leader. “Still, might just be Harlan’s lucky break, mightn’t it?”

She was saved from answering by Meredith, who appeared, beige-skirted and white-shirted, on the threshold of her own little empire.

“Hey. This is a surprise.” Meredith pecked Elm on the cheek, registering her friend’s pale, set face. With a quick word she dismissed Ross, linking her arm with Elm’s and sweeping her toward the open office door. “What brought you in here?” she asked, mentally filing the municipal-trash case—it would just have to wait—her bright eyes studying Elm’s fixed smile and controlled posture.

Something was obviously wrong, she reflected uneasily. In all the years they’d been friends—and that went back longer than she cared to remember—and not once since she’d begun practicing law, had Elm ever appeared unannounced. She invariably called first, making sure in that soft, elegant, well-mannered way of hers that it was convenient. “Come in. It’s good to see you.” She smiled more brightly than she felt.

“Sorry not to have called,” Elm murmured, following Meredith into her large, square, high-ceilinged room, a maze of stacked legal files, cardboard boxes with their contents labeled in thick black marker, and piles of miscellaneous documents waiting to be filed and delivered to the document bank. The desk was the one orderly area in the entire room.

“What’s wrong?” Meredith said as soon as the door closed. She pointed authoritatively at a new gray chair bought last week to replace the sagging green one that had finally collapsed. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

Elm stared straight at her and remained standing. “Mer, did you know?”

“Know what?” Meredith’s brows met in a dark ridge over the bridge of her straight, thin nose.

“That Harlan was having an affair with Jennifer Ball?” Elm’s voice sounded almost casual, as though the discovery of her husband’s affair with one of Savannah’s most notorious divorcées was an everyday occurrence.

“Oh, Jesus!” Meredith sank behind her desk and pushed her glasses back into position. The day she’d long been dreading had arrived. The shit had finally hit the fan.

“Well? Did you?” Elm’s black shades stared blankly at her.

“I—look…kind of, okay?” She let out a sigh and again gestured for Elm to take a seat.

“And you never said a word.” Elm gripped the back of the chair.

“Look, sit down and I’ll explain.” She’d always known that one day Elm would suffer a rude awakening from the daydream she’d been living for more than a decade. Just hadn’t expected it would happen today.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Elm asked tightly. She sat on the edge of the gray chair and removed her shades. “Why didn’t you warn me, Mer? And by the way,” she added, her tone bitter, “just who else knows that my husband is fucking Jennifer? Everyone except me, I suppose?”

“Pretty much,” Meredith muttered, suddenly wary. Elm never used bad language.

“I repeat, why didn’t you tell me?” Elm pinned her mercilessly, her eyes two huge chestnut pools of pain, anger and crushed pride.

“Hell, Elm, how could I?” Meredith burst out, cringing inwardly. Should she have told her? Would it have been fairer?

“You’re my friend,” Elm bit back, “the only friend I trust in this damn cesspool. But you didn’t see fit to warn me. I don’t understand.”

“Hold it. It’s not quite that simple,” Meredith countered, leaning forward and reverting to the measured tone she used to announce a lost case to a client. “How could I tell you,” she queried deliberately, “what you didn’t want to know?”

“Of course I would have wanted to know,” Elm countered with a scathing laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”

“I hate to burst your bubble, hon, but that’s not strictly true.” Meredith leaned farther forward, elbows posed on the desk. “For twelve years—make it thirteen, if you include your engagement—you’ve stuck Harlan so high upon a pedestal that you made sure he was unreachable. Even by you.”

“That’s absurd,” Elm spluttered.

“Oh, yeah? Well, why is it, then, that during the entire course of your marriage I have never once heard you criticize him, or even say a single negative word about him?” Meredith asked, eyes narrowed.

“I don’t approve of criticizing one’s spouse.” She grimaced at her prissy words.

“Right.” Meredith sucked in her cheeks and nodded. “Very laudable, I’m sure, but at times I have to say I found it hard to swallow. Hell, I love my Tom but I’m always bitching about him.”

“That’s different.”

“In what way?” Meredith quirked an interested brow.

“I don’t know—” Elm gestured nervously “—it just is.”

“Bullshit. You made up your mind Harlan was going to be Mr. Perfect, then you stuck to that notion through hell and high water, even though I reckon you knew it wasn’t working out right from the start,” she said shrewdly. “Look, I’m sorry it’s happened this way, Elm, but maybe it’s time to wake up and smell a megadose of double espresso?”

“It would certainly seem so,” Elm murmured dryly, nervously fiddling with the sunglasses on her lap, the bitter truths she’d denied for the better part of her adult life rising in her throat. “I guess I must be plain stupid not to have seen this coming,” she said finally. “I must need fucking bifocals,” she added, her mouth set in a tight line Meredith had never seen before.

“Don’t beat up on yourself.” She reached across the desk and touched Elm’s icy fingers. “You did it because of the way you are. I’ve never known you to take on a cause and do a half-assed job. Take the garden project you’re working on right now. I’ll bet nobody shovels more damn earth than you do, nobody plants more seedlings. Or your exhibitions.” She shrugged and smiled. “It’s all the same, Elm. You throw yourself into everything you do, give every ounce of your being. Only, sometimes others don’t meet your expectations and you’re bitterly disappointed. Problem is,” she added, picking up a pen and doodling speculatively, “not everyone—and that includes your hubby—has your high standards or is as dedicated and sincere as you.”

“Gee, thanks! Knowing I’m an obsessive perfectionist who’s blind to the world makes me feel a hell of a lot better.”

“Rubbish. You know that isn’t so.”

“Really? Then how do you explain that Harlan’s gotten away with this affair? And I suppose there must have been others. It’s only that Jennifer is the first one who couldn’t resist the temptation of telling me Harlan’s a great fuck! I suppose I should be grateful to her,” she added grimly, knuckles strained and white from gripping the glasses, as though crushing them might relieve some of her bewildered anger.

“Not so fast,” Meredith countered. “Let’s go back and review the circumstances. Right from the start, long before you married Harlan, you’d convinced yourself that he was Mr. Right.”

“He was. At least he seemed—right.” Elm bit her lip and glanced at the porcelain ashtray on the desk, wishing she smoked.

“For whom?” Meredith’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “You or Uncle George?”

Elm’s head flew up, then she hesitated. She’d been about to protest vehemently, but her friend’s words made her stop. She glanced toward the window. Was it true? Had she wanted Harlan to be perfect because her father was so enchanted with the idea of his prospective son-in-law’s glittering political future? She let out a long sigh, then met Meredith’s eyes straight on. “Both, I guess.”

“Exactly.” Meredith nodded, satisfied. “Harlan had all the prerequisites of the successful politician—handsome, great charisma, old family. Poor as church mice, of course, but hey, who gives a damn since he’s in some way related to Oglethorpe and the founding of Savannah, right?” She enumerated the qualities, ticking them off one by one. “A truly great candidate. Your father’s dream boy. The son he never had.”

“There was nothing wrong with that,” Elm replied defensively.

“No, except that somewhere along the line, having Harlan in the family became more important to him than your own happiness.”

“That’s not true,” Elm lied. “I truly believed I’d be happy with Harlan, and there was never any question of Daddy—”

“I know, I know,” Meredith soothed, “he’s the other Mr. Perfect in your life. But let’s face it, Elm, I remember talking when you got engaged. Christ, you had so many dreams, such focused expectations. Remember all the idealism? How convinced you were that being his wife would be a fulfilling path? That together you would achieve all sorts of worthy objectives?”

“You make it sound all trite and stupid and it wasn’t. I really did believe it.”

“I know, and I’m sorry.” Meredith smiled apologetically. “I didn’t mean to diminish your dreams. They were very worthwhile. It’s just a pity Harlan never believed in them. Let’s face it, babe,” she said, leaning back and letting her large leather chair swing, “Harlan never expected to make you an active partner in his politics. Twelve years in, you’re still his lackey. Expected to throw great parties and enhance his social status, but shut out of making any significant policy contributions.

“Not that you aren’t doing great things on your own—your painting exhibitions are phenomenal, you’re becoming known. Hell, that Frenchman—who’s supposed to be an international art specialist—Le Souche—who was in town last month even bought one. And working with abused women to restore the gardens at Oleander Creek is one heck of a worthy cause.”

“But?”

“Elm, face it. Harlan’s reneged on his part of the bargain. He’s ignored your input. I mean, has he ever solicited your advice about any aspect of his platform? I didn’t see him asking you about whether that massive waste-processing plant he green-lighted would have any impact on the environment. You’d think that since it’s just up the creek from your plantation, he’d have sought your involvement on that, at least. He’s just been using you—and you’ve let him.”

“That may be partially true,” Elm admitted grudgingly, regaining some of her poise. “Of course, perhaps if you’d seen fit to tell me all this sooner, I might have avoided some of it,” she threw out reproachfully.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Elm, who are you trying to fool? You know very well you wouldn’t have listened to a word I had to say.”

“I might have.”

“Bull crap.”

Elm swallowed, seriously shaken. All these years she’d carried the load of her inadequate, unsatisfying, empty marriage alone, convinced no one but she knew the truth. Now she felt cheated at her own game. “God, I just wish you’d told me how you really felt,” she repeated, shaking her head, bewildered.

“Elm, honey, put yourself in my shoes.” Meredith let out a gusty sigh. “How could I, in all fairness, turn around and tell you that Jennifer was bragging to anyone who’d listen that she’s bagged Harlan MacBride, when it was obvious you didn’t want to hear, or want to know, or want to see? Hell, we lunched last week and you were still singing Harlan’s praises. The one and only time,” she said through gritted teeth, “I ever came close to bursting your bubble was a few months ago, when you were recovering from that last IVF treatment and Jennifer was preening about Harlan taking her to the Cloisters for a romantic weekend.”

“I can’t believe he did that.” Tears of rage and disappointment hurtled to the surface. “How could he?” she uttered suddenly, voice cracking. “How could he have been such a bastard?” She looked away, hiding her face with her hair, as the full implication of Harlan’s deceit came rocketing home.

Meredith eyed Elm, wished she could console her but recognized she must make her friend face the whole truth. “He’s damn fortunate your father didn’t hear about it. Harlan seems to have a knack for getting lucky,” she added dryly.

A nasty, creepy sensation stirred in the pit of Elm’s stomach. “Go on. Tell me who was in line before Jennifer.” She felt sick, yet she was determined to learn every last iniquitous detail.

“Well, she’s the first who’s really gone around flaunting it, but I understand there’ve been a few. Most of them were out-of-towners. He had a girl up in Charleston for a while, a secretary at a bank, I believe. He’s been very careful. I think this is the first time he’s done anything so public. I was pretty surprised. Heck, if something like this hit the tabloids, Harlan’s chances of being reelected would be zilch.” She held Elm’s eyes for a full fifteen seconds, making sure Elm registered the full import of the words that had been in her craw for too damn long. Then she sat back and watched her friend carefully, feeling sad. Elm had been through a hell of a lot and didn’t deserve this. She glanced anxiously across the desk.

“How did you find all this out?” Elm said, letting out a sigh.

“Tom told me.”

“So, Tom knew. My God. I…Christ, this is all so crazy.” Elm rose abruptly, dragged her fingers through her hair, her mind a mess of scrambled wires being gnawed at and shredded by persistent rodents. This couldn’t be happening.

“What are you going to do?” Meredith asked slowly.

“Do?” Elm turned, glanced absently past her at the dull cream wallpaper plastered with Meredith’s credentials—Old Miss, Harvard and Yale—and asked herself the same question. What was she going to do now that she knew, now that she was fully aware of the facts and couldn’t hide behind blissful ignorance any longer? It had taken only seconds for the world as she knew it to fall apart. How long would it take for her to do what eventually would have to be done?

For a moment Elm’s pulse raced, followed by a debilitating wave of dizziness. She’d had a few of these bouts lately. In fact, she’d been to see Doc Philips about them and he’d sent her tests to Dr. Ashby, a specialist in Atlanta. But this wasn’t the same kind of dizziness, she reassured herself. This was different, caused by fear from the latest onslaught.

A new thought intruded in her already saturated mind. Surely her father, the redoubtable, venerated and oh-so-respected senator, couldn’t have known any of this? Surely her father wouldn’t have hidden the truth from her all these years? Surely Harlan’s political future didn’t mean more to him than his daughter’s life? Her stomach lurched once more and she swallowed. That was impossible. She refused to believe that her own father could have been aware of Harlan’s behavior. He would never have betrayed her, however dearly he hoped to put Harlan in the Oval Office. Or was she just trying to fool herself once again?

She collapsed rigid onto the chair, hands trembling.

“Elm, are you okay?” Meredith eyed her anxiously, wondering if she should get coffee, water or something stronger.

“I want to file for divorce.” The words came tumbling out almost as an afterthought, as though someone else were speaking.

“Hey, wait a minute.” Meredith sat up, startled. “That’s a huge step, Elm. I’m not saying you’re wrong, but you’d better think it over very carefully.”

“My mind’s made up.” She sounded strangely firm and resolute.

“But, Elm, the election, the—”

“Fuck the election. I’m through. Get the papers together, Mer. And after I’m gone, you can tell him.”

“Elm, I think you should consider the—”

“As of this moment, I’m hiring you as my attorney,” Elm interrupted, pushing back the chair and rising.

“I can’t. There’s a conflict of interest, we’re friends.” Elm shrugged. “You figure it out. I won’t be here, anyway. I’m leaving.”

“Where’re you going?”

“To Gioconda in Switzerland. I’ll stay with her at her chalet in Gstaad.”

“But it’s Christmas in two and a half weeks, Elm, you can’t just walk out. Think of all your social commitments, the—”

“Frankly, I couldn’t give a damn. Just don’t let Daddy get a whiff of any of this yet.”

“Elm, it’s really not a good idea to make this kind of decision in the heat of the moment,” Meredith insisted. “Are you absolutely sure this is what you want?” She came around the desk and laid an anxious hand on her friend’s arm.

“I have to get out of here. It’s the only way, Mer. Call me at Gio’s when the papers are ready to sign. Please get it done fast. And thanks.”

“For what, screwing up your life?” Meredith shook her head bitterly. “I shouldn’t have come on so strong.”

“Don’t. We both know this had to happen one day. Everything you said was true. I just didn’t want to recognize it. And now that I have, there’s no way I can sit back and take it as I have all these years.” She leaned over and gave her friend a quick hug.

Passing a worried hand through her pageboy haircut, Meredith sighed as she watched her friend leave. Elm was right. It would have come to this, anyway. Still, she was shocked and surprised at the rapidity of Elm’s decision. She prayed she wouldn’t regret it. She’d expected every sort of reaction—tears, anger, frustration—but not this. Not cold, rigid decision. My God, she realized, collapsing again in her chair, Elm had simply transformed into another being. For a moment she wondered if she should advise someone, even call Harlan or Senator Hathaway, the housekeeper—heck, anyone.

Then she realized she couldn’t.

Technically, she was now Elm’s legal representative and as such was bound to do what her client had requested: namely, prepare divorce papers and stay quiet about it.

She stared at the file she’d been working on, the legal challenge to the privatization of the Mogachee Municipal Waste Processing Plant, and sighed. Maybe Elm would calm down by tomorrow and realize she was being too precipitate. Not that Meredith blamed her for wanting rid of Harlan as fast as possible. Still, there were a number of things to be taken into consideration. Elm was a very wealthy woman, and the publicity…

Leaning back in her chair, she considered Harlan. He certainly deserved anything he got, even being dumped two weeks before Christmas. Still, she was herself a die-hard Democrat, and the party couldn’t afford to lose Harlan’s seat to the Republicans. On the other hand, Meredith had to admit, under all that boyish, suave, Kennedy-style charm, Elm’s husband was a dirtbag who’d gotten lucky thanks to the old-boy network that functioned on past favors and future dues. She shrugged, wishing she hadn’t been the one to confirm what Jennifer Ball, in her unsubtle, vindictive way, had let loose.

She could just imagine Jennifer, with those long, glossy legs she was so proud of, striding arrogantly over to Elm in full view of her less-well-endowed former classmates—now full-fledged veterans of the garden club, bravely fighting any incipient signs of middle age—and baring her capped white teeth at Elm. Jennifer had always loathed Elm, knowing she’d never have Elm’s beauty, poise, wealth or privileged position in Savannah society, and she would have made darn sure her little entourage of doting admirers—including Hannah Ramsey, Tiffany Fern, and that two-faced bitch Elsa MacDonald—were present for Elm’s humiliation. Jennifer had been divorced twice, and had had several affairs with notable local citizens. Luring Elm’s husband to her side was a natural evolutionary step, and one that must have been especially satisfying. Not that Harlan needed much enticement, Meredith reflected grimly. The man apparently had a hard time keeping his pants on.

But divorce. Even she was shocked. After all, Harlan and Elm were an institution.

Did Elm have any idea of all that was on the line? Meredith wondered, concerned. With everything Harlan had to lose, there was no way he was going to take this lying down.

