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Once in Paris
Diana Palmer
It was in Paris she first saw him. He was tall, handsome–utterly dangerous. Inexplicably drawn to him, Brianne Martin pulled a grief-stricken Pierce Hutton back from the depths of despair. He was forever grateful, but he drew the line at seducing a woman half his age.It was in Paris she fell in love. Although Pierce was strictly off-limits, Brianne couldn't imagine surrendering her innocence to anyone but him. Certainly not to her stepfather's corrupt business associate. Obsessed with Brianne since their first meeting, this man would stop at nothing in his relentless pursuit of her, including masterminding a marriage to merge their powerful families. All seemed lost, until Pierce passionately saved Brianne's life…as she'd once saved his.



She felt the warmth of his body at her back…
“I’ve been trying to forget Paris,” Pierce said after a minute.
“You and Humphrey Bogart?” Brianne replied dryly.
“What? Oh. Oh!” He chuckled, then his eyes narrowed. “Local gossip says that there’s a move to involve you with your stepfather’s brand-new business partner, a sort of family merger.”
She lost all color, but she didn’t blink an eyelash. “Really?”
“Don’t prevaricate,” he said impatiently. “I know everything that goes on in this town.”
“I can take care of myself.” She straightened her shoulders.
“At nineteen?”
“Twenty,” she corrected. “I had a birthday last week.”
He made a rough sound. “Honey, you’re fighting city hall when you tangle with your stepfather, much less with his shady partners.”
“Something you know from experience?”
He smiled at Brianne. “I didn’t say I couldn’t win. I said you couldn’t.”

“Nobody tops Diana Palmer…I love her stories.”
—Jayne Ann Krentz

Once in Paris
Diana Palmer


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To all the wonderful people at MIRA Books,
with love.

Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen

Chapter One
A woman in red, very blond and chic, stood before the Mona Lisa with a much taller, dark man and made a sharp comment in French. The man laughed. They seemed inclined to linger, but there was a very long line of tourists impatient to see the da Vinci masterpiece in the Louvre, and very vocal about having to wait so long for their turn. One of the visitors had a flash camera aimed at the timeless masterpiece, which had been placed behind layers of bulletproof glass, until a guard spotted him.
Brianne Martin, from her vantage point on a nearby bench, found the visitors as interesting as the works of art. In her shorts and tank top, with her green eyes sparkling, her blond hair in a French braid and a backpack slung over one thin shoulder, she looked what she was—a student. She was almost nineteen, a pupil at an exclusive girls’ school on the Left Bank in Paris. She didn’t mix well with most of the other students, because her background was not one of wealth and power.
She came from middle-class parents, and only her mother’s second marriage to international oil magnate Kurt Brauer had given Brianne the opportunity to sample this luxurious lifestyle. Not that it was by choice. Kurt Brauer didn’t like his stepdaughter, and now that his new wife Eve was pregnant, he wanted Brianne out of the way. A boarding school in Paris seemed the ideal choice.
It had hurt that her mother hadn’t protested.
“You’ll enjoy it, dear,” Eve had said hopefully, smiling. “And you’ll have plenty of money to spend, won’t that be a change? Your father never made more than minimum wage. He really had no inclination to better himself.”
Comments like that made the strained relationship between Brianne and her petite, blond mother worse. Eve was a sweet but selfish creature, always with an eye to the main chance. She’d gone after Brauer like a soldier on campaign, complete with frilly battle plan. To Brianne’s astonishment, her mother was married and pregnant within five months of her adored father’s death. From their nice but small apartment in Atlanta, the Martin women had been transplanted to a villa in Nassau.
Kurt Brauer was wealthy, although Brianne had never been able to discover the exact source of his wealth. He seemed to be involved in oil exploration, but strange, dangerous-looking men came and went at the Nassau office he infrequently occupied. He had a home in Nassau and beach houses in Barcelona and on the Riviera, and a yacht to sail between them. Chauffeur-driven limousines and meals that cost three figures were commonplace to him. Eve was in her element, rich for the first time in her life. Brianne was miserable. Very quickly Kurt sized her up as a threat and got her out of the way.