Tapping her pen rhythmically on her yellow legal pad, Meredith thought the matter over. Perhaps in a couple of days, when Elm had calmed down, she could talk to her reasonably, persuade her to wait at least until after the holidays, not make a rash decision in the heat of the moment. And then, if she was still determined to go ahead, then maybe Elm could have it out with Harlan and come to some kind of civilized arrangement. Not that he deserved it. Far from it. But in the long run, it would be better for all concerned.

When the phone rang, Meredith grabbed it as though her life depended upon the call. Anything right now, she figured, even old Mr. Tompson’s estate case—which she loathed—would come as a welcome relief.




3


“Bitch,” Harlan MacBride muttered, then slammed down the phone so hard the antique mahogany desk shuddered. Had Elm gone fucking nuts?

Meredith Hunter’s words echoed ominously.

Elm wanted a divorce.

It was unthinkable.

He’d never have guessed she had the guts to cross him this way, or that she’d take such a drastic step and then disappear. She’d been missing for days, making things damned uncomfortable for him—he’d only just now learned that she’d hightailed it to Switzerland, to that crazy Italian friend of hers whom he’d never liked, Gioconda Mancini.

Harlan flexed his fingers, eyes narrowed. Fuck Elm. She had no right to do this, no right at all. And fuck Jennifer for having opened her big sexy mouth. She was a great lay, and that tongue of hers could work wonders, but obviously he’d misjudged her ability to keep her goddamn trap shut.

He should have been more careful, he admitted, his lower lip twitching. But all those damn IVF treatments had been such a drag. Worse, he’d had to carry on the pretense of giving a shit—cosset Elm after the implantations, agree to the doctor’s recommendation that he stay out of her bed—when he had far bigger matters on his plate. It wasn’t surprising he’d let off steam with Jennifer. Any man would have. Elm should be grateful to him for being so understanding instead of flying off in a sulk.

And now she was threatening divorce, he reflected grimly. If he wasn’t meticulous about defusing her snit, Elm could spoil his re-election chances. She of all people knew he’d won his House seat on a platform promoting strong, Christian family values. Hell, the goddamn campaign posters that were going out next week showed him holding her hand and surrounded by smiling kids. Not his kids, mind you, he reflected, annoyed.

He shook his head and muttered crossly. Elm was nothing but an unappreciative spoiled brat who should be thanking her lucky stars for having a husband like him, one who, despite the drawback of not having children, had been able to look past the negative and see the potential of the situation. That was something he’d learned early on: how to twist circumstances—however challenging—to his advantage.

Harlan leaned back in the deep office chair and a slow smile crept over his handsome features as he recalled the several newspaper and TV interviews where he’d tearfully confessed that God hadn’t seen fit to bless them with kids, how maybe one day he and his wife would adopt. It had worked like a charm. Immediately the family-values freaks and the born-again Christians had come beating down his door, fists full of campaign dollars.

But they’d abandon him in a heartbeat if Elm’s allegations ever got out, he reflected gloomily, the smile disappearing as fast as it had dawned. And so would Senator Hathaway’s support, he realized, sitting up straighter. Much as he’d prefer to forget it, Harlan knew that, despite his charisma and eloquent Southern charm, it was Elm’s father—the influential six-term senator from Georgia—who’d gotten him elected. Hathaway had made phone calls, calling in half-a-century’s worth of favors, and the checks had followed. But even more critical was the family connection. Being viewed as the senator’s political heir-apparent gave him instant clout. No way could that be jeopardized, he thought, sucking in his lean cheeks, bronzed from a weekend of sailing on his friend Tyler Brock’s hundred-foot sloop. There had to be a way around this.

Harlan drummed the desk absently and pondered. At thirty-seven, he was everything old man Hathaway had once been: young, handsome, charismatic. But whereas Hathaway, for all his wealth and clout, had long ago had to content himself with the Senate floor, Harlan possessed that extra something that made him special, that rare and extraordinary political talent that made the White House a realistic goal. They both knew it, and that’s why the senator had invested so heavily in him—because Harlan was his ticket to what he couldn’t get on his own. No way was Hathaway going to let that dream die.

Of course, it helped that he had no clear idea of what state his daughter’s marriage was in; the senator was very protective of Elm. Still, surely he could be made to understand, to see things Harlan’s way? It might not be a bad idea to present himself as the injured party here, soliciting his father-in-law’s sympathy, he reflected, fingering his Old Miss tie. It all depended on just how much Elm had blabbered.

Despite his nonchalance, he pulled the handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped a thin film of sweat from his brow. Old Man Hathaway was a rigid stickler for form, prided himself on being the goddamn Conscience of the Senate. Elm had to know she could wreak considerable damage with a tearful call to Dear Daddy.

Even as he considered that frightening possibility, he acknowledged that, for all her faults, broadcasting private matters wasn’t Elm’s style. Plus, Hathaway had been in the dark about his daughter’s whereabouts, too. Maybe the better course here was just to come clean—well, not too clean, certainly, just enough to cover his ass in case someone saw fit to inform Hathaway of his son-in-law’s little dalliances. He mentally sketched a speech—he’d act repentant, confide in him man-to-man, make the proper excuses. The senator was a player after all, a pragmatist. With any luck, he’d understand and let Harlan off with a scolding.

The idea grew on him. Not that its success was a given—he’d have to tread carefully. Elm was the old man’s only daughter, after all, and however much the senator might like and support his son-in-law, blood ran thicker than water. Particularly, Harlan mused, for someone like George Hathaway.

For a moment he surveyed his elegantly appointed office, the elaborate eighteenth-century frieze, the authentic antiques and Old Master paintings, the gracious bay windows reaching out onto the inner garden so carefully tended by Josiah, the Hathaway family gardener, all part of the image he’d so carefully compiled and cultivated. It was no less than he deserved, of course. Unfortunately, he reminded himself sourly, it all belonged to his beautiful, elusive wife. These offices, the house on Abercorn, were essential to asserting his status. Thank God very few of his constituents got to see that dumpy back office he’d been assigned at the Capitol, a sharp reminder that, in the bigger scheme of things, he still stood on the bottom rung of the political ladder.

But that was on the verge of changing.

If Elm didn’t mess up.

He clenched his fingers and stared at the wall, plastered with endless photographs featuring flattering images of himself with everyone from Clinton and Bush to Magic Johnson and the king of Saudi Arabia. The sight soothed his sizzling temper and helped clear his head. He might still be only a junior congressman, but he’d already made many powerful friends and cultivated connections that he was certain would pay off in the future.

However, all that would be seriously at risk unless he fixed his little problem, he reminded himself. It was essential that Elm return. Harlan slumped in the chair and brooded. What did she want? he wondered. The divorce threat had to be a bluff. Still, never in a hundred years would he have imagined she’d go this route. Obviously he’d made a serious misstep in not acting suitably penitent the other morning. He should have realized when she disappeared to Oleander for those few days that something was up. But she was always buried over there, painting those weird canvases that the critics seemed to think were so hot and redoing the gardens with those freaks she’d recruited from the battered women’s center.

With a shake of the head, Harlan rallied. He prided himself on crisis control, the power to compartmentalize and find effective solutions for any predicament. The present one required focus and action. He pulled himself up and began making notes on a legal pad, reviewing the circumstances.

Then a slow smile curved his lips, and he tapped his foot rhythmically, beginning to relax. Elm had recently complained of—what was it? Some sort of weird symptoms. Damn it, he couldn’t quite remember. Never mind. She’d talked of visiting Doc Philips. Bingo. There was his excuse staring him right in the face: Elm was making all the wrong decisions because she wasn’t feeling herself.

“Ha!” Harlan let out a harsh laugh and brought his fist down on the desk with a satisfied thud. If he played this right with Hathaway, he might just emerge smelling like a rose. If he played it right. It was essential to shoot dead on target.

Closing his eyes, Harlan conjured up the scene that would take place later in the senator’s library, silently mouthing his words: Elm wasn’t herself, needed help, had some sort of female problem that was affecting her decision-making. Maybe the last failed IVF treatment had hit her harder than they’d realized. He was sorry, so very sorry, he’d done anything to hurt her—his only excuse was that the stress of infertility had affected him, too. He regretted it bitterly, but surely she could forgive one little slip? And by the way, shouldn’t they try to do something about this absurd divorce procedure that made no sense at all and that she would obviously regret the minute she regained her health?

He jumped up, excited.

It was perfect.

For a second he thought of the other measures he was implementing that one day, he hoped, would secure him his absolute freedom from the powerful Hathaway clan. But that was farther down the line. It was still too soon, he reminded himself. He shook his head. There was far too much at stake to take foolish risks. He owed it to the electorate to ensure his staying power, didn’t he? After all, the future of the greatest nation in the world could not depend on the whims of a slighted woman.

Twiddling his gold fountain pen—the one with which he signed all official documents—Harlan glanced coldly at his wife’s beautiful image smiling wistfully up at him from the silver-framed photograph. He would not tolerate her messing with him.

He felt better now that he’d decided on a definitive strategy. He stretched his arms and rotated his neck. Then he caught sight of himself in the gilt-framed eighteenth-century mirror above the marble mantel. Head tilted, Harlan surveyed himself critically. It wasn’t just his boyish charm or rueful smile that captured voters, he acknowledged proudly. It was that blazing internal radiance that he’d learned to produce automatically, profoundly conscious of its effect. In simple terms, he had the power to seduce others! It gave him a rush to know he could subject them to his will. In fact, he was increasingly amazed at his own flawless charisma. Each time he spoke he absorbed the crowd’s energy, its vibes, steeped himself in the atmosphere, then let the public set him on track, offer him their vision, so that he could pitch what they wanted back to them.

There was always a point—usually about five minutes into a speech—when he captured the audience’s response, when he knew the bond had been forged. From then on, it was plain sailing and the gathered electorate was his. And that was his secret weapon—the magic touch that would lead him inevitably to his ultimate goal.

Straightening his shoulders, Harlan jutted his well-defined chin and remembered Jack Kennedy. A sudden vision of himself, ankles casually crossed on the desk of the Oval Office, sent a rush ripping through him. He rocked on his heels and basked in it. Then just as quickly, he stood still. He would get there, all right, but first he must get his ducks in a row.

He glanced at his watch, then at the battery of phones spread on the desk. Better get on with it and set up the appointment right away. There was no point in avoiding what had to be done.




4


Senator George Hathaway straightened the jacket of his immaculate dark suit and pulled from his waistcoat his grand-father’s watch, the one that had kept perfect time since before the Civil War. He eyed it narrowly. Harlan was due here at six o’clock. If his son-in-law knew what was good for him, he wouldn’t be late.

Crossing the somber library lined with several generations’ worth of classics, he settled heavily into his favorite armchair, noting with surprise that his customary copy of the Washington Post was missing. Normally the morning edition was always set, freshly ironed, on the delicate side table. Then he recalled the servants had the day off for a Christmas event at the local Baptist church. George Hathaway encouraged churchgoing. He himself attended Christ Church, the oldest church in Savannah, as did Harlan and Elm.

But this past Sunday, Harlan had come to services alone.

At first he’d worried something was wrong with his daughter—Elm had been having strange spells of sickness in recent weeks, and he’d urged her to seek care. But when Harlan admitted that Elm had left Savannah, whereabouts unknown, it raised another disturbing possibility. There were troubling signs that things were deeply wrong in his beloved daughter’s marriage.

The senator sighed deeply. In all the years Elm had been married to Harlan, he’d always believed her to be happy. Yet over the past few weeks something inexplicable had occurred and the marriage had clearly suffered. Elm had refused to explain. And now she’d gone away right before the holiday season, without an explanation, leaving no phone number, just a letter saying she needed some time and would call him.

It was irresponsible and selfish behavior, he concluded, shaking his gray head. Surely he’d brought her up to know better? His son-in-law was a fine young man with a promising future in which he himself had invested heavily. Harlan would go far—all the way to the White House, he hoped—but Elm’s inexplicable actions could only serve as a hindrance.

Perhaps Harlan was right to think Elm’s recent illness was the reason she was acting in a manner so unlike her usual dutiful self. Still, the senator suspected there was likely more to matters than Harlan was willing to admit. He’d heard a couple of rumors, things he’d have preferred not to have heard. Harlan was a handsome young fellow, he reflected, one who held a prominent position in society and a growing political power base, all elements that caused envy and inevitable gossip. They also attracted an inevitable bevy of women. But Harlan was a caring, loving husband. At least he appeared to be. Surely Elm was too bright to be put off by any silly nonsense?

Letting out a huff, he raised his tall frame from the deep maroon leather chair near the fire, too restless to read yesterday’s copy of Congressional Quarterly and glanced into the hall at the Christmas tree standing forlorn in the corner. Ever since she was a wee thing, Elm had helped decorate it. The only other year the tree had remained bare until just before Christmas was the year Elm turned five and her mother had succumbed to cancer, he recalled with a sigh.

Checking his pocket watch once more, he noted with gathering impatience that it was one minute past six. At that very moment the doorbell clanged. With a small nod, the senator made his way across the marbled foyer floor and opened up the massive polished mahogany door.

“Ah. Harlan, m’boy, come on in.”

“Hello, sir.” Harlan gave him a tight smile.

Something about Harlan’s attitude made the shrewd senator suddenly afraid that his suspicions were right and that he had somehow bungled things badly. He sent him a bland speculative glance before leading the way under the heavy crystal chandelier imported by the first Hathaway in 1820, and across the wide-planked pine floors of the library.

“Any news?” he asked, leaning over a silver tray decked with a splendid array of whiskey-filled Waterford decanters that sparkled invitingly. He poured two heavy cut-crystal tumblers of single malt and turned, handing one to Harlan, who stood, face drawn, next to the Adam mantelpiece.

“We’ve traced her, sir. She’s staying with Gioconda Mancini in Switzerland.”

“Thank God for that,” the senator sighed, relieved, and sank back into the sagging leather. “I was getting concerned. So unlike her to disappear like this. Very odd.” He sipped thoughtfully, never taking his eyes off his son-in-law.

“Well, at least now I know she’s safe.” Harlan threw back the whiskey in one shot, obviously deeply affected by his wife’s sudden disappearance. He glanced at his father-in-law. “I just wish I knew why she felt this sudden need to disappear. I—” He looked down at the carpet, shook his head, then sighed. “I don’t understand, sir. I’ve tried to be there for her, be a good husband. If I’d known she was feeling sick again I’d have gone with her to Doc Philips, but she never told me—”

“Hmm. I don’t understand it myself.”

“I guess we’ll just have to be patient, give her the time and understanding she needs to get over this…this idea she’s got in her head,” he murmured, lips tight as he stared blindly through the window into the lush garden, past the camellias and the Roman fountain where two starlings perched, eyes fixed on the ivy-covered wall that for nearly two centuries had protected the Hathaways’ privacy.

“Well. At least if she’s with Gioconda we don’t have to worry she’ll be properly looked after. We should have thought of Gioconda immediately. It was the obvious place for Elm to go, now that I think about it.” The senator eyed Harlan sharply. “You mentioned that she had some idea in her head. What was that, I wonder?”

“Oh, nothing serious. Just malicious gossip.” Harlan shrugged dismissively. “They chatter too much over at the Tennis League. Unfortunately, sir, Elm appears to have been listening to some pretty outrageous lies.”

“Hmm.” Senator Hathaway sent his son-in-law another long, speculative glance. So something was up, after all.

“It was stupid of me not to have thought of Gioconda,” Harlan said quickly. “I haven’t called there, though. I thought—” he looked across at the senator and hesitated “—I thought it would be better to let her take the initiative.”

“Perhaps.” George Hathaway pondered the matter, not in the least bit fooled by Harlan’s effort to shift the conversation. He didn’t like it, not one little bit. It was so out of character for Elm to act like this. If Harlan had strayed—and it now seemed possible he had—why hadn’t she just talked it over with him, had it out? Maybe sent Harlan to the doghouse for a few weeks, then patched it up, as all women did. And if she was sick, why didn’t she stay close to her family? But as he watched Harlan, it was clear his son-in-law had more to say.

“There’s another thing, sir.” Harlan shifted, plainly uncomfortable.

“Go on,” he said dryly.

“I got a call this morning from Meredith Hunter.”

“Oh?” Something in the younger man’s tone told him this was deeply serious.

“Elm’s asked her to file for a divorce.”

“Divorce?” The senator’s glass came down on the small mahogany table next to him with a heavy thud, and he rose. “Why on earth would Elm want a divorce?”

“I don’t know. It’s utterly crazy. I could hardly believe it when Meredith spoke to me.”

“What did she say?”

“That Elm had asked her to go ahead and prepare the papers,” he said bleakly. “I just can’t believe it, sir. After all these years. I thought we were happy.”

“Are you sure? Something very serious must have occurred for her to take such radical action.”

“Okay, we’ve had a couple of arguments now and then, and, well…I…well, I may not have always been a perfect spouse.” Harlan shifted uneasily. “But nothing to merit this, sir, I assure you.”

George Hathaway quelled a surge of anger at Harlan’s oblique admission of adultery—Elm was his daughter, after all—but even more disturbing was the evidence that his son-in-law had been so foolish. There was too much at risk here to let one’s libido rule one’s actions, he reflected in disgust. His whole political future could be at stake. Smothering the pithy comments he would normally have delivered, he reminded himself that it was water under the bridge—what was needed now was crisis control. He paused thoughtfully. “Meredith Hunter, you say?”

“Yes. At least she’s kept it close to home.”

“Thank God for that.”

“Elm doesn’t seem to realize the implications of what she’s done,” Harlan ventured, “to all of us.” There was a bitter edge to his voice that didn’t escape the senator’s sharp ears.

“Obviously not. Although it’s rather clear you didn’t take into account the consequences your, er…behavior might incur, either,” he responded sarcastically, sending Harlan that piercing look that had been known to make the most stalwart opposition flinch. “But you and I will address that later. For the present, I think it’s best that I have a word with Meredith.”

“A word, sir?”

“Yes. This is a mess and we’ve got to contain it before it goes any further. I’ve known Meredith all her life. Her father, John Rowland, and I go back a long way, as you know. Perhaps she could be persuaded to delay filing, at least until the New Year. By then we must hope Elm will have had time to reflect on her rash decision and come to her senses.”

“You think she might?” The hope in Harlan’s eyes made the senator soften—very slightly. The boy had obviously been playing around. But, he admitted—honest enough to recall his own political past—it was almost inevitable in a position like his. What mattered was that he clearly regretted what he’d done.

“It certainly won’t hurt to try. You leave Meredith to me, Harlan. I’ll get in touch with her first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harlan said gratefully. “You’ll keep me informed, won’t you? I—I’m pretty anxious.” He straightened his tie, looking uncomfortable and depressed.

“Of course.” Elm shouldn’t have put them in this position, the senator reflected, suddenly irritated. Whatever indiscretion Harlan had committed—and it couldn’t have been that bad, or he would have learned of it from his own sources—she had no right to behave this way, no right at all. And just weeks before Christmas, when she knew very well Harlan would be expected to appear at every public function with her on his arm.

“Have there been questions?” Hathaway lifted a steely brow.

“Well, yes. There have. I’ve taken it upon myself to say she’s resting in a clinic in Switzerland. At least the last part’s true, since that’s where she is. I hope you think that’s all right?”

“Good.” He nodded, eyes narrowed, quickly setting up a strategy to contain the damage. “Everybody knows she’s been out of sorts lately. At least that should keep the gossips quiet. But not for long,” he added with a significant look.

“I know. But Elm’s health and well-being must come first.” Harlan’s brows drew together, forming an intense line over the bridge of his aquiline nose.

“Very right, m’boy, very right indeed. But she also needs to come back home where she belongs. We can’t forget your career, Harlan. You can’t afford to make the kind of mistakes that could cost you farther down the line, just remember that. We must take every precaution.”

“I know, I—” Harlan rubbed a tired hand over his eyes. “Sorry, I’m kind of tired right now. I guess the last few days I haven’t slept too well, that’s all.”

“I understand.” The senator eyed him, bending just a little more. “But I’m sure that in a little while we’ll bring Elm about. A few weeks in Switzerland with Gioconda may be just the right thing to cheer her up.” He nodded sagely.

“You saying that makes me feel a heck of a lot better, sir. I’ve been—well, I guess I don’t need to tell you how worried I’ve been the past few days.” He gave a tentative boyish smile that expressed far more than words.

“So. What’s on your agenda tonight?” the senator asked, feeling it was time to change the subject and lighten up. He’d made his point. Harlan would think twice before being careless again, and it wouldn’t do to make the young man any more stressed than he already was. That would only serve to make matters worse.

“I have the Kaplan party, followed by a dinner at the Staceys’. I wish…well, I guess that’s neither here nor there.”

“Right. How’s young Earl Stacey doing these days? Still thinking of joining the party? He could make a good running mate for you in the future, you know.” The senator sent Harlan a thoughtful glance.

“You know, it’s funny you should mention that, sir. I was thinking the same thing myself as I was driving over here. When I managed to think about anything other than Elm, that is,” he added hastily.

“Have another?” The senator pointed to the empty tumbler in Harlan’s hand.

“Thanks, but I’d better not.” He glanced at his wrist. “I guess I’d better get moving. It’s a black tie event so I’ve got to get home to change.”

The senator heaved out of his chair, a tall, well-built man with fine chiseled features and slate-gray eyes. “I’ll walk you to the door. Patsy and Beau are off to church tonight.”

They reached the massive door and he turned the heavy brass knob before throwing an arm casually over Harlan’s shoulder. “You hang in there, Harlan. And learn from this episode,” he said severely. “There’s no leeway for mistakes in this business. Remember that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What we need now is a lot of faith, a good strategy and patience. I’m sure that in a little while, Elm will see what nonsense this is, come home and all this will be behind us.”

“I hope you’re right, sir.” Harlan answered fervently. “I’d do anything for that to happen.”

“Well, just make sure this never happens again.” He sent Harlan a brief nod, then watched his son-in-law walk dejectedly down the front steps, past the Roman columns and out into the street where his Cadillac Seville was parked. He seemed chastened, which wouldn’t do the young man any harm. He just hoped his optimistic predictions about Elm were correct. He would definitely talk to Meredith about delaying filing in the morning then take it from there.

Harlan slammed the car door shut and sat for a moment in thought. All in all, it hadn’t gone too badly. He’d gotten away with it, he reflected gleefully. The old man had given him nothing more than a slap on the wrist, and knowing the senator, he’d talk Meredith into delaying filing for the divorce. Which, in turn, would give him some time to sort matters out.

Harlan turned the key in the ignition and glanced at his mobile phone. He’d call Tyler Brock and tell him the good news. Elm wasn’t going to be a problem after all. Still, a wave of unease wafted through him as he drove slowly down the street. There’d been an almost menacing tone in Brock’s voice when he’d insisted Harlan get his wife back. He frowned. It was weird. Then he shrugged, and a few minutes later slowed before his home and swung into the courtyard. Pulling the keys out of the ignition, he ran lightly up the steps of the graceful white-columned mansion, a wedding present from the senator to his daughter, and walked through the high-domed hall to the study. There was no sign of anyone. Perhaps the servants were at the Baptist meeting, too, he realized, annoyed. The Southern Baptists seemed to do more churchgoing than anyone on earth.

Closing the door carefully, he moved across the room to the inlaid English cabinet, opened the mahogany door and quickly unlocked one of the thin brass-handled drawers inside. Then he picked up a small enamel box and tweaked open the lid. Tipping a thin trail of white powder onto the back of his hand, he closed his right nostril with the other. After a long, satisfying sniff, he switched to the other nostril before carefully closing the box and slipping it back into the drawer, which he closed and locked.

Harlan stood for a few moments, eyes closed, and rotated his head as was his habit, working the kinks out of his neck and shoulders. The cocaine began to take effect. He felt a sudden rush of clarity. Around him everything seemed starkly etched, the leaves greener in the garden, the tiniest details hitting him in the eye. He could think better, put things into perspective with the greatest of ease, and the slight wave of fatigue he’d experienced earlier disappeared completely. That felt a hell of a lot better, he reflected, throwing his blazer jauntily over the back of the chocolate leather chair and pouring himself a large whiskey, focusing with new intensity on the senator’s words, recapping every detail, every nuance of the conversation. Earl Stacey, he reflected with a sneer. As pious as a fucking nun. When he chose a running mate, it would be someone of a different caliber. A player. Not that Earl wasn’t a good guy. He was. Just not his style, he concluded, eyes falling on Elm’s portrait above the mantelpiece.

He looked at it for a while, as he had earlier the photo in his congressional office, and sipped thoughtfully, feeling strangely detached. Up until now she’d been very useful and he’d never regretted the marriage. Still, if she went on acting up, she might become a liability. He thought of Tyler Brock’s strange words earlier today, then shrugged. He was probably just imagining things, but he could swear the man’s tone had sounded almost like a threat. Well, fuck him. Brock needed him. He’d just have to see he remained essential.

Removing his gaze from his wife’s picture, he turned his mind to Candice Mercier, that deliciously promiscuous little brunette who’d married old man Mercier not more than a year ago and was already setting her sights on ways of passing the time. Now that Jennifer and her big mouth were out of the scenario, he was only too delighted to oblige. Candice wouldn’t cause any trouble—she didn’t want to lose her meal ticket. For a moment the senator’s words lingered. It was true that he couldn’t afford any mistakes. But hell, a man had to live, didn’t he? And Elm wasn’t exactly a turn-on, what with her IVF treatments and the obsession about having a baby. Heck, he had a hard-enough time getting it up with her. Surely he must be allowed some pleasure?

Upstairs in the large marble bathroom he showered, then rubbed himself in one of the huge terry towels, sleeked his chestnut hair back and flexed his arm. He felt a new surge of energy induced by the cocaine and the shower and turned toward the mirror. He was in good shape, he noticed, pulling in his tummy, glancing sideways, then flashing a satisfied smile at himself. It was a killer smile that had never failed to rake in the votes. Lately, since Elm’s disappearance, he’d added an underlying touch of melancholy that would make every woman in the room wish she could be the one to console him. It was sending Elm’s ratings plummeting. Serve the bitch right for making a public fuss over something that should have been wrapped up between them.

His clothes had been carefully laid out on the bed. Reaching for his starched shirt, Harlan slipped it on, then did up his engraved cuff links in the lamplight of the huge master bedroom, with its stately mahogany bed and valuable antiques that had Elm and her heritage written all over them. His wife had excellent taste, he admitted grudgingly as he pulled on his pants, eyes narrowing as he approached the mirror to fix his bow tie. But Elm’s irreproachable taste reminded him yet again that the house—and every damn thing in it—was in her name, just as were the accounts at the bank. Sure, he had access and was made to feel in charge. But he knew damn well that one false move and the bank manager would be on the phone to the senator so fast he wouldn’t have time to breathe.

He adjusted the bow tie, gave it a final twist, then shrugged into the jacket of his tux and took another look at himself, pleased with the effect. Then he leaned forward, making sure his nostrils were free of any traces of white powder. You could never be too careful, he reflected, eyes narrowed. Then suddenly the day’s troubles faded and he felt better. He looked good, felt good, was on a fast track to the top. Just as Jack Kennedy had looked good and been on a fast track to stardom. A pity he didn’t have Elm to parade on his arm, he thought as he tripped lightly down the stairs, but that would all sort itself out. Elm, like Jackie, would be brought to heel and the waves of discontent would subside once more. Harlan smiled as he popped his cell phone into the pocket of his cashmere coat, threw a white silk scarf nonchalantly around his neck, and left the house.

As he descended the front steps his mouth took on a sardonic twist. Elm and her goody-goody ways. He didn’t know what the hell she was up to in Gstaad, and cared even less, probably gossiping with that bitch Gioconda, whom he couldn’t stand. But of the two of them, he gloated, he’d bet money he was in for a more satisfying night.



Part II




5


Sweat dripped from under the shock of Johnny’s thick black hair, graying at the temples. It trickled past his bright blue eyes, down his lean brown cheeks and settled on his chin. Wiping it summarily with his wristband, John Mortimer Fitzgerald, the tenth Viscount Graney, shot a fleeting glance at the green neon numbers flashing on the digital panel of the state-of-the-art treadmill and jabbed the speed button. The pace upped a fraction and he fell into a faster trot. Another ten minutes or so of pitting himself against the machine might just do the trick, and finally allow him to let go of some of the tension.

Hell of a day, he reflected, feeling his muscles respond to the grueling exercise. Perhaps the correct term was exorcise? He smiled grimly at the pun and, breathing harder, stared out of the huge panoramic window of what had once been the chalet cellar, now expertly converted into a small yet well-equipped gym. He gazed down the white-blanketed slope, past neighboring chalet roofs partially hidden under a relentless flurry of chunky snowflakes that hadn’t stopped all day. Skiing conditions tomorrow would be fabulous. About time he got the hell out of the chalet, away from his mother’s hinting and nagging, his adolescent son Nicky’s permanent sulking and his brother Liam’s obsessive need to work at all times, despite the festive season.

Johnny regulated his breathing and continued to run. He loved Gstaad, the magic of the mountain that he’d known since childhood, but right now he longed for the freedom of Graney, for the peat bogs and the pungent smell of his Irish moors. He wished he could simply grab his old shooting jacket and stride out in the rain across the emerald fields, breathe in that bracing air that he only breathed back home in Ireland, instead of having to dress for dinner. Thank God his mother couldn’t read his mind. He grinned suddenly. Okay, maybe he was a bit biased, as she kept reminding him, but Holy Mother of God, as his countrymen liked to say, he wouldn’t exchange the limestone hills of Kildare for anywhere in the world.

The digital panel announced another three minutes, and Johnny ran on doggedly, determined to relieve the last shreds that the frustration of being cooped up indoors had provoked.

He was still brooding over the argument he’d had earlier with Nicky, he realized, eyes fixed on the lights beginning to twinkle through the twilight in the neighboring chalets. In the distance, he could just make out the MOB—the Montreux-Oberland train—winding its way faithfully up the mountain as it always had, day after day, year after year, with barely a change in the timetable for as long as he could remember.

Absently he pressed the button and the machine slowed its relentless pace while he followed the lights of the train plodding methodically on through the night. At last the mood that had stuck with him ever since he’d stepped on to the plane in Dublin had begun to ease. He smiled. There was something very solid and reassuring about the MOB. It transmitted stability and permanence, as though nothing, not even an earthquake, could change its routine. Its constancy and punctuality were entirely reassuring. He always felt better the minute he sat down in one of the pristine carriages, the gentle jog as the train pulled out of Montreux station. The signal to let go of the stress and let the mountain take over. He always, unfailingly, took the MOB instead of being driven by chauffeur to Gstaad.

The treadmill went into an automatic countdown, then slid to a reluctant halt. Johnny dismounted, wiped his face, then, tossing the towel over his shoulder, made his way to the steam room. Might as well pop in for five minutes before showering and getting changed for dinner. His mother, he recalled, grimacing, had guests coming over.

He stripped, threw his damp shorts and T-shirt on the slatted wooden bench and, wrapping a towel around his waist, opened the heavy glass door and penetrated the thick swirl of hot steam. Lowering himself onto the tiled bench, he sat down, his bronzed, lean, muscled frame supported by the upper bench and closed his eyes. Ah, that felt good. Already he could feel his muscles releasing, his whole body beginning to relax. His thoughts traveled home to Graney Castle, to Blue Lavender whinnying in his stall and all the plans he had in mind for him.

Sweat formed on his brow and limbs and he relaxed further, letting the image of Blue Lavender passing the winning post by several lengths take hold. At three years old, he was finally ready to realize Johnny’s dreams. Already last year he’d picked up the Dewhurst Stakes, run over seven furlongs in England, meeting all his expectations and more. He’d bred a few Thoroughbred champions and had loved each one of them, but for some reason he couldn’t explain, Blue Lavender meant more to him than all the others put together. Perhaps because he’d set such ambitious goals for him.

He leaned forward, flexed his arms and sank his elbows on his sweating thighs, holding the position for several seconds before the steam became suffocating and he knew it was time to get out. Closing the door behind him, he splashed straight into the small tiled pool of ice-cold water next to the steam room.

“Aargh!” He let out a groan of pain and pleasure while absorbing the shock, followed by the deliciously agonizing impact when he ducked. Thirty seconds later he stepped out refreshed. After a hot shower, he rubbed himself down with one of the huge white monogrammed terry towels that lay rolled in neat stacks on the pine shelves surrounding him. He glanced wryly at all the exquisitely packaged designer accessories, soaps and shower gels, creams and the rest that his American mother insisted on keeping available in what she liked to called the “fitness area.” Rubbing his hair, he smiled benignly at her antics. There was even an in-house masseuse on twenty-four-hour call when she had house-guests.

Pulling on one of the heavy terry robes, lips still twitching fondly at his parent’s whims, he regretted the sharp way he’d spoken to her earlier when she’d commented on his fight with Nicky. He knew she meant well, that it hurt her feelings when he snubbed her. For beneath that regally composed front lay a deep, sensitive and caring woman who had her family’s best interests at heart. Particularly his son’s.

He glanced at the clock on the wall. Almost seven. She’d be upstairs now in the living room, ensconced among the tapestry cushions of the deep velvet sofa that Juan Pablo, her Palm Beach decorator, had insisted on. She was probably wearing one of her endless collection of plush tracksuits and her habitual array of diamonds. Her feet would be tucked under the mink-and-cashmere throw before the flames of the blazing wood fire crackling in the grate, the latest copy of W magazine resting in her lap.

Well, that was “Mother,” as she insisted on being called. She’d never been Mummy. All the years she’d been married to a peer—albeit, an Irish one—hadn’t in any way diminished her all-American verve, Johnny reflected, tenderly amused, as he walked up the stairs. A ship in full sail was how he thought of her, with her gray hair perfectly coiffed, her manicured hands sporting jewelry consistent with her age and position. And one had to give it to her, he recognized. Widow of the ninth Viscount Graney, who had been the best Thoroughbred breeder in Ireland, and sole heir to the Pennsylvania Riley steel fortune, Grace was a legend in her own right. She had, he thought, peering at her now through the half-open double doors leading into the vast wood-paneled drawing room, the air of a woman entirely at ease with what and who she was. As though sensing his presence, she looked up and lowered her glasses.