She looked around the Louvre with great interest, as always. It had been her favorite haunt since she’d arrived in Paris, and she was in love with the old converted palace. It had only just gone through a major renovation. Although some of the changes were not to her liking—especially those gigantic modern-looking pyramids—she loved the exhibits, and she was young enough not to mind showing her enthusiasm for new places and experiences. What she lacked in sophistication she made up for with spirited enjoyment.
A man caught her eye. He was staring at one of the Italian paintings, but not with much enthusiasm. In fact, he didn’t seem to see it. His eyes were dark and quiet and his face was heavily lined, as if he were in pain.
There was something very familiar about him. He had thick, dark wavy hair with threads of silver in it. He was a big man, broad in the shoulders and narrow-hipped. She noticed that he was holding a cigar in one hand, even though it wasn’t lit. Perhaps he knew better than to smoke in here with all these exquisite treasures but couldn’t do without something in his hand. She often picked at her fingernails, sometimes tearing them off at the quick when she was upset. Maybe the cigar kept him from biting his nails.
The thought amused her and she smiled. He looked very prosperous. He was wearing a cream-striped sport coat with white slacks and a beige shirt. No tie. He had a thin gold watch on his right wrist and a wedding ring on his left ring finger. He was holding the cigar in his left hand, so presumably he was left-handed.
He turned, and she got a glimpse of a broad, darkly tanned face. His mouth was firm and thin and wide, and his nose had a crook in it. There was a faint cleft in his chin. He had heavy dark eyebrows over large black eyes. He looked fascinating. He also looked familiar. She couldn’t quite remember…oh, yes. Her stepfather had given a party after the wedding for some business associates, and this man had been there. He was something big in construction. Hutton. That was it. L. Pierce Hutton. He headed up Hutton Construction Corporation, which specialized in building transatlantic oil drilling platforms and also high-rise, high-tech buildings. He was an architect of some note, especially in ecological circles, and conservative politicians didn’t like him because he opposed slipshod conservation methods. Yes. She remembered him. His wife had just died. That was three months ago, but he didn’t look as if he’d done much healing.
She approached him, drawn by the look of him. He was still staring at the painting as if he’d like to set a match to it.
“It’s very famous. Don’t you like it?” she asked at his side, fascinated by his height. She only came to his shoulder, and she was fairly tall.
He looked down at her with narrow, cold eyes. “Je ne parle pas anglais,” he said in a voice that chilled.
“Yes, you do speak English,” she countered. “You don’t remember me, I know, but you were at the reception when my mother married Kurt Brauer in Nassau.”
“My condolences to your mother,” he said in English. “What do you want?”
Her pale green eyes searched his dark ones. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry about your wife. Nobody even mentioned her at the reception. I suppose they were afraid. People are, aren’t they, when you lose someone. They try to pretend it hasn’t happened or they get red in the face and mutter something under their breath. That’s how it was when my father died,” she recalled somberly. “I only wanted someone to put their arms around me and let me cry.” She managed a smile. “That never occurs to most people, I guess.”
He hadn’t thawed a bit. His eyes swept over her face and lingered on her straight, freckled nose. “What are you doing in France? Is Brauer working out of Paris now?”
She shook her head. “My mother’s pregnant,” she said. “I’m in the way, so they sent me over here to school.”
His eyebrows jerked together. “Then why aren’t you in it?”
She made a face. “I’m cutting home economics. I don’t want to learn how to sew and make pillows. I want to learn how to do accounts and balance spreadsheets.”
He made a sound in his throat. “At your age?”
“I’m almost nineteen,” she informed him. “I’m great in math. I make straight A’s.” She grinned at him. “Someday I’ll come and pester you for a job, when I get my degree. I swear, I’m going to escape from this ruffled prison one day and get into university.”
He actually smiled, even if it was reluctantly. “Then I wish you luck.”