“Hello, darling. Did you have a good workout?”

“Yes, thanks. And a steam.” He moved across the room.

“Well, that’s more than your brother has done,” she remarked tartly. “I’d better warn you. He’s having a fit.”

“Oh?” Johnny flopped in the sofa opposite and hooked his ankles up on the ottoman. “Why?”

“The Brandt stock fell several points.” She rolled her eyes and sighed. “Despite this tragedy, do you think he might be persuaded to remain here for the holidays as any normal civilized person would? You know, honey, I’m becoming increasingly concerned about Liam,” she continued, brows creasing. “Instead of letting up, he seems to be more and more obsessed with work.”

“I shouldn’t worry,” Johnny murmured mildly, avoiding being caught in a discussion concerning his sibling.

“That’s all fine and dandy for you to say,” Grace sniffed, “but I do. Of course I worry. It’s a mother’s duty to worry.” She eyed him severely. “And what about Christmas, may I ask? Have you two lost every shred of family awareness? Liam with his stocks, you with those wretched horses you never want to be apart from, and Nicky sulking all day like a bad-tempered bear cub.” She waved a disparaging hand. “There are times I wonder what I ever did to deserve such an ungrateful bunch of scallywags.”

“Now, Mother,” Johnny murmured soothingly, then leaned over and pecked her cheek. “We’re all here, aren’t we? Came at your beck and call as usual, dancing attendance as it were.”

“Don’t give me any of that blasé British lip of yours, John Graney.” She reached for his hand and squeezed it affectionately. “But, yes, I’m glad you’re all here. Christmas wouldn’t be the same otherwise. After all, it’s important to be together as a family. Particularly as you missed Thanksgiving,” she added, sending him a meaningful look.

“Mother, first, I’m Irish and second, we’ve been over this countless times for the past month,” Johnny sighed patiently, drawing his hand away. “Blue Lavender had a swollen tendon. There was no way I could have left Graney right then.”

“Of course not. Since you value horses above your family.”

Johnny sent her a humorous glance, knowing how she loved to exercise emotional blackmail. Neither was he about to enter into another discussion about Graney, his horses—Blue Lavender in particular—their value and the fact that they constituted as important a business as any of the others in the Graney-Riley empire. Grace simply refused to understand. She hadn’t even when his father was alive.

“Tell me about Liam’s latest adventures with the stock market,” he grinned, redirecting her thoughts and stretching his long legs closer to the fire. “By the way, have you seen Nicky anywhere?”

“He came in with a friend a couple of hours ago. I think they’d been snowboarding. Dear, far be it from me to interfere, but don’t you think you should spend more quality time with him? He’s your son, after all, and he doesn’t see you that often since he’s here at boarding school the better part of the year.”

“Mother, he’s sixteen years old, for Christ’s sake. The last thing he wants is me hanging on to his apron strings,” Johnny exclaimed, annoyed at being reminded of his paternal obligations.

“No, I guess not. Still…” she pondered, wishing as always that Nicky’s mother, Marie Ange, hadn’t died so young, or that Johnny could have found himself another wife as suitable as his first. Her grandson needed a mother, as well as his father, and the battles waging between the two of late concerned her. “By the way, what’s her name—that woman—called.” She waved a bejeweled hand disdainfully and sniffed.

“Mother, you know perfectly well what her name is.” He clasped his hands behind his neck, teeth flashing.

“Yes, well, that may be so, but I don’t choose to use it.” Grace exchanged W for the Wall Street Journal and, correcting the position of her designer reading glasses, pretended to read. She had little time for any of Johnny’s girlfriends, particularly this Brazilian one, who in her opinion had lasted too long.

“Don’t worry. She won’t be around this year. Actually, I’m very surprised she called. Probably wanted her stuff shipped from the flat in Eaton Terrace,” he remarked, swinging a leg over the arm of the chair and throwing an empty matchbox into the fire.

“What’s that?” Liam walked into the room, clicking off his cell phone. “Did I hear you say Lucia wasn’t coming to Gstaad? Why?”

“Nicky pissed her off.”

“Kindly mind your language,” Grace reproved automatically, then lowered her glasses, intrigued.

“Spill the beans.” Liam sat next to his mother on the sofa and quirked a thick sandy brow. “Lucia never misses a chance to come to Gstaad. Must’ve been serious.”

“It was. So you can breathe easy, Mother.”

“Goodness, there must be good fairies after all,” Grace murmured, lowering the paper.

“Come on,” Liam urged, “shoot.”

“Nicky went with me to St. Barthes during his school break. One of the horses took ill—it was just before the Arc de Triomphe—so I hopped on a plane to Paris early. Next thing I know I’m receiving hysterical phone calls and all hell has let loose back on the island.” He glanced at his mother, saw a gleam in her eye and, knowing how she loathed his sophisticated Brazilian mistress, conceded, “You can relax, Mother, she’s history.”

“What made that happen?” Grace leaned forward, agog with curiosity.

“Nicky found a snake in the garden. He wrapped it in tissue paper, slipped it into a Cartier gift box and had it delivered by courier…with my business card attached,” he added with a groan.

“No!” Grace let out a gleeful chortle.

Liam laughed. “Good old Nicky.”

“You can laugh,” Johnny said with feeling, “but I can assure you it was less amusing at the time.”

“I’ll bet. Cost you, huh?” Liam inquired, amused, peering through his glasses and switching the phone back on, unable to resist the temptation of glancing again at his messages.

“Put it this way, it turned into rather an expensive operation,” Johnny muttered dryly.

“Well, if you’re truly rid of her, all I can say is bravo, Nicky,” Grace rejoined. “I’ll have to give him extra allowance,” she murmured, the thought of Lucia’s perfectly manicured hands eagerly unpacking the snake too delicious to resist.

“Brandt stock’s dropped another ten points,” Liam muttered, frowning. “Still, I reckon it’s hit an all-time low.” He nodded decisively. “I’ll call Rod and tell him to buy a chunk before the end of the day.”

“Oh, Liam, leave that wretched telephone alone,” Grace huffed, glancing disapprovingly at Liam’s precious tri-band. “Now, Johnny, I hope you took Nicky to task about this snake business.” Grace tried to sound disapproving but was obviously having a hard time. “It was very bad manners, after all.”

“Mother, you’re such a hypocrite,” Johnny chided, eyes twinkling as he lowered his feet to the carpet.

“I certainly am not. I may not like the woman, but Nicky still had no business sending her a reptile.” She winced at the thought.

“But it’s so apt,” Liam remarked, tongue in cheek. He winked at his brother and continued checking stock prices. “Ah, here’s one that’s lookin’ good. Johnny, wanna buy some—”

“I don’t want to buy a damn thing, Liam. You buy enough for all of us put together,” Johnny interrupted, exasperated. “Believe it or not, this is meant to be a holiday—”

“Vacation, dear—”

“Whatever, Mother. Either way, it does not figure in Liam’s vocabulary.”

“Okay, okay, I was just asking.” Liam raised both hands.

Grace let out a resigned sigh that expressed her feelings better than words. At thirty-eight and thirty-seven, her sons were able to take care of their own lives. Still, it was impossible not to wish and worry. Absently shifting the ornaments and ashtrays on the coffee table, she studied them, first Liam, then Johnny. Liam worked far too hard taking the many companies of the Graney-Riley group to further heights, while Anne Shellenberg, his girlfriend, seemed perfectly content to have reached thirty-five unmarried and COO of some company whose name Grace couldn’t recall. After five years of hoping, both she and Avis Shellenberg—Anne’s WASP mother—had long since given up dreaming of wedding bells chiming in the centuries-old chapel at Graney castle.

With an imperceptible turn of the head, she glanced at Johnny, the elder of the two, still lounging in the armchair and conversing with his brother, and her heart melted. He was her firstborn, the spitting image of his handsome father, those identical piercing Kerry blue eyes laughing as he spoke, and that glorious jet-black hair graying the same way at the temples. He was what, in her neck of the woods, was termed as Black Irish. So Celtic and handsome, charming and kind, just like his dad. Yet he lived like a semirecluse, spending the better half of his existence boxed up at Graney Castle raising those wretched horses, just like his father before him.

But of course, he’d never been truly happy since Marie Ange had died on that regrettable trip to Africa. That was still the crux of the problem. He could tell her he’d gotten over it until he was blue in the face, but she, his mother, would never believe him. She knew that he still blamed himself for the fatal tragedy after all these years. He did a good job of hiding behind a battery of shields erected over the years, mind you, but Grace knew better. And oh, how she wished he and Nicky could get over the barriers that all of a sudden seemed to have popped up between them. She groaned inwardly. Everything had seemed to be working out just fine until Nicky had hit his teens. Then suddenly it was one conflict after the other, leaving Grace dangling on emotional tenterhooks.

As she often did, she wished that Gerald, her late husband, was around to give her counsel. Raising two boys on her own hadn’t always been easy. Not that she hadn’t managed fine on her own; of course, she had. And was proud of the result, she reflected, smiling fondly at her boys. They were as different as oil from water. Liam was all Riley—he even looked just like her own plebeian Irish father, not too tall, sandy-haired and square-shouldered—and Johnny the opposite, tall, dark and aristocratic, a true blue-blooded Graney. But their differences had worked out fine, for she’d raised them well. She just wished Liam would let up a little and enjoy life, instead of being such an incurable workaholic.

“Speaking of girls, or women, rather,” she said suddenly, glancing in the mirror and giving her hair a pat, “Jeanne and Louis de Melville’s daughter will be here over the vacation. She’s thirty-three, smart and independent.” Grace infused enthusiasm into the statement.

“Who says we like smart and independent?” Johnny queried with a teasing gleam.

“Well!” Grace huffed. “Anything would be better than that creature you were parading at the Kentucky Derby last year.”

“True, Mother, a mistake, I admit,” Johnny conceded, remembering the model he’d invited at the last minute. “And as for trying to push suitable women in my direction, Mother dearest, please don’t.” He rose, shoved his hands in the wide pockets of the robe and sent her a laughing but firm smile.

“He’s right, Mother, no canny little intros, okay?” Liam seconded.

“You’re both impossible.” Grace threw up her hands, sank among the cushions and shook her head. But she smiled all the same. “I suppose I just have to be thankful for small mercies,” she sighed, referring, Johnny knew perfectly well, to Nicky’s summary disposing of Lucia.

With a laugh he left the room and headed on upstairs, planning to get on with some work before the holiday really began.




6


Dusk hovered, enveloping the small old-fashioned mountain train as it began its gentle climb into the Swiss Alps, leaving Montreux and Lake Geneva below, shrouded in a veil of December evening mist.

Seated in the wide velvet seat of the carriage, tired after the exertions of the journey and the tension of the past few days, Elm leaned back, folded her hands and looked about her appreciatively, relaxed for the first time since boarding the plane in Atlanta. It was exactly as she remembered: the carved wooden bar serving hot chocolate and tea, the gleaming brass luggage rails and pristine starched white linen squares to lay your head against. She smiled, feeling her jet lag dissipate, strangely comforted by the discovery that time had preserved her memories.

Leaving Savannah and the plantation had proved much easier than she’d expected. In fact, as momentous as the step away from that world had seemed, actually taking it had been surprisingly simple, and she was almost dizzy with relief. Not even the lingering concern that her father would be disappointed and angry about what she’d done was enough to dim her newfound sense of conviction.

Harlan and the pain of his betrayal couldn’t touch her here, she realized, her smile growing, illuminating her soft brown eyes and curving her full mouth. She savored the sense of freedom, suddenly grateful that she was seated by herself on the MOB and heading to Gstaad, a place where she’d gone to boarding school and spent so many happy moments of her adolescence. A month ago she wouldn’t have believed it possible. But then, a month ago she’d still been drifting in a gray fog of denial. And now her vision had cleared.

Elm glanced around the carriage and wondered if all she’d lived through the past few days showed. Her lips twitched. She doubted that the plump gray-haired lady in the seat diagonally opposite, reading a newspaper through thick, purposeful lenses, was remotely interested in her carriage-mate’s tribulations. The knowledge that no one here knew—that absolutely no one would send pitying glances, make catty or well-meaning remarks—was bliss. Not that those things should matter, she reminded herself. She’d followed society’s rules and dictates for too long, and all they’d ever brought her was pain and anguish. From now on, she vowed, she’d make her own rules.

With a satisfied if still shaky sigh, she peered through the large train window, but the brightly lit carriage made it hard to see out. For a moment she stared at her own reflection with new awareness. She was filing for divorce, turning her well-ordered world upside down. But despite all the upheaval, the tension lines around her mouth had eased and her eyes held a glimmer of something—could it be hope?—that she hadn’t seen for some time. Maybe it was just an illusion, but the mere fact she’d found the courage to come here filled her with a sense of optimistic expectation, as if she’d been given a new lease on life. She was thirty-four years old, yet inside she felt fifteen, suddenly young and ready to face her future all over again.

Pressing her forehead against the chilled windowpane, Elm bit her lip and gazed at the ice-covered stream hugging the railroad tracks. Above the stream, dark pine trees grew taller and taller as the train climbed, their thick branches sagging under the weight of sharp icicles and ten inches of fresh snow.

Elm swallowed and finally let out the long breath she’d been holding. She had every reason to agonize, but so many more to rejoice. After all, she’d faced the truth, confronted the fact that she’d been living in a sleepy world of illusion, and finally forced herself to wake up and take the upper hand. Her one regret was that it had taken her this long. Of course, the immediate future was easy—a long-awaited and much-needed vacation. Going back would be far more complicated. Aunt Frances—the one person other than Meredith whom she’d revealed her plans to—had said as much.

And Aunt Fran was right. There would surely be times ahead when she’d miss the stability, however stultifying, of her former life. Living on her own in her home city, where people would still think of her as Senator Hathaway’s daughter and Harlan MacBride’s wife, might prove very uncomfortable. There would be the inevitable snide comments and cold shoulders, perhaps even a tabloid assault full of distortions. But right now she didn’t care about any of it. She’d face that hurdle when she came to it.

For frankly, she no longer cared what people thought. Savannah would just have to get with the new program or go get a life, she decided, breathing on the pane and drawing a smiley face on the glass with her fingertip. Then she remembered her father and her finger stilled, her ebullience fading. She loved him dearly, and the knowledge that he would never understand her reasons for divorcing Harlan, however valid, made her profoundly sad. She took a deep breath and sat back against the green velvet seat, acknowledging that this was the main reason, however cowardly, that she’d left Savannah without leaving word of where she was going. Aunt Frances had insisted, in her uniquely feisty fashion, that like it or not, Daddy was going to have to learn to put his daughter first for once. But Elm knew there was little use trying to explain. He would never listen. He’d merely offer irrefutable arguments about why her choices were all wrong.

The carriage door opened, cutting short her negative thoughts and the inevitable guilty feelings they aroused. Instead, Elm concentrated on the rotund, pink-cheeked ticket controller dressed in a neatly pressed navy blue uniform, a bright red leather satchel slung over his shoulder.

“Présentez les billets, s’il vous plaît.”

Elm responded easily, happy to see her French wasn’t too rusty, and produced her ticket. It felt good to hear that slow lilting Swiss accent once more, to know she was truly back. Then, as she returned the ticket to her large Hermès purse, another attendant appeared offering refreshments. She wasn’t at all thirsty, but the idea of tasting steaming hot Swiss chocolate again was irresistible. So what if it was loaded with calories and cholesterol? Her personal trainer wasn’t here to harp at her, was she? In fact, not one single person here would criticize or tell her how she should be leading her life.

Rebelliously tossing her hair back, Elm smiled at the woman and ordered a large hot chocolate with whipped cream. A minute later she was taking the piping-hot cup from the gracious attendant, breathing in the delicious, un-forgettable aroma, eyes watering as she sipped cautiously. Savoring the familiar taste, she was able now to take a critical look back at her moves over the past few days. To her own amazement, she, who’d always been considered vague and fey, had proved immensely efficient. She’d found replacements for all her charity duties, handing over the garden project to Joan Murdoch, her competent assistant, who was more than happy to oblige. She had packed up her paints and canvases and left instructions for the staff at Oleander and the house in town, as though she hopped off to Europe at the blink of an eyelid every day of the year. She’d even managed to find someone to man her booth at the Daughters of the Confederacy bazaar—no mean feat, since the fund-raiser was notorious for being the most tedious event of Savannah’s holiday season.

Incredible, she mused, relishing the rich, creamy drink and her own capabilities. Life had sent her an inside curve ball, and instead of despairing, she’d rallied and was experiencing an exhilarating rush of satisfaction. And it was incredibly uplifting to be free of Harlan’s constant recriminations and barbs, and her father’s subtle disapproval, she reflected ruefully. He always made her feel as though she could be doing better.

Placing her hand against the glass once more, Elm peered out again through the growing darkness to the twinkling lights of the distant chalets dotted on the snowy peaks. What must it be like to live up in a small wooden mountain dwelling, cozily ensconced behind red-and-white-checkered curtains, a blazing fire roaring in a rustic chimney? she wondered dreamily. She could easily imagine a family—little blond-pigtailed girls and boys in smocks—seated round a carved kitchen table, digging into large portions of rösti, the delicious Swiss equivalent of hash browns, and commenting on their day’s work, their hopes and fears. The cows would be huddled in the barns for the winter now, each animal ensconced in a stall with its name carefully painted above, next to the huge bells that would be donned again in spring when they returned to pasture and joined the poya—the famous yearly trek up into the legendary Swiss Alps.

As she stared deep into the night, following a tiny beam of light flickering up on the mountain, Elm remembered that as a student here, she’d been drawn to the sense of timeless serenity the mountains exuded, to the quiet rhythms of alpine life, always envying its apparent simplicity. Of course, now she knew that life, no matter where it was lived, was never simple.

The train stopped at several stations. First Les Avants, where in May the slopes were covered in radiant white blankets of sweet-smelling narcissus. Then Château-d’Oex, where Aunt Frances and her mother, whom she could barely recall, had attended finishing school long ago. Then the train chuffed past Rougemont—wow, how the town had grown, there had never been that many lights before—with its ancient seventeenth-century chalets bordering the tracks, and on, down into the low-lying mists of the Saanenland toward her final destination.

It was snowing hard when the train finally pulled into Gstaad station and Elm got up, excited, her tall, slim figure clad in elegant suede pants and a cashmere sweater, and hastened to the door of the compartment. She smiled and thanked a kind middle-aged man who stepped forward and helped her remove her luggage from the rack. Then, pulling on her long mink coat, she flung open the window and leaned perilously out before the train had come to a complete stop, watching eagerly as another slim, fur-clad figure hurried down the tiny platform, waving.

“Gio! Oh, my God!” She laughed, immediately recognizing Gioconda and waving back enthusiastically. As the train came to a halt she hauled her bags down to the platform and the two women tumbled into each other’s arms.

“Cara, I can’t believe it. You’ve finally made it! You should have let me send the car to the airport to meet you, darling, instead of using this uncivilized public transport,” Gioconda exclaimed, enveloping her in a perfumed embrace before beckoning to the porter. “Take the bags to the car over there, please.” She pointed and smiled, then turned once more, holding Elm at arm’s length and looking her over critically. “Bella. How marvelous to see you. You look beautiful, as always. A little pale perhaps, but that will soon be taken care of. I’m so thrilled you came.” She gave Elm another hug.

“So am I,” Elm’s eyes glistened as they linked arms and followed the porter under gently falling snowflakes to a gleaming four-wheel drive parked on the curb next to the yellow postal bus. Elm glanced at it nostalgically, welcoming yet another reminder of her school days.

While Gioconda chattered, Elm stared at her surroundings, allowing it all to sink in, still unable to believe she’d actually made it back to “her” mountain. She bit her lip and stood, hand on the car door, looking up through the snowflakes at the Palace Hotel, still rising like an enchanted castle, turrets brightly illuminated above the fairy-tale village, casting its magic spell over the wooden chalets lying peacefully below, their pointed eaves outlined by tiny trails of Christmas lights. Elm breathed deeply, filling her lungs with the chilly mountain air, and sighed. Already she felt like a different woman, as though she’d finally stepped out of a quagmire onto solid land.

“Stop painting pictures in your head and get into the car, cara,” Gioconda urged, laughing, moving to the driver’s seat while the porter placed the bags in the back.

Elm smiled absently and climbed into the vehicle. Barbra Streisand’s “Memories” played on the CD deck. It was wonderfully appropriate. For a moment her eyes filled, and she leaned back against the soft leather seat, overwhelmed by emotion. Gioconda drove past the skating rink, where a group of young girls in bright, billowing ice-skating skirts twirled gracefully under the heavy flakes, like ballerinas in a music box. Elm swallowed hard, touched by how perfect it all was, how untainted and lovely and precious. Almost too good to be true.

Could seventeen years really have passed since she’d done figure eights on that same ice herself? And what had she achieved since then? she wondered. Then she pulled herself up with a jolt. It was pointless to get maudlin, as Aunt Frances would say. What mattered was that she was here now, almost as though she’d had to return to her beginnings to start all over again.

“I can’t wait to introduce you to everyone,” Gioconda was saying, bringing Elm back to the present. “There are several people already in town. A couple of old Roséens, Jim Talbot for one. Remember how fat he used to be?”

“No wonder. He lived at von Siebenthal’s bakery eating doughnuts, if I remember correctly.”

“Damn right. Anyway, he’s quite slim now.”

Elm shook her head. It all seemed part of another world and she felt suddenly ashamed that, barring Gio, she had not kept in touch with her old school pals.

“You’ll never believe me when I tell you who I saw the other evening.”

“Who?” Elm asked, grinning.

“Johnny Graney. Now, you remember him. You had a mega crush on him.”

Elm frowned, then nodded, laughing. “Of course I remember. Is he still as devastatingly handsome? I used to lurk around the basketball court during practice, hoping for a glimpse of that killer smile. Gosh, how silly we were in those days.”

“Deliciously, wonderfully silly,” Gioconda agreed, driving through the tunnel, then out at the roundabout and past the mölkerei—the local dairy.

“Gee, it’s still there,” Elm exclaimed, delighted to see so little had changed. “Are the yoghurts still as scrumptious?”

“Absolutely. You’ll have some for breakfast tomorrow morning.”

They turned right and drove on, up past the Park Hotel. A few meters later the car veered right again into a small side road and Elm could see Gioconda’s chalet twinkling through the layer of snow being swished rhythmically back and forth by the windshield wipers.

“I can’t believe it,” she exclaimed, a frisson coursing through her. “Everything looks exactly the same,” she marveled as they turned into the driveway and she was able to distinguish the chalet properly. “Do you remember all those wonderful weekends and vacations we used to spend here, Gio? It seems like only yesterday.”

“Don’t remind me,” Gio groaned dramatically, “I’ll be thirty-four next month. Can you imagine? Me? Positively ancient.”

“Rubbish,” Elm laughed, “You’re as gorgeous now, Contessa, as you’ve always been and you know it.”

“Bah! Non lo so. The men seem to think so, but I have a mirror. I’m seriously contemplating some of those injections I hear so much about.” Gioconda’s eyes twinkled. Then she shrugged as only Italians can shrug and sent Elm a mischievous grin. “But, anyway, you’ll be happy to know, cara, that the chalet only looks the same on the outside. I’ve redecorated the interior completely, thank God,” she added. “Remember those dreadful brown velvet chairs of my grandmother’s?”

“I do.” Elm grinned back, recalling Gioconda’s pithy comments at the time. At fifteen, Gio had already possessed a tremendous sense of style, she realized, amused. “What color are they now?”

“Mercifully they don’t exist anymore.” Gioconda gave a dramatic shudder. “I donated them to the Salvation Army. And frankly, darling, I’m not even sure they wanted them.” She pressed the automatic garage door, which opened immediately.

“Those doors always remind me of a spaceship,” Elm remarked, tilting her head dreamily. “Like in those movies where a spacecraft opens and you get zapped inside and—”

“Mamma mia. You haven’t changed in the slightest. Always that incredible imagination at work,” Gioconda exclaimed, laughing. “Still painting a lot, cara? I loved your last exhibition. And by the way, Franco and Gianni are still dying to do that exhibit in Florence we talked about.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Elm mused. All at once, a project that a few months ago had seemed a logistically impossible project struck her as challenging and exciting.

“Well, that’s a positive change,” Gio remarked, surprised. “The last time I mentioned it, you spurned the idea outright.”

“The last time you mentioned it, I was still living in La La Land,” Elm answered ruefully as the vehicle crawled into the garage.

“Ah, poverina,” Gio exclaimed sympathetically. “I suppose escaping into your fantasy world was the only way to bear that self-absorbed husband of yours. I’ll never understand why you married him,” she added, shaking her head, her well-cut, silky, shoulder-length black hair swinging elegantly.

“I guess it seemed a good idea at the time,” Elm replied with a noncommittal shrug. “But he won’t be my husband for much longer.”

“Thank God for that! When you told me you were leaving him and planning to get divorced, I made Umberto open a bottle of the vintage Crystal. We drank to your future and recalled all the good times.”

“Umberto! It’s amazing that he still works for you after all these years,” Elm smiled, fondly remembering the Mancini family butler.

“You bet. He still bosses everyone around and makes a general nuisance of himself. Nonno—you remember my grandfather?”

“Of course.”

“Well, Nonno offered to buy him a nice house in Umberto’s village in Sicily, and take care of him and his family.”

“And?”

“He was so insulted that the matter was never brought up again.”

Elm laughed. “I can believe that.”

“Frankly, I don’t know what Nonno would do without him. They still spend hours going over the defeat at Monte Cassino. They’re certain that if only they’d been the ones leading the Italian troops, history would have taken a different turn.” Gioconda parked neatly next to a shiny red Ferrari.

“Yours?” Elm quirked an amused brow in the direction of the car.

“But of course, bella. I haven’t changed. I’m still as extravagant as ever. Ah! There’s Maria.” Gio waved at the uniformed maid preparing to unload the car.

“Buona sera, signora.”

“Good evening.” Elm smiled back graciously, before following her friend up the carpeted steps.

At the top Gioconda pushed open the paneled wooden door and held it wide while Elm passed through.

“Benvenuto, cara. It’s wonderful to have you back.”

“It’s wonderful to be back,” Elm murmured, taking stock of the hall. “Wow, Gio, it’s totally different, perfectly divine,” she marveled, gazing appreciatively at the pine-paneled walls of the entrance, the regional antiques, the imaginative floral arrangements of wild flowers and berries. “That’s fantastic,” she exclaimed, enchanted, pointing to two heavy wax candles in wrought-iron stands flickering invitingly on an ancient wooden chest. “And that scent. I know that scent.” She stopped, closed her eyes and sniffed, breathing in the subtle mélange of cloves, pine and something deliciously mysterious. “It’s simply enchanting,” she murmured, delighted, fingers trailing lovingly over the polished wood, “Just lovely. Trust you to do a perfect job, Gio.”

“Glad you approve, cara,” Gio pulled off her fur jacket and reached for Elm’s coat. “Now, before we settle down to a well-deserved glass of champagne, I’ll take you up to your room. Umberto, siamo qui…” she called, throwing the coats over the carved hall chair. “He can’t hear a thing, poor old darling, deaf as a post.”

“Signora Contessa?” Umberto, on the alert, appeared out of nowhere, the same picture of unaltered ancient dignity that Elm recalled so well.

“Look,” Gioconda exclaimed, grabbing Elm’s arm, “look who’s finally returned to us!”

“Ah! Signora, quanti anni.” Umberto clasped Elm’s hand, his creased face breaking into a delighted smile. Elm returned the pressure, eyes moist. It was like opening a picture book and finding herself back in her own personal fairy tale, a bittersweet reminder of just how much and how little had taken place since.

“It’s marvelous to be back, Umberto,” she murmured, deeply touched, smiling into his kind old face, remembering all the times he’d left the door unlatched for them, the midnight snacks and the scolds. It was like time travel, and again her eyes stung.

“Enough,” Gioconda declared, grabbing Elm’s hand. “Now we will make some fine new memories!” She winked, dark eyes flashing. “I have another surprise for you, bella. Come on.” Like an excited child, she dragged Elm up the stairs, then down the tapestry-covered corridor to a door at the end.

Elm threw her head back and laughed, caught up in Gioconda’s contagious enthusiasm. When she peeked inside as her friend opened the bedroom door, she caught her breath and clasped her hands. “Oh Gio, it’s simply gorgeous,” she exclaimed, stepping into the room.

“You like it? I had it completely redone as soon as you said you were coming. They finished yesterday,” she giggled.

Enchanted, Elm moved about the room, touched more by the generosity of Gioconda’s gesture than the actual, undeniable loveliness of the decor itself. A luxurious mink throw lay strewn over a long ottoman at the foot of the king-size canopied bed, draped with old rose Toile de Jouy curtains that matched the walls. Scattered lamps shed their gentle glow about the room, their reflections shimmering in the large pine-framed mirror above the antique dressing table. It was feminine and sophisticated, warm and welcoming, everything she’d dreamed of during the chilling loneliness of the past two weeks. Turning, she embraced her friend tight.

“Thank you, Gio. This means more to me than you can possibly know.”

“Now, now, cara,” Gio scolded gruffly, wiping a tear from her own eyes. “There’s more.”

“More?”

“Look.” Gioconda moved and flung open another door. “Bathroom and walk-in closet, and over here,” she continued, moving toward two heavy quilted curtains, “is your very own special little nook.” She swept back the drapes with a flourish. “Voilà!”

Elm peered inside and let out a long sigh. “You’ve out-done yourself,” she murmured, stepping into the cozy little sitting room lined with carved pine bookshelves. A plump love seat piled high with tasseled velvet and brocade cushions stood invitingly before a blazing open fire, while more fat wax candles guttered gently on the low coffee table next to an array of glossy magazines and a basket of scented potpourri. “What can I say?” she whispered, raising her manicured hands expressively. “It’s perfect. I can’t believe you did all this for me.”

“If not for my dearest friend, then who would I do it for?” Gio laughed, thrilled at Elm’s reaction.

“I guess all I can say is a huge thank you.” The two women hugged again and Elm felt a warm glow of happiness.

“Now freshen up, cara. Umberto’s probably already uncorking the champagne,” Gio ordered. “And don’t worry about unpacking, Maria will deal with it later.”

Once she was alone in the room, Elm sank down, smiling, onto the well-sprung bed. She bounced on it twice, then sighed with pleasure. It was like waking up in a new world with no worries, no haunting shadows, and no doubts. It seemed that the mountain’s peace was finally hers to share once more.

Jumping up, all her fatigue forgotten, Elm pulled a hairbrush out of her purse and dragged it through the long strands falling on the shoulders of her white cashmere sweater. She’d made up her mind to have a true break, hadn’t she? To get her life in perspective before returning and facing the future. And that, she decided firmly, was exactly what she would do. She would live each precious moment of this blissful interlude to the hilt, savor each instant, engrave each sensation inside, then return to her own world a stronger and better person, able to face the decisions she would have to make.

And for the first time ever, she reminded herself proudly, those decisions would be hers alone to make.




7


Elm slid off the chairlift at the top of the Wassengrat run and straightened her ski poles. No more champagne anytime before Christmas, she swore, blinking and shaking her head, recalling the magnum her friends had insisted on opening last night to celebrate what her Old Rosey pals termed as her “return to the fold.” There were several of them at the delightful brasserie and club, where she’d sat on the zebra bench, enchanted, as old stories were exchanged and fun times recalled, and also a little ashamed that she’d lost touch with so many wonderful people. But they’d scoffed at her embarrassment, and made her feel so welcome, so at home, as though she hadn’t spent the past seventeen years away in a different world.

Now, after a long, delicious lunch accompanied by an excellent Bordeaux at the Eagle Club with Gioconda and several of her newfound friends—including Franco and Gianni, who were already excitedly planning the Florence exhibit of her paintings—Elm had spent what remained of the afternoon skiing with her pro, Rudy, whom she’d taken leave of at the bottom of the chairlift. Then, even though the hour was late, she’d decided to do one last run on her own.

It felt good to be by herself for a short while, skiing past the clusters of dark pines, taking her own lazy time to slide gracefully down the slope in the fresh virgin snow, feeling the cool wind whipping color into her cheeks and new life into her lungs. She’d often dreamed of these moments when things had been particularly dreary back home, when, lying languidly in the old canvas hammock, seeping in the damp summer heat under the protective shade of the live oaks, she’d picture herself shushing down the mountain, inhaling this crisp, invigorating air. Now that she was finally here, she felt revitalized.

It occurred to her that, since arriving in Gstaad, she’d had none of the symptoms that had so troubled her of late in Savannah. The dizzy spells had passed, the nausea subsided. Had it all been in her head? she wondered. Probably just a physical manifestation of the inner misery she’d been unwilling to acknowledge, she decided cynically.

She slowed, then stopped next to a knot of pines, watching the rays of soft winter sun indulge in a final flirt with the glistening white peaks before sinking gracefully into the valley. Although she’d left the States before learning the results of the extensive blood work ordered by Dr. Ashby, the Atlanta specialist Doc Philips had referred her to, she was certain now the tests would prove normal. Boy, was it good to feel like herself again. She smiled and gazed about her once more, capturing the beauty of the moment, the sun sinking behind the mountain, the range so clearly etched in the late afternoon light.

Elm prodded the snow with her pole and thought of Harlan. How strange that he already felt like part of her past. Indeed, everything that had formed her world back in Savannah, her daily activities and commitments, seemed distant and detached. Two weeks ago she’d been deeply involved in the garden project at Oleander that represented so much to her, listening to the heartbreaking stories of the women she’d recruited from the local women’s shelter, admiring them for having the will to survive the abuse they’d suffered. She’d marveled then at the contrast to her own safe, sterilized world, where the worst thing she faced was the inevitable round of fund-raisers and photo-ops with Harlan.