She glanced down the way toward the Mona Lisa, where the line was still just as long, and the murmurs were louder and gruffer. “They’re all impatient to see it, and then they’re shocked that it’s so small and behind so much glass,” she confided. “I’ve been eavesdropping. They all expect to see some huge painting. I imagine they’re disappointed to have waited so long in line, and not to find it covering a whole wall.”
“Life is full of disappointments.”
She turned back to him and searched his eyes. “I’m really sorry about your wife, Mr. Hutton. They said you were married for ten years and devoted to each other. It must be hell.”
He closed up like a sensitive plant. “I don’t talk about private things—”
“Yes, I know,” she interrupted. “It needs time, that’s all. But you shouldn’t be alone. She wouldn’t want that.”
His jaw twitched, as if he was exercising a lot of restraint to keep his expression under control. “Miss…?”
“Martin. Brianne Martin.”
“You’ll find as you get older that it’s best not to be so outspoken with strangers,” he continued.
“I know. I always rush in where angels fear to tread.” Her pale eyes were smiling gently as she looked up at him. “You’re a strong man. You must be, to have accomplished so much in life already, when you’re not even forty yet. Everybody has bad times, and dark places. But there’s always a little light, even at midnight.” She held up a hand when he started to speak again. “I won’t say another word. Do you think he’s exactly in proportion?” she wondered, nodding toward the explicit painting of a man and a woman that he’d been looking through. “He seems a bit, well, stunted, don’t you think, for his size? And she’s exaggerated, but then, the artist was something of a connoisseur of plump nudes.” She let out a long sigh. “What I wouldn’t give to have her attributes,” she added. “I’m going to be two walnuts for the rest of my life.” She checked her watch, unaware of his start and the strange, reluctant smile that touched his eyes. “Gosh, I’ll be late for math class, and that’s the one I don’t want to cut! Goodbye, Mr. Hutton!”
She ran toward the steps that led down to street level without looking back, her braid flying like her long, thin legs. She was gangly and inelegant. But Hutton had found her a delightful diversion.
She’d thought he was displeased with the painting. He laughed shortly as his eyes fell to the cigar, unlit, in his left hand. He hadn’t come here to look at paintings, but to consider a plunge into the Seine after dark. Margo was gone and he’d tried and tried, but he couldn’t face the future without her. He wouldn’t see her blue eyes light up with laughter, hear her soft, French-accented voice as she teased him about his work. He wouldn’t feel her soft body writhing in ecstasy under his in the darkness of their bedroom, hear her pleas, feel her nails biting hungrily into his body as he brought her to fulfillment again and again.
He felt tears sting his eyes and blinked them away. There was a hole in his heart. Nobody had dared approach him since her funeral. He forbade the mention of her name in the quiet, empty mansion in Nassau. At the office, he was tireless, ruthless. They understood. But he was so alone. He had no family, no children, to console him. The greatest pain of all had been Margo’s inability to conceive after her tragic miscarriage. It didn’t matter. It had never mattered. Margo was everything to him, and he to her. Children would have been wonderful, but they weren’t an obsession. He and Margo had lived life to the fullest, always together, always in love, right until the very end. By her bedside, as she wasted away to a pale white skeleton before his anguished eyes, Margo had thought always of him. Was he eating properly, was he getting enough sleep? She even thought of the time afterward, when she wouldn’t be there to take care of him.
“You never wear a coat when it snows,” she complained weakly, “or use an umbrella in the rain. You don’t change your socks when they get wet. I worry so, mon cher. You must take care of yourself, tu comprends?”
And he’d promised, and wept, and she’d cradled him on her thin breasts and held him while he cried, unashamedly, there in the bedroom they’d shared.
“God!” he cried aloud as the memories rushed at him.
A couple of tourists glanced at him warily, and as if he’d only become aware of where he was, he shook his head as if to clear it, turned and walked down the steps and out into the hot Paris sunshine.
The routine sounds of traffic and horns and conversation restored him to some sense of normality. The noise and pollution in downtown Paris had made a high-strung population even more nervous, but the noise didn’t bother him. He clenched his big fist in his pocket, then relaxed and searched for a lighter. He took it out, looked at it there on the stone steps that led to the sidewalk. Margo had given it to him on their tenth wedding anniversary. It was gold-cased, inscribed with his initials. He carried it always. His thumb smoothed over it and the pain hit him right in the heart.