And even though the veil of security had now been stripped away, she suddenly realized that she’d had more in common with those women than she’d have imagined possible. She hoped that, like them, she’d continue to stand firm and tap into some well of inner strength to carve herself a new life. Of course, her life was made much easier than theirs. She had financial security to lean on. But that didn’t make it easy, all the same. The main thing was she’d made a start, she admitted proudly. Since the moment she’d told Meredith to file the divorce papers, she hadn’t had one doubt that she had made the right move.

Elm wiped her glasses and gazed about her. Perhaps she should just stop questioning herself and enjoy the time away.

Although her toes were slowly going numb, Elm adjusted her woollen cap and glasses and gazed about her once more, nose tingling. Her painting had made her an acute observer of her surroundings, but she’d never dared to focus that intense vision on herself. Now was as good a time as any to change that. After all, you could live a whole lifetime in a second, she reflected, drinking in the beauty; it was all up to what you saw, what you made of it, how you let it touch you. And now she was determined to see it all, feel it all, absorb each detail from the trees to the snow and the flickering lights already shining in the village below, which reminded her how late it must be.

The run was empty, she noticed, reflecting that the other skiers were probably sipping glühwein and hot chocolate at Charlie’s Tea Room, or listening to strains of the piano before the vast open fireplace at the Palace Hotel.

Moving her right ski tentatively on the snow, Elm realized uneasily that conditions were fast turning icy. Better get going, she decided, setting off down the hill, anxious now to reach the bottom and make her way back to Gioconda’s chalet.

She was about two-thirds down the slope when she felt her left ski slide out of control. Desperately she tried to recover her balance but without success. Then, to her horror, Elm watched another skier appear out of the trees and glide straight into her path.

Oh, my God! She tried to shout a warning but no sound came.

Next thing Elm knew, she lay tumbled in the snow entangled with a complete stranger, wincing at the string of oaths she heard. Her victim was male and expressed himself in British English. There was no doubt he was seriously upset. Dragging her arm free, Elm mumbled an embarrassed apology and managed to get up.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, mortified, reaching for a fallen ski pole. The man rose, too. He stood several inches above her, likely a good six foot two. Elm cringed, watching as he shook off the excess snow like a goggled St. Bernard, and wished the earth would swallow her up.

“I really am so sorry,” she repeated, not knowing what else to say.

“Don’t you look where you’re going?” he muttered, flexing his right arm before removing the pair of shiny goggles and a black woolen hat.

“I’m afraid my ski got caught on the ice and I went out of control. You’re not hurt, are you?” she enquired anxiously.

Their eyes met and all at once he grinned. “Nothing a hot bath and a drink won’t cure,” he replied, scrutinizing her.

“Thank goodness,” Elm murmured, relieved, struck by his dark good looks, bright blue eyes, chiseled features and thick dark hair graying at the temples. He seemed strangely familiar, she realized, frowning. Then, removing her woolen cap, she shook out the snow, tousled her hair and took off her glasses, which had misted up after the fall.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked, eyeing her carefully.

“Fine,” she answered, tucking her hat into her pocket. “Look, again, I’m dreadfully sorry. It was all my fault. I lost control of my skis on an icy patch up there.”

“That’s okay.” He glanced at the darkening sky around them. “Better get to the bottom before we end up skating down this thing, though. I’ll lead the way.”

Elm was about to protest at his arbitrary attitude of command when a quick look at the ominous shadows cast by pine trees changed her mind. Perhaps it was no bad thing the stranger wanted to lead the way. With a shrug she followed him. He was obviously an ace skier, though she had no difficulty following him to the bottom of the slope, despite the increasingly icy conditions. She just wasn’t going to break her neck trying to prove herself, she decided, shushing down the run after him.

Leaning on his ski poles at the bottom of the slope, Johnny Graney watched appreciatively as the slim, white-clad figure crossed the last few hundred yards, then made a neat sharp stop next to him.

“Okay?” he inquired solicitously.

“Fine.” Elm pressed the tip of her pole into the back of her binding. Johnny followed suit, wishing she’d remove her glasses once more so that he could catch another glimpse of those incredible brown eyes, such an unusual contrast to the blond mass falling about her shoulders. At least if he was going to be rammed into by a strange woman, he reflected philosophically, then by all means let it be by a beautiful one.

As though guessing his silent wish, Elm stood in the snow, shook her skis, then removed her glasses. For a moment he frowned. He knew that face, was certain he’d seen it before. Was she an actress? Someone he’d met in London or New York? He flexed his memory while removing his own equipment, determined to find out who she was.

“How about a glühwein or a hot chocolate in the village?” he threw casually, surprising himself.

“Oh, I really don’t think—”

“You said you were sorry for running into me.” He grinned, eyes flashing in his bronzed face. “Make up for it by joining me.”

Elm was about to refuse when she suddenly realized that, actually, she wouldn’t mind having a drink with this handsome stranger. It was Gstaad, after all, not Chicago. Everybody knew one another.

“Okay, why not?” She smiled.

“Great. Maybe we should introduce ourselves. In a formal manner,” he added, lips twitching as he removed his right glove.

Elm grinned ruefully and did the same.

“You first,” he urged in a smooth British accent.

“Elm Hathaway from Savannah, Georgia.”

“Pleased to meet you, Elm Hathaway from Savannah, Georgia. I’m Johnny Graney from Ireland slash Pittsburgh, U.S.A.” A warm tingle coursed through Elm’s fingers. Then all at once, memory jogged, realization dawned and she drew them back quickly.

“Johnny Graney?”

“Guilty.” He sent her a curious glance. “This sounds like a line, but haven’t we met before?”

“Uh, as a matter of fact, we have,” Elm responded, feeling as if she’d been thrown into a time warp. Johnny Graney had been her first serious crush, the boy she’d mooned over some twenty years earlier. It came as something of a shock to realize just how much time had elapsed—and, apparently, how much she must have changed, she reflected with a touch of humor. Johnny was clearly having a hell of a time trying to place her.

“I’m dreadfully sorry, but I—” He raised his hands in a gesture of defeat. “I’m afraid I just don’t remember.”

“How flattering,” Elm replied dryly. “But it makes sense. At the time, you were only peripherally aware of my existence.”

“I was?” His face took on a look of comical horror. “You must be joking,” he added, throwing up his hands. “If I’d ever met you, even for a split second, I’m certain I’d remember.”

Elm burst out laughing and watched his face color with polite embarrassment. He’d been a dangerous flirt back then, and every girl’s hero. She couldn’t resist teasing him a little longer. “I can see I made a lasting impression on you,” she said, glancing down. “It’s kind of cold. Shall we move?” Picking up her skis, she acquiesced when he immediately insisted on carrying them with his own.

“Look, I feel awful. At least give me a hint,” he begged.

“Should I?” she taunted, eyeing him playfully, deliciously aware that she was flirting, something she hadn’t done in years.

“Come on, be a sport. Heck, you almost massacred me back there. Are you planning torture, too? What kind of a woman are you?” He raised an amused brow, and Elm smiled sweetly.

“It’s too cold for conversation.”

“Okay. The Palace Hotel—I promise a table next to the fireplace if you tell me who you are and where we met.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“Elm Hathaway from Savannah, Georgia,” he said thoughtfully, placing their skis on the back of a new silver Range Rover. “I know that rings a bell somewhere.”

“This is really quite demoralizing,” she pouted, sighing heavily as he held the door of the vehicle for her. “To think I’ve changed to the point of being unrecognizable—”

“I never said that, I merely—”

“I know,” she continued, enjoying the game. “You meet so many women it’s hard to keep track. Don’t worry, I understand.” She sent him a sympathetic, pitying look.

“Hey! Hold it,” he exclaimed, coming around and getting in the driver’s seat, rallying as he turned the key in the ignition. “If it was a long time ago as you’re implying, maybe you were a skinny, gawky little thing. A sort of ugly duckling who’s since turned into a swan.”

“A skinny ugly duckling—” Elm spluttered, laughing, “I was never an ugly duckling.”

“In that case, you’ll just have to help me out,” he insisted, driving out of the parking lot.

“I don’t know.” She eyed him thoughtfully. “Seeing you strain your memory is rather satisfying,” she remarked, leaning against the cream-colored leather, remembering the numerous times she’d haunted the basketball court and the soccer field, just waiting to catch a glimpse of him.

“I give up,” Johnny declared dramatically as the four-wheel-drive vehicle wound down the mountain and back toward the village.

“What, so easily?” She raised a brow and looked him over with a sly grin. “I seem to recall a certain basketball team captain rallying his players with a speech about never giving up and fighting until the death, et cetera, et cetera…quite dramatic stuff, really,” she added with a sigh, “and so disappointing to know it no longer holds true.”

The car braked abruptly. “My God.” He turned and stared at her. “Now I remember. Little Elm Hathaway, the Southern belle from Savannah. You had a picture of me under your pillow—” a slow wicked grin dawned “—and that bitch Janine whatever-her-name-was stole it and showed it to the whole school at dinner.”

“Yes, well, we don’t need to dwell on that,” Elm muttered hastily, blushing despite herself. It had proved the most lowering experience. “Uh, I think there’s a car behind you,” she added, trying to divert his attention.

Johnny took his eyes off her and drove once more. “Well, well. It’s a small world indeed.” He flashed her another sidelong grin. “My only excuse for not recognizing you at once are the developments since then.”

“Developments?” Elm eyed him suspiciously.

“Put it this way, you were, uh…proportionally different.”

“Proportionally?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

As he watched her expectantly, clearly daring her to take the bait, it occurred to Elm that she was way out of her depth. This man was obviously a practiced playboy and entirely too aware of his own appeal. But boy, this was fun. Curiosity won and she raised a questioning brow. “Okay, I’ll bite. So tell me, was I a freak?”

“No,” he said, turning into the parking lot of the Palace, then drawing up under the porch where the valet hastened down the steps. “But even you must admit that you were a bit of a gangly girl—lovely, of course, but gangly all the same. Whereas now,” he drawled, “you look every inch a woman—with certain inches being especially impressive.”

She blushed. Well, she’d asked for that, she realized, feeling his gaze intent upon her and grateful that the valet had opened her door, providing her with a quick escape.

Elm alighted from the vehicle and strode up the steps toward the hotel entrance, ruefully aware that the passage of twenty years had done nothing to strengthen her defenses against Johnny’s charm. Thankfully, he didn’t mean anything by his nonsense; he’d probably used that line a thousand times. Johnny Graney, she reflected with a grin, was obviously a serial flirt.

And luckily, she assured herself, she was smart enough to realize it.




8


Two hours, and two glühweins later, Johnny returned to the family chalet, satisfied that he’d extracted from his old schoolmate a promise to meet for dinner. He was intrigued by the unexpected encounter and smiled to himself as he walked upstairs. Elm Hathaway was charming and intelligent and genuinely fun. A pleasant change from the majority of women he came across.

He knew he had a reputation as a playboy—his mother had asked him point blank if he was auditioning ladies for a harem—but the truth was he just plain lost interest in most of them after the first date. Beneath their flirtatious smiles and eager questions was an obvious fascination with his title and the size of his bank account; sometimes he’d barely get the woman out the restaurant door before she was bluntly offering to share his bed. No wonder he was happiest at Graney Castle—at least there he didn’t feel like a piece of prime horseflesh on the auction block.

He grinned, suspecting his teenage son Nicky would tell him to “get over it.” And, admittedly, being the object of enthusiastic female pursuit had its pluses. Still, he found himself hoping for something more. Not that he was looking for a serious relationship—his heart always had and always would belong to Marie Ange—but in certain dark moments he recognized in himself a deep loneliness, a yearning for quiet companionship.

And whose fault is that? he reminded himself sharply, feeling the inevitable pull of the past, the memory of what he’d lost. He drew himself up, determined not to let the contentment of his afternoon with Elm fade. He’d ring up the Chesery and make a reservation for tomorrow night. At least they could talk there without being constantly interrupted, and the food was delicious. He frowned. Usually he avoided being too chummy with his old Rosey friends because they reminded him of Marie Ange, of the past. But somehow Elm was different.

He shrugged and proceeded down the corridor, wondering if Nicky was home. He must make a call to Graney, too, and talk to O’Connor before he left for the evening, to get the latest report on Blue Lavender. He’d ponder the unexpected appeal of Elm Hathaway later.

She most definitely would not “go for it,” Elm reflected, amused, recalling Gioconda’s excited outburst when she’d told her of the encounter. But now, as she sat across from Johnny in the intimate yet elegant ambience of the Chesery, she was glad she’d accepted his invitation to dinner. The Chesery was one of Gstaad’s best traditional restaurants and it was almost impossible to get a table.

Pretending to study the menu, Elm eyed the man sitting across the table. It was easy to see why she’d fallen for him all those years ago. It wasn’t just his patent good looks or seductive charm or lethally athletic figure that attracted, but the warmth and intelligence that lay behind his smile. Although he came across as somewhat guarded in his manner—not distant, exactly, for he was quite playful, as she’d learned yesterday afternoon—she sensed that he was simply a man who didn’t reveal himself easily to others. And this atmosphere—superb quality and efficiency enveloped in an intimate yet highly sophisticated setting—suited him perfectly. Her mouth curved and she surveyed him and the appetizer, oeuf surprise, a delightful concoction of scrambled egg placed in an eggshell and topped with caviar. Johnny looked deliciously elegant in a blazer and tie, and utterly at home in this charming restaurant where waiters addressed him by name and he called the shots.

Harlan would hate him, she thought wryly, for Johnny was the type of man Harlan could only pretend to be—effortlessly confident and in control, someone whom others instinctively looked to as a leader. Harlan had his own brand of power, to be sure, but the truth was, his backers—including her father, she reminded herself with a twinge of unease, remembering this morning’s stilted phone conversation with him—could take that away as quickly as they’d given it to him.

She had sensed the concern in her father’s voice, but already he seemed, albeit reluctantly, to have accepted the fact that she’d had to get away, even if he didn’t agree with it. But then, he still didn’t know the real reason for her departure. Her divorce from Harlan was going to be a bitter pill for the senator to swallow, and she wanted to tell him herself when the time was right.

But enough of that, she decided, determined not to spoil the evening, and bit back a smile at a sudden vision of Gioconda, wagging her finger and admonishing her not to waste her thoughts on a failed marriage, or on a faithless, feckless man like Harlan, when she had such a magnificent specimen within arm’s reach.

And she was right. For Johnny was proving to be an amusing dinner companion, regaling her with hilarious stories of his son Nicky’s escapades. She felt young and carefree as she laughed at Johnny’s hilarious description of Nicky’s unfortunate decision to host a sidewalk sale of Grace Graney’s prized collection of Ming porcelain—at decidedly bargain prices—realizing that she’d laughed more since being here in Gstaad than she had in the past twelve years. And that laughter was something she’d missed.

The meal was delicious, but by the time they’d reached dessert, even Elm, with her lack of experience, could sense that Johnny hadn’t invited her out just to talk about their old school days. Most definitely not. The realization that he was obviously attracted to her was remarkably enticing, she admitted, savoring a shudder of excitement and a tiny spoonful of delectable chocolate mousse. More surprising was the recognition that she, too, was drawn to him.

Not that she could act upon that attraction, of course. She hadn’t come to Gstaad for romance. She was still a married woman, after all, one who’d never thought of betraying her vows even at the worst of times. Yet Johnny was making it plain that he found her company very pleasant—and he struck her as the type of man who didn’t hesitate to go after what he wanted.

The thought was so shockingly alluring that Elm nearly choked on the mousse. Before, whenever she’d sensed that a man was interested in her, she’d distanced herself automatically. But then, she’d been married—really married, not filing for divorce—and living behind a wall of Southern protocol, the subtle protection offered by her husband and her father’s position and the strict rules of the society she lived in. She’d let those walls imprison her, separate her from the hopes and dreams she’d once aspired to.

And suddenly she longed to break free.

This, even more than her own growing fascination with the man across the table, made her realize she must be very, very cautious. She didn’t want to be one of those women who left their husbands, only to enter into a series of scorching relationships that ended with them burned and bewildered several months later. Better to just enjoy this pleasurable evening and allow herself to bask in the feeling of being admired, not criticized, and then give Johnny a firm handshake of thanks and farewell.

As he entertained her with stories and listened to her laugh, Johnny couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed a woman’s company more. Elm Hathaway was certainly a welcome surprise, especially during what had been shaping up to be a tedious Christmas, thanks to Nicky’s sulks.

As a discreet waiter topped up their champagne glasses, he studied this beautiful, understated and elegant woman, simply yet chicly dressed in black velvet pants and a high-necked cashmere sweater that defined her excellent figure. Her jewelry was exquisite and unobtrusive. Apart from her obvious beauty there was something very enticing about her, he decided, something in that sexy, soft Southern drawl that charmed.

“Tell me about your home,” he said, interested in learning more about who she was, what she thought, how she felt. There was a rare unspoiled quality about her that struck a chord.

“Home? That’d be Oleander Creek, my family’s plantation.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “It’s a wonderful old place that belonged to my great-great-grandmother. It used to be in the country but now it’s practically on the outskirts of Savannah. Although I also have a town house in the city, Oleander Creek is my real home and I love it dearly,” she sighed, and twirled her glass, eyes soft. “It’s one of those rare places where it’s possible to find real peace.” She glanced at him and he nodded.

“I know exactly what you mean. It’s the same way I feel about Graney.”

“Graney.” She pronounced the word carefully. “That sounds dreadfully grand,” she countered, a smile hovering about her lips.

“Not really.” He shrugged. “It was originally a medieval Irish castle, so I suppose that makes it fairly impressive. But behind those thick stone walls lie a plethora of problems, believe me. Trivial things,” he grinned, “such as outdated plumbing and unreliable electricity. Helps scare off unwanted guests.” He took a sip of champagne and smiled when she let out a gurgle of laughter.

“Sounds just like Oleander. Believe me, I’ve scared off my share of unwanted guests, too.”

“Do you have many of them?” he queried, interested to learn more.

“In politics, they swarm like bees to honey.” She let out a little sigh. “Harlan, my hus—soon to be ex-husband—” she corrected hastily “—hates that the place is so old,” she added, blushing. “Decrepit is the exact term he uses.”

Johnny laid his glass down and pricked up his ears. She’d mentioned earlier that she was getting a divorce, and from her description of her husband, it was no wonder. “Likes things in good order, huh?”

“Oh, yes, only the best,” she said dryly, folding her hands on the table and staring absently at the cloth. “He considers Oleander rather shabby, despite all the restoration work I’ve put into it. He wanted to bring in a New York decorator to smarten the place up and make it presentable for his Washington cronies, but I refused.” She shrugged and their eyes met. “Maybe it was wrong of me—it really is an ideal spot to entertain—but I couldn’t bear the thought of it being picture-perfect and used only for fund-raisers, or as some kind of Gone with the Wind prop for PR purposes. It’s my sanctuary and I love it just the way it is, with the stairs that creak, the layers of old dust up in the attic, the shutters that bang relentlessly in the storms during the rainy season. To me it’s just home.”

“Sounds like the old place has a lot of stories to tell.”

Elm laughed. “Many more than you can imagine. I had some pretty outrageous ancestors. My great-great-grandmother Elma is practically a legend in Savannah—the original Steel Magnolia.”

“Steel magnolia?” Johnny repeated blankly.

“It’s an expression that means a certain combination of Southern grace and inner grit. In Elma’s case, she had both in spades.” He watched her take a quick sip of champagne and settle back in her chair. “As Sherman’s forces were advancing on Savannah, a forward scouting party of maybe a half-dozen soldiers made their way to Oleander Creek and were preparing to force their way into the house when one of them slammed his rifle butt into the front step and cracked the stone. Well, Elma thought this was unpardonably rude and confronted them at the door, saying there was no way they were getting inside unless they cleaned themselves up and remembered their manners. Apparently she gave those Yankees such a tongue-lashing that they left without even looking for the gold Elma and her slaves had hidden in the bottom of the well.” She smiled and took another sip. “The crack in the step is still there.”

“Sounds like Miss Elma was an enterprising woman. Do you take after her?”

“Me? Oh, no, although I’m named after her. But she was far more courageous than I’ve ever been or had to be.”

“Did she survive the war?”

“Oh, yes.” She smiled, her eyes soft in the candlelight. “The tale goes that the Brigadier General commanding the Yankee scouts was none too pleased when his men came back empty-handed. He arrived at Oleander later the same day, ready to do battle with the terrible harridan his men had described, and torch the place if necessary.” She leaned her elbows lightly on the pristine white cloth and continued the story. “Instead, he found Elma in the hall, decked out in a beautiful evening gown and welcoming him and his officers to dinner in the most ladylike fashion.”

He grinned at the image. “What did the general do?”

“What could he do?” She spread her hands and laughed. “He was just a Yankee—not up to all Elma’s Southern charm. According to local historians, he sat down to dinner, enjoyed a few glasses of excellent vintage brandy, then left, loudly proclaiming the graciousness of Southern hospitality. Of course, the uncensored story passed down by one of Elma’s slaves is that he spent the night with Elma after she’d extracted his promise to furnish her with supplies and protection when Sherman reached Savannah.”

“Ah, not just an enterprising woman, but a practical one, too. And did the general keep his promise?”

“Well, Oleander’s still standing, so I guess he did. My estate manager, Ely, who’s a direct descendent of Elma’s favorite slave, still insists you can’t trust a Yankee as far you can throw him, but even he admits that the general must have been a gentleman.” She smiled at him, then lowered her gaze to her empty dessert plate.

“Do you all have a thing against Yankees?” he asked casually. “That could pose a problem.”

“Why?” she asked, frowning.

“My mother’s a Yankee. Good Irish stock from Pittsburgh. I believe her family, the Rileys, didn’t arrive until after the Civil War, but still, I wouldn’t want you to think I was hiding my origins from you,” he teased.

“It’s certainly a thought,” she responded, eyes filled with laughter as she leaned back. “But I guess the general paved the way for you by holding his promises. Also, if I remember rightly, you’re an aristocrat. As far as Southerners are concerned, that’s definitely a plus.”

“You relieve my mind, madam,” he said, taking her hand and raising it gallantly to his lips. “For a moment there I thought I’d cooked my goose.”

Her laugh sparkled as their eyes met for a fleeting moment before Elm withdrew her hand. “Okay, your turn,” she said quickly. “What makes you spend the better part of your time at your castle, I wonder?”

“Same thing that sends you scuttling off to your plantation, I should think,” he murmured with a challenging grin, eyes seeking hers. “The desire to flee the madding crowd. Plus, I love the place. It’s home, just like Oleander is for you.”

“You never thought of moving to Pittsburgh?” she countered.

“Uh, actually, no. I love the States but I’m an Irishman through and through. Give me Dublin any day. Anyway, I have a business to run in Ireland.”

“Really?”

“Graney is a stud farm. I breed Thoroughbreds.”

“A stud farm. That must require a lot of patience.”

“It does. And I must warn you not to get me going on the subject of horseflesh. My mother claims that I can become a dead bore.”

Elm laughed and as she did so, Johnny leaned back, sipped his brandy and relaxed. All in all, it was turning out to be a very agreeable dinner.

Elm grinned, enjoying the easy intimacy between them, so deliciously alien yet somehow also familiar. She was deeply intrigued by the reserve she sensed behind his relaxed manner. Gioconda had said something about having a long story to tell her when they had a moment. And she supposed he must have been married at some point, since he had a sixteen-year-old son.

“What about your ex-wife?” she asked suddenly. “Didn’t she like it at Graney?” The words were out before she could stop herself. Deeply embarrassed by her rude question, she cringed as his eyes shuttered and he carefully chose a cigar from the waiter, who happened to stop by the table at just that moment with a humidor.

“Do you mind?”

“Of course not, go ahead.” Elm wished the floor would open up and swallow her as the end of the cigar was carefully clipped off and lit. Perhaps she should just change the subject. How could she have been so gauche? It was none of her business what his ex-wife liked or didn’t like.

“I’ve never been to a place like your castle. I’ve visited quite a few English country houses, but that’s not the same, is it?” she remarked hastily.

“Very different,” he agreed blandly, fully concentrating on pulling on the cigar. “Actually, when Marie Ange was alive, we didn’t live there. We split our time between London and Paris.”

A rush of horrified realization made Elm look straight at him. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I—it was extremely bad manners of me, I—”

“Don’t. He reached across and laid a hand over hers. “How could you possibly have known? It was a natural conclusion to think I was divorced. You may remember Marie Ange. We met at Rosey. Anyway, it all happened a long time ago, so don’t feel bad.” He squeezed her hand.

Elm mustered a smile, still chiding herself. Then she glanced uneasily at the snifter the waiter had placed before her. It was foolish to accept an after-dinner drink, but she could use it after her faux pas.

“Now, tell me some more about your life in Savannah,” Johnny said, deftly redirecting the conversation. “I imagine a politician’s wife has an inordinate amount of duties to perform?” He quirked a brow and raised his glass.

She shrugged, thankful for the change of subject. “There are lots of political and social functions, but I try to limit my involvement where I can. I far prefer to work on my own projects. At present, I’m restoring the gardens at Oleander with the help of some residents from the local shelter for abused women.”

“That sounds very laudable.”

“Not at all. I hope I can help restore some harmony in their lives, that’s all.”

“I didn’t mean to sound condescending. I’m sure it’s a very worthwhile thing you’re doing for these women. And the gardens,” he added with a smile.

“Well, I discovered the original garden plans purely by accident while cleaning out the attic one day and that’s how the idea was born, thanks to a good friend of mine who runs the shelter. We both agreed it might be a wonderfully therapeutic experience for these women to be involved in the restoration project.”

“And what do you do with the rest of your time?”

“Oh, the rest of the time I paint.”

“What medium do you paint in?”

“Oils. I do some abstract, but mostly landscapes. The occasional portrait.”

“Do you exhibit?”

“Now and then. But organizing an exhibit is time-consuming. Somehow, other things always end up taking precedence.” She paused a moment, staring into the distance. Then she shrugged and gave him a rueful grin. “I’m not going to let that happen again. Let things get in the way, I mean. Indeed, Gioconda won’t let me. She’s been trying to persuade me to commit to an exhibit in Italy—I’m half afraid she’s going to lock me in a room with only my paint brushes until I cry uncle and allow her to organize the opening party for me in Florence.”

Johnny watched as she eyed the cognac, biting her lip as though deciding whether or not she should drink it. The gesture was so unintentionally erotic that he almost lost his focus.

“This meal was perfectly delicious,” she said, laying her napkin on the table. “You’ll have to roll me out of here if I’m not careful. I haven’t stopped eating since I arrived.” She glanced about the restaurant, seemingly enchanted by the atmosphere, the open fireplace, the low-beamed ceiling and the intimacy.

“That’s what Gstaad’s all about—relaxing, eating and having fun.”

“I guess you’re right,” she agreed. “I’d forgotten how people here in Europe know how to enjoy life.” Her huge chestnut eyes had taken on a wistful expression that gave her an air of vulnerability. She was a compelling and complex woman, he decided, with an intriguing layer of uncertainty beneath that well-bred confident exterior. She was also perceptive, he mused; she’d sensed his discomfort at discussing Marie Ange and had immediately tried to redirect the conversation. Usually he deeply resented personal questions, and yet he hadn’t minded Elm’s. For some reason he didn’t feel threatened—although part of him knew he should, for she was entirely capable of upsetting his well-ordered world.

He hadn’t come to Gstaad for a fling, but he felt a surprisingly strong sexual attraction to her, and he hoped that the subtle undercurrents he’d sensed signaled an equal interest on her part. The question was whether either of them was in a position to do anything about it. The prospect was both alluring and dangerous. He’d be willing to bet that if they acted on their impulses, they’d both be getting far more than they bargained for.

He watched as she took a fleeting look at her wrist. “Oh, dear. It’s almost eleven-thirty. Time’s flown. Maybe I’d better be getting back to Gioconda’s.”

“Already?” he asked, surprised at the regret he felt that the evening was coming to an end.

“It’s getting late.”

“Really? Gosh! I’m dreadfully sorry. I didn’t realize Gioconda had turned into such a stickler—an eleven o’clock curfew’s pretty strict.”

Elm laughed. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’m not good at this,” she admitted, pressing her long, smooth hands together again in an elegant yet nervous gesture. “It’s been a long time since I went out to dinner with anyone except my hus—ex—oh, God, when will I get this right? Soon-to-be ex-husband.”

“How long?” he asked softly.

“Well, let’s see.” She twiddled the snifter. “I married Harlan right out of college, so a long time. Twelve years, still more if you count the engagement.” She gave a nervous laugh and glanced quickly up as the waiter hovered solicitously, seeing if they needed anything.

Smiling, Johnny reached across the table and took her hand in his, casually turning her fingers. “I was thinking that perhaps we could either go to the Bellevue—probably meet up with some of our old pals.” He grimaced comically. “Or preferably we could go somewhere else on our own for a nightcap. That is, if Gioconda won’t get too worried about the lateness of the hour.”

“Oh, shut up,” she giggled, allowing his bronzed hand to stay put over hers,

“Well?” he prodded, “any thoughts on the matter?”

“Perhaps,” she murmured cautiously, and he wondered if she was conscious of his fingers lightly clasping hers.

“I’ve got a perfect compromise,” he said temptingly. “How about going to the Green Go at the Palace Hotel for old times’ sake?”

“You mean dance as if we’re teenagers again?”

“Hell, why not? Let’s go relive our youth.”

“Your youth, perhaps, not mine,” she chuckled. “I can assure you that we never danced together as teenagers—I expect I would have expired from the thrill.” She drew her hand away, pausing for a moment. He could read her hesitation, her doubt that this was all happening too fast, then sensed the moment when she was ready to take the plunge.

“Shall we?” he asked.

“Yes. Why not?”

Late that night, Elm curled under the duvet, her feet aching deliciously from hours of dancing, unable to wipe the silly grin from her face. Johnny was handsome, gallant and wonderful and not at all daunting. Still, all evening she’d been conscious of his strong masculine aura, the magnetic pull of his personality; all the things she’d imagined he would be when she’d scribbled her longings and dreams in her tattered high-school diary. It seemed so ridiculous, like a soppy novel, that he was turning out to be exactly the kind of man she’d imagined in her fevered schoolgirl dreams. She thought of the chaste kiss he’d dropped on her cheek as he brought her to Gioconda’s door, and realized wistfully that had she not married Harlan so young and for all the wrong reasons, she might have instead built a life with someone like Johnny.

She tucked her arms under the pillow, propped up her neck and stared at the silver moon piercing the crack in the curtains, picturing what people back in Savannah would say if they knew she’d danced the night away in the arms of an Irish viscount. She burst out laughing, imagining the shocked murmurs, the conjecturing gleam in the eyes of her peers, the rabid curiosity. It was liberating to realize she didn’t give a damn. In the past weeks her priorities had suddenly changed, and kowtowing to Savannah society, with its petty, restrictive rules, wasn’t even on the list.

Thinking of Savannah brought Harlan to mind, and she sighed heavily. Of course, the divorce wasn’t de facto yet. There would probably be some bitter battles up ahead, she acknowledged. Harlan wouldn’t easily relinquish all their marriage had brought him. For him, it had meant an entrée into a world that would otherwise have been far harder to broach. It wasn’t her that he’d wanted, she thought angrily, but rather everything that she represented. And if she hadn’t been so blind, so determined to maintain the fiction that her marriage was fine, she might have recognized sooner that, emotionally, it had been over for a while.

Had she ever really been in love with Harlan, or had she just fallen for his good looks and suave manner? Surely she’d felt true affection for him at the beginning? He’d been so charming and ambitious, had seemed so much like her father. Indeed, the two men had taken an instant liking to each other; they supported the same causes, and Harlan had flattered George Hathaway with assurances that he was the younger man’s role model. She’d known that by marrying Harlan, she’d be able to give her father the son he’d always wanted, one who could fulfill the ambitions he hadn’t believed his daughter could meet.

Of course, it hadn’t taken her long after the wedding to find out just how selfish Harlan could be, and to realize that his boyish good looks and suave manners were all part of the same facade he used with his electorate. And if you looked carefully enough you’d realize that his smile never reached his eyes.

Still, she’d spent a good part of her life at his side, and there had been some great times together. Moments of affection and intimacy that she still believed were real, especially before his political career took off and he’d begun to spend so much time in D.C. She sighed again. It was sobering to realize there just hadn’t been enough of those moments to make the marriage worth fighting for.

In fact, all that was left of her relationship with Harlan was the print on their marriage license, and soon that, too, would be gone; even now, Meredith was working on finalizing the details and paperwork for the divorce.

As for Harlan, it was undoubtedly the political ramifications of the divorce that would bother him most. Probably her father as well, she noted sadly. He didn’t know yet, and she would have to tell him soon, perhaps after Christmas. He had such high hopes for Harlan, she knew, feeling guilty for being the cause of such disruption and wondering if it was fair to do this to them when an election was around the corner. Harlan, for all his faults, was truly a brilliant politician, and had done a lot of good for the people of Georgia. Daddy was right. He had what it took.

Elm sighed and turned on her side, recognizing that there was never a right time and that she must go ahead, whatever the consequences. She’d spent a lifetime trying to please them all, trying to be the perfect daughter, wife and hostess—she would have tried mother, too, had life offered her the chance.

In a strange way, her evening out with Johnny tonight had helped clarify the issues for her. Her marriage was truly over, and she now had the freedom to make her own choices. It would be hypocritical to deny the riveting attraction she’d experienced tonight as Johnny had twirled her about the floor to the infectious beat of salsa, false to pretend she didn’t want to enjoy something more than Harlan’s selfish bursts of sex. The temptation of discovering what it felt like to be properly held in a man’s arms—a man who might actually think of her pleasure and happiness before his own—was devastatingly alluring. She swallowed, throbbing with anticipation, shocked to find her mind running ahead of itself when all they’d done was dine and dance together.

A smile touched her lips as she recalled the walk home afterward in the bitingly cold, starry night, arm in arm, sliding down the hill, catching each other on icy patches and laughing like kids. What if Johnny was right and, as he’d whispered when they’d parted, their paths had crossed again for a reason?