He lit the cigar, puffed on it, felt the smoke choking him for an instant, and then calming him. He took a breath and looked around at the glut of tourists on their way into the Louvre. Having holiday fun, he thought, glaring at them. He was hurting right down to his toes, and they were all smiles and laughter.
He thought then of the girl, Brianne, and what she’d said to him. How odd, to have a total stranger come up out of nowhere and lecture him on the healing of his broken heart. He smiled despite his irritation. She was a nice child. He should have been less curt to her. He remembered that her mother had married Brauer and become pregnant. Brianne had mentioned the painful loss of her father and her mother’s immediate remarriage and pregnancy. She’d know about pain, all right. She was in the way, she’d said, so they’d sent her over here. He shook his head. It seemed that everyone had problems of some sort. But that was life. He glanced at the Rolex on his wrist with a rueful smile. He had a meeting with some cabinet ministers in thirty minutes, and in the maddening traffic through the city at this hour he’d be lucky if he was only thirty minutes overdue. He walked to the curb and hailed a cab, resigned to being late.

Brianne sneaked into the building and into her math classroom, grimacing as haughty Emily Jarvis spotted her and began to whisper to her friends. Emily was one of the enemies she’d made in the little time she’d been at this exclusive finishing school. At least there was only another month to go, and she could be sent somewhere else. To college, hopefully. But for now she had to bear this la-di-da finishing school and the highbrow snobbery of Emily and her friends.
She opened her math book and listened to Madame lecture them on advanced algebra. At least this course was fulfilling. And she understood equations, even if she didn’t understand meticulous sewing.
After class Emily paused in the hall with her two cohorts flanking her. Emily was from a titled British family that could trace its heritage all the way back to the Tudor court. She was blond and beautiful and wore the most expensive clothes. But she had a mouth like a gutter, and she was the coldest human being Brianne had ever known.
“You skipped class. I told Madame Dubonne,” she added with a venomous smile.
“Oh, that’s okay, Emily,” she replied with an equally sweet smile. “I told her what you’ve been doing with Dr. Mordeau behind the Chinese screen in art class on Tuesday after class.”
Emily’s shocked face drew in, but before she could reply, Brianne flashed her a gamine grin and skipped off down the hall. It always seemed to amaze other students that although Brianne looked fragile, almost vulnerable, that look concealed a strong and stubborn spirit and a formidable temper. Students who thought they could pick on Brianne were soon dispossessed of the notion. She hadn’t been lying about what she’d said to Madame Dubonne, either. Emily’s careless assignation with the school’s art professor, Dr. Mordeau, had been overheard by several students, all of whom were disgusted by the couple’s lack of discretion. Anyone walking into the studio would have heard what they were doing, even without their silhouettes so visible behind the flimsy screen.
Later that day, Dr. Mordeau went on extended sick leave and Emily wasn’t in class the next morning. One of the girls had seen her leave in a chauffeured limousine, suitcases and all, just after breakfast.
After that, school became less of a trial to Brianne, as Emily’s former cronies realized their reduced status in the student body and behaved accordingly. Brianne became close friends with a copper-haired girl named Cara Harvey, who was just eighteen, and they spent their free time going to art galleries and museums, of which Paris had more than its share. Brianne wouldn’t admit that she’d hoped to find Pierce Hutton at any of them, but she did. The big man fascinated her. He seemed so alone. She’d never felt quite that level of empathy for anyone before. It was a little surprising, but she didn’t question it. Not then.

The day of her nineteenth birthday, she went alone to the Louvre in late afternoon to look at the painting she’d found Pierce Hutton staring at. Except for a card from Cara, her birthday had gone by without any notice at all from others. Her mother had ignored it, as she usually did. Her father would have sent roses or a present, but he was dead. She couldn’t remember a birthday that was so empty.