Elm sat straight up and tucked her knees under her chin, pulled the duvet closer and wondered what sort of a lover he would be. Generous? Giving? Tender? God, she was thirty-four years old and the only man she’d ever slept with was Harlan, her first real boyfriend. Still, she mustn’t let her naiveté run away with her. It was all very suave and sophisticated to have a passing fling with someone—if you were like Gio, that is, and that was the kind of world you moved in. But it wasn’t hers and somehow Elm wasn’t quite sure if she was ready for this yet.

With a yawn, she snuggled under the goose-down cover, half ashamed of her silly recurring schoolgirl fantasies as she recalled the feel of his arms about her as they’d swayed on the dance floor, the scent of his aftershave and the strange comfort it had afforded her. Maybe that was it. Maybe she was just seeking a comfort zone.

But Johnny was a gentleman and would never make a move without her consent, she realized. If she wanted something more than casual friendship, she’d have to signal that. What would he do, she wondered suddenly, if she let down her guard and was frank about her interest?

Realizing she would never get to sleep, Elm switched on the bedside lamp and popped a pill, still toying with the idea of crossed paths and destiny. Just before her eyes closed, she wondered about the consequences of flouting destiny.

Then she let out another sleepy yawn. There was no end to the justifications you could come up with if you really put your mind to it, she reasoned drowsily. The real truth, she acknowledged, eyes closing, was that even if she were bent on seducing Johnny, she wouldn’t have the first clue how to go about it.




9


She had a sensational body, Harlan reflected, letting his hand slide over Teresa’s voluptuous naked butt. And boy, could she move it. What a great piece of ass, he sighed happily. Now he understood why Tyler Brock had moved her into his Skidaway mansion so fast. She was as hot as chili pepper, even if she couldn’t speak a damn word of English. Anyway, who needed language to have good sex?

She stretched on the large bed like a cat, her dark hair brushing against his skin, and moaned in satisfaction. Turning her around, he lay back against the pillows and let her come down on him, her tongue playing havoc with his balls. Then she straddled him, and he let her guide him inside her, delighting in her damp heat, the way she rode him and the sensuous roll of her hips that caused all sorts of indescribable sensations. Closing his eyes, Harlan indulged himself. Then two delectable realizations hit simultaneously; that he was fucking a hot little whore in Elm’s very own bed, which was no more than she deserved for all the trouble she was causing, and that there was something wonderfully empowering about screwing a woman while Brock unknowingly picked up the tab. The combination made him come in a quick, hot spurt that left him incredibly satisfied.

Boy, Teresa was a good fuck. Best one he’d had in a while. And Brock couldn’t be taking care of business for her to be fucking like this off the record, he reflected smugly as he lay in the aftermath, the girl’s head on his shoulder. Brock might go on believing he was at the helm, that his donations to the campaign made Harlan subservient, willing to answer his beck and call. But he was wrong, Harlan concluded, a grin covering his face, damned wrong. Still, it served its purpose to have the man stay on his ego trip for now, at any rate. Once he was reelected and the funds were in, things might be different. Or they might not, he recognized ruefully. There would always have to be men like Brock around, until he was absolutely sure of his own power base. They were, after all, a necessary part of an up-and-coming politician’s entourage.

He sighed, then yawned and, giving Teresa’s butt a friendly slap, sat on the edge of the bed.

“Time to leave, baby.”

“Leave?” She frowned.

“Yeah, you know, bye-bye, adios. But not for long. I’ll call you on your mobile.” He pointed to her cell phone lying by the bed next to her handbag. “Sexo, muy bueno,” he added in his minimal Spanish, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively at her.

Teresa laughed, threw back her long black hair and flashed a row of perfect white teeth. “Muy bueno,” she agreed, arching her tits toward him provocatively.

“Oh no, hon, no more today,” he said, shaking his head sadly, then grinning. “Mañana.”

Teresa pouted and nodded and let her hand play with her breast, eyes holding his. For a moment he was tempted to fuck her again, but then thought better of it. It would mean he’d be late for the Historic Savannah Preservation Society dinner. Leaning over, he gave her nipples a quick pinch and a taunting lick. Then, straightening, he motioned to her to get dressed before moving toward the bathroom.

Hmm, he pondered, if it weren’t so damned inconvenient for other reasons, Elm’s absence was something he could definitely get used to.

The next morning Elm woke to a bright day peeking through the drapes, and the delicious smell of freshly baked croissants and strong Italian coffee floating up from the dining room. She stretched, realizing something was vaguely different this morning. Then she recalled the night before and smiled sleepily before jumping out of bed and pulling back the drapes. Sunlight burst into the room, settling in a puddle on the duvet. A knock on the door made her look up.

“Come in.” She turned, rubbed her tousled hair and smiled at Gioconda, who had popped her head around the door.

“Good morning, bella. Have a nice evening?” Gioconda glided into the room, already dressed in her sleek black-and-white Prada ski suit and a crimson sweater. “I’m joining a group on the glacier today. We’re going up in the chopper. I’ll be gone all day. So, tell me—” she sat down on the edge of the bed and studied an errant nail as Elm slipped on her dressing gown and slippers “—how was your dinner last night?”

“Great.”

Gioconda stretched out on the bed, long, lush and feline, and propped her chin thoughtfully in her hands, her mischievous eyes black as two ripe olives. She let out a husky low laugh. “Is that all, just great? From what I heard, you came in late enough.” She quirked a well-groomed brow.

“Umberto,” Elm said darkly. “Back to his old tricks, I see.”

“He’s worried about you being out late with a strange man. I told him Johnny wasn’t strange, that you’ve known him for twenty years. He felt happier about it.”

“Gee, thanks! Anything else you’d like to share with the class?”

“No, but before I leave I want to know what happened.” Gioconda sat up straight, glanced at her Chopard diamond watch and moved her hands impatiently.

“Nothing happened.”

“Nothing? Not one itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny kiss?” Her hands dropped in patent disappointment. “Madonna mia, I had a better opinion of Graney than that.”

“Gio, don’t be ridiculous. We had a nice, pleasant, civilized evening, that’s all. Stop trying to make this into something it’s not.” Elm tried to sound convincing. It was true, of course. It had been a delightful evening. But to deny the undercurrents would be to fool herself.

“Are you going to see him today?”

“He said he’d call.” Elm glanced at her friend doubtfully. “But perhaps it would be better if I didn’t see him, Gio. I don’t need problems right now. I’ve got enough to cope with already, and I didn’t intend to—”

“Ah!” Gioconda rose from the bed, triumphant. “So nothing happened, but you know very well that it could happen if you let it, right, cara?”

“Lordy, I don’t know.” Elm threw up her hands in despair. “It’s too early in the morning to be talking about all this. Can’t I at least have a cup of coffee?” she countered. But as they made their way down the wide staircase and approached the dining room, Elm came to a sudden halt on the last step. “You know what Aunt Frances would say about all this, don’t you?” she asked.

“No, tell me.”

“That Johnny Graney has trouble written all over him and that one should always avoid what’s bound to end up in tears.”

“Va bene, I’ll say no more.” Gio shrugged, cast her eyes heavenward and mumbled in Italian as she led Elm into the dining room and poured her a large caffe latte.

“It’s not that I don’t like him,” Elm continued, “I do. In fact he’s—well—terrific. I just think I should back off a bit,” she murmured after the first long sip, “before he gets any ideas, you know…” She threw her friend a pregnant look.

“I know exactly what you mean.” Gio wiggled her black brows expressively and laughed. “Loosen up, Elm, you’re on vacation. You came here for a break, to get away from that idiot paranoid husband of yours and have fun. Let this be a fresh start. A little flirtation can’t do you any harm. Quite the opposite, I should think. Now, instead of blushing like a Victorian virgin, you should be thinking when and where you’re going to get him into bed.”

“Gio! It’s not like that,” Elm exclaimed, setting the large blue-and-yellow china cup down in the saucer with a bang. “We’re just old schoolmates. I mean, he hasn’t even kissed me.”

“Who are you trying to fool, bella?”

“I…” Their eyes met, Gioconda’s filled with wicked understanding and laughter.

“Go for it, Elm. You’re young, beautiful, single—nearly—and it seems to me it’s about time you caught up with all you’ve missed while you catered to Harlan Machiavelli MacBride. Why, you’ve about as much idea of men as you had when you left school. And Dio, that wasn’t saying much,” she added with feeling. “Besides, I’d be willing to bet Harlan was selfish as hell in bed.”

“Really, Gio,” Elm sputtered. “I don’t think it’s appropriate to be discussing this over breakfast.” Somehow discussing her husband didn’t seem right, even if he was out of the picture.

“Really, cara? And when, exactly, do you consider it an appropriate time?” Gioconda asked, spreading her tapered, scarlet-nailed fingers on the table, eyes brimming with affection.

“Oh, I don’t know! Why don’t you go skiing and leave me be,” Elm complained. “If Harlan was, well, not the world’s most exciting lover—though as you’ve pointed out, I don’t have much room for comparison—I always thought it was well…okay.” She shrugged. “It could have been my fault, too, you know,” she ventured. “After all, it takes two to tango.”

“Oh no, you don’t!” Gioconda jumped up, hair flying. “You’re not going to take the blame again. No way, bella.” She wagged a finger firmly. “All these years I’ve heard you convince yourself that everything wrong in that marriage was your fault. I didn’t say anything at the time because it wasn’t my place. But now, basta. No more. You’ve got more guts than that. Elm, recognize the truth,” she implored. “Harlan used you, just as he uses everybody, for your money, your father’s position and anything else he thought he could suck out of you.”

“You’re right. Though I like to think that, at least at the beginning, we were…well, I guess ‘in love’ seems like a big statement after all that’s happened since, but—” She looked away, the years of criticism and self-doubt rolling before her. “Anyway, Johnny’s probably just out for a good time,” she remarked, fiddling with the edge of the tablecloth.

“Isn’t that what you’re out for, too? You’re both adults. Where’s the glitch?”

Elm smiled briefly. “I guess there isn’t one. I’m just not as worldly as you, Gio. I need to adjust. It seems kind of…I dunno.” She shrugged once more and downed some more coffee.

“Whatever.” Gioconda shook her head. “I have to go.” She blew Elm a kiss from the door. “Just don’t take forever making up your mind about Viscount Graney. It’s—” she glanced at her watch “—my God, already the twenty-second of December today, and the vacation will be over in a couple of weeks. If I was you, I’d make my mind up fast.” She winked. “And remember, men are only good to have fun with. Enjoy it while it lasts. No commitments, no until-death-do-us-parts, just plain old fun.”

“You make it sound like I just want a handsome lover.”

“Frankly, cara, I think a handsome lover—and from the reports I’ve heard, Johnny’s pretty remarkable in that department—is exactly what you need.”

“Reports?” Elm squeaked, suddenly uncomfortable. It made her feel cheap, another notch in a well-used belt.

“Oh, stop getting uptight.”

“But you said—”

“Niente, nothing to worry about—” Gioconda waved dismissively “—just things one hears along the grapevine.”

A car horn hooted outside and Gioconda grabbed her anorak from the chair. “I have to get this show on the road if I want to catch the chopper. Bye, bella, have another coffee and relax. And remember, you’re not in Savannah anymore, there’s no need to be looking over your shoulder wondering what people are thinking. It’s your life. Live it. Ciao.” She waved goodbye.

The phone rang just as Gioconda closed the door, and Elm could hear Umberto’s deep voice answering the call. Her heart beat faster as she wondered if it was Johnny.

Confirmation came thirty seconds later. “Buon giorno, signora, the telephone is for you.” Umberto handed her the portable phone with a little bow then disappeared into the kitchen. Elm managed to quiet her pulse, but couldn’t suppress the grin covering her face from ear to ear.

It was at lunch on the sunny terrace of the Sonnenhof—a gorgeous chalet atop a mountain above the village of Saanen with a cozy wood interior, low pine beams, a killer view and food to die for—that Elm realized just what a hypocrite she’d been that morning. For sitting across from him, slowly sipping her Kir Royal, she couldn’t stop her vivid imagination from picturing them together, preferably somewhere quiet and undressed. The thought was deliciously shocking.

Johnny had picked her up at ten sharp and they’d driven up to Shönried, then done several runs down the Horneggli before ending up, well exercised, at the Sonnenhof. They’d laughed a lot, she reflected with a satisfied little sigh. Perhaps their conversation wasn’t terribly profound—they certainly hadn’t dug into world politics, which, after Harlan, was just fine by her—but he was amusing, charming and easygoing. Being with him wasn’t a strain. She didn’t have to think of what to say or wonder if he thought she was stupid, as she so often did with Harlan’s supercilious Washington cronies and the pseudo-intellectual group he liked to have hanging around him, parroting his opinions. This was simple, and reminded her of who she really was. Gio and Meredith were right, she concluded, she’d become so focused on catering to Harlan’s every whim that she’d lost touch with herself.

They had just ordered when she saw two men approach the table. One was of medium height, sandy-haired, in his mid-thirties, and obviously American, the other a boy who could only, she decided, be Johnny’s son. They were like peas in a pod, she reflected, realizing with a stab of nostalgia that it was like seeing a replica of Johnny all those years ago.

“Elm, this is my brother Liam, and my son, Nicky.”

“Hi.” They shook hands.

“Mind if they join us?” Johnny asked.

“Of course not.” She moved over on the corner bench and smiled invitingly at Nicky, who eyed her warily then sat down. Liam and Johnny sat opposite.

“So, you’re from Georgia?” Liam inquired.

“Savannah.”

“Beautiful city.”

“Dad, can I order a Coke?”

“Of course.” Johnny hailed the waitress. “I guess you’ll be having your usual, guys?”

“Yep.” Liam leaned back and smiled. “Only decent steak you can get in this town. He brings the meat in from Argentina. That’s the trouble in Europe, you can’t get—”

“Did you ski with my dad?” Nicky asked her suddenly.

“Yes, we skied the Horneggli.”

“You must be good,” he conceded reluctantly. “Dad’s a pretty advanced skier.”

“And you?”

“I snowboard mostly. I’m on the Rosey team.”

“So was your father, if I remember rightly. The ski team, I mean.”

“You went to Rosey?” Nicky eyed her with new respect. “Bet that was a while ago, huh?”

Johnny met Elm’s eyes and they laughed. “It certainly doesn’t seem nearly twenty years, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t,” Elm agreed, determined to include Nicky in the conversation.

“My mother was at Rosey, too,” he said. Elm caught the edge of defiance in his tone.

“I know. I remember her. She was very beautiful and had great grades. She won the prize for drama, I recall.” She noticed the quick look exchanged between Liam and Johnny. Something wasn’t right. There was an uneasy undercurrent when Marie Ange was mentioned. She could almost feel the tension coursing between Johnny and his son.

Liam was studying his cell phone. He sent her an apologetic glance. “Just need to check some stock prices. Haven’t had time this morning. This vacation has put everything on hold.”

“Uncle Liam, get a life,” Nicky exclaimed.

“Nicky’s right,” Johnny said. “Leave that damn phone at home, Liam, and enjoy yourself. Elm, we have this major family problem here.” Johnny leaned toward her, laughing. “Liam never has time for anything except work. We’re trying to convert him—unsuccessfully, I might add—to pleasure.”

The lunch proved to be deliciously entertaining. Elm enjoyed the interaction between the brothers, amused at how different they were, the one so dark, Irish and aristocratic, the other a strong-willed workaholic American businessman. And Nicky. He was sweet and bright and sulky and all the things she imagined an adolescent would be.

They left the restaurant ready to hit the slopes, although after a huge steak à l’ ardoisek, a couple of Kir Royals and two bottles of delectable local Swiss wine, Elm was amazed any of them could even move. Nicky challenged her to a run and by the end of the afternoon they’d become fast friends. She made him promise to show her some of his snowboarding moves before she left for the States. By the time Johnny dropped her off at Gioconda’s chalet, she was wonderfully tired and ready for a hot bath.

“It was a delightful day, thank you. Your brother and son are great.”

“How about tonight?” He leaned back against the car door and eyed her thoughtfully.

“I think I’ll take a rain check. I’m pretty beat and I have some calls to make to the States.” It was ridiculous, of course, to refuse his invitation when she’d like nothing more than to accept, but she needed to catch her breath, to assess just where she intended to go with all this. A quiet evening seemed like just the thing.

“You’re sure I can’t persuade you? We could go to the movies, if you don’t want to be late. I could see what’s on and call you,” he said, his smile deliciously persuasive.

“Well, I…look, why don’t we have a rest and then see in a little while,” she countered, dying to accept, but not wanting to give in too fast. Oh God, this was all so difficult. She could feel him drawing her like a magnet. She had never felt anything quite so strong, so intense or alluring. If she’d read about it in a book she would have thought it was nonsense.

But it wasn’t.

She reached for the car door. “Thanks for a wonderful day. It’s been truly great. And I’m still reeling from lunch.”

Johnny jumped out of the Range Rover and, removing her skis from the back, came round and helped her out. Then he walked her slowly to the chalet.

“Well, perhaps dinner tomorrow, then,” he said regretfully. “I’ll give you a call.”




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