The Louvre for once failed to lift her drooping spirits. She whirled, making the skirt of her ankle-length slip dress flare out. It had a pale green pattern that made her eyes look bigger, and with it she wore a simple white cotton T-shirt and flat slippers. She wore a fanny pack instead of carrying a purse, because it was ever so much more comfortable, and her hair was loose, long, blond, straight and thick. She tossed it impatiently. She’d have loved curly hair, like some of the other girls had. Hers was impossible to curl. It just fell to her waist like a curtain and hung there. She really should have it cut.
It was getting dark and soon she’d have to go back to school. She’d splurge on a cab, she decided, although she wasn’t the least afraid of Paris after dark. As she scanned the street, looking for a cab, a small bistro caught her eye. She wanted something to drink. Perhaps she could get a small glass of wine. That would make her feel properly an adult.
She walked into the dark, crowded interior and realized at once that it was more a bar than a bistro, and very exclusive. She didn’t have much money in her fanny pack, and this environment looked beyond her pocket. With a faint grimace, she turned to go, when a big hand came out of nowhere and shackled her wrist.
She gasped as she looked up into black eyes that narrowed at her start of surprise.
“Chickening out?” he asked. “Aren’t you old enough to drink yet?”
It was L. Pierce Hutton. His voice was deep and crisp, but just a little slurred. A wave of his thick black hair had fallen onto his broad forehead and he was breathing unevenly.
“I’m nineteen today,” she faltered.
“Great. You can be my designated driver. Come on.”
“But I don’t have a car,” she protested.
“Neither do I, come to think of it. Well, in that case, we don’t need a designated driver.”
He led her to a corner table where a square whiskey bottle, half full, sat beside a squat little glass and a taller one with what looked like soda in it. There was a bottle of seltzer beside them and an ashtray where a thick cigar lay smoking.
“I guess you hate cigar smoke,” he muttered as he managed to get into the booth without falling across the table. Obviously he’d been there for a while.
“I don’t hate it outdoors,” she said. “But it bothers my lungs. I had pneumonia in the winter. I’m still not quite back to normal.”
“Neither am I,” he said on a heavy breath. He put out the cigar. “I’m not anywhere near back to normal inside. It’s supposed to get better, didn’t you say that? Well, you’re a damned liar, girl. It doesn’t get better. It grows like a cancer in my heart. I miss her.” His face contorted. He clenched his fists together on the table. “Oh, dear God, I miss her so!”
She slid close to him. They were in a secluded corner, not visible to the other patrons. She reached up and put her arms around him. It didn’t even take much coaxing. In a second, his big arms encircled her slender warmth and crushed it to his chest. His face buried itself hotly in her neck, and his big hands contracted at her shoulder blades. She felt him shudder, felt the wetness of his eyes against her throat. She rocked him as best she could, because he was huge, all the while murmuring soothing nothings in his ear, crooning to him, whispering that everything would be all right, that he was safe.
When she felt him relax, she began to feel uncomfortable and a little embarrassed. He might not appreciate having let her see him so vulnerable.
But apparently he didn’t mind. He lifted his head with a rough sound and propped his big hands on her shoulders, looking at her from unashamedly wet eyes.
“You’re shocked? American, aren’t you, and men don’t cry in America. They bury their feelings behind some macho facade and never give way to emotion.” He laughed as he dashed away the wetness. “Well, I’m Greek. At least, my father was. My mother was French and I have an Argentinian grandmother. I have a Latin temperament and emotion doesn’t embarrass me. I laugh when I’m happy, I cry when I’m sad.”
She reached into her pocket and drew out a tissue. She smiled as she wiped his eyes. “So do I,” she said. “I like your eyes. They’re very, very dark.”
“My father’s were, and so were my grandfather’s. He owned oil tankers.” He leaned closer. “I sold them all and bought bulldozers and cranes.”
She laughed. “Don’t you like oil tankers?”
He shrugged. “I don’t like oil spills. So I build oil drilling platforms and make sure they’re built properly, so they don’t leak.” He picked up his glass and took a long sip. As an afterthought, he passed it to her. “Try it. It’s good Scotch whiskey, imported from Edinburgh. It’s very smooth, and it has enough soda to dilute it.”
She hesitated. “I’ve never had hard liquor,” she confessed.
“There’s a first time for everything,” he told her.
She shrugged. “Okay, then, bottoms up.” She took a big sip and swallowed it and sat like a statue with her eyes bulging as the impact almost choked her. She let out a harsh breath and gaped into the glass. “Good heavens, rocket fuel!”
“Sacrilege!” he chided. “Child, that’s expensive stuff!”
“I’m not a child, I’m nineteen,” she informed him. She took another sip. “Say, this isn’t so bad.”
He took it away from her. “That’s enough. I’m not going to be accused of seducing minors.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Oh, would you, please?” she asked brightly. “I’ve never, you see, and I’ve always wondered what makes women take off their clothes for men. Looking at statues in the Louvre isn’t really the best method of sex education, and just between us, Madame Dubonne seems to feel that babies are brought by seabirds with big beaks.”
His own eyebrows rose. “You’re outrageous.”
“I hope so. I’ve worked hard enough to get that way.” She searched his dark face quietly. “Feeling better?”
He shrugged. “Somewhat. I’m not drunk enough, but I’m numb.”
She put her fingers over his big hand. It was warm and muscular, and there were thick black hairs curling into the cuff of his long-sleeved white shirt. His fingernails were wide and flat and immaculately cleaned and trimmed. She touched them, fascinated.
He looked down, studying her own long, elegant fingers with short nails. “No paint,” he mused. “How about on your toenails?”
She shook her head. “My feet are too stubby to be elegant. I have useful hands and feet, not pretty ones.”
His hand turned over and caught hers. “Thank you,” he said abruptly, as if it irritated him to speak the words.
She knew what he meant. She smiled. “Sometimes all we need is a little comfort. You’re no weakling. You’re a tough guy, you’ll get through it.”
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Certainly,” she said firmly. “Shouldn’t you go home now?” she asked, glancing around. “There’s a very slinky-looking woman over there with platinum hair out of a bottle giving you the eye. She looks like she’d just love to lead you home and make love to you and steal your wallet.”
He leaned toward her. “I can’t make love,” he said confidentially. “I’m too drunk.”
“She wouldn’t care, I think.”
He smiled lazily. “Would you?” he mused. “Suppose you come home with me, and we’ll give it my best shot.”
“Oh, not when you’re soused, thanks,” she replied. “My first time is going to be fireworks and explosions and the 1812 Overture. How could I possibly get that from a drunk man?”
He threw his head back and burst out laughing. He had a nice laugh, deep and slow and robust. She wondered if he did everything as wholeheartedly as he grieved.
“Take me home, anyway,” he said after the laughter passed. “I’m safe enough with you.” He hesitated after he’d laid the bills on the table. “But you can’t seduce me, either.”
She put her hand on her heart. “I promise.”
“All right, then.” He stood up, weaving a little, and frowned. “I don’t even remember coming here. Good God, I think I walked out in the middle of negotiations for a new hotel!”
“They’ll still be going on when you get back,” she chuckled. “Heave ho, Mr. Hutton. Let’s find a cab.”

Chapter Two
Pierce Hutton lived in one of the newest, most exclusive hotels in Paris. He fished out his key for her as they passed the doorman, who looked suspicious. So did the desk clerk, who approached them at the elevator.
“Something is wrong, Monsieur Hutton?” he asked pointedly.
“Yes, Henri. I’m very drunk,” he replied unsteadily. His big arm tightened around Brianne. “Do you know my business associate’s daughter, Brianne? She’s in school in Paris. She found me at Chez Georges and brought me home.” He grinned. “She saved me from a femme du nuit who had her eye on my wallet.”
“Ah,” Henri said, nodding. He smiled at Brianne. “Do you require assistance, mademoiselle?”
“He’s rather heavy, but I think I can cope. Will you check on him later, just to make sure?” she added with genuine concern.
The last of Henri’s misgivings evaporated. “It will be my pleasure.”
She smiled shyly. “Merci beaucoup. And please don’t reply with more than il n’ya pas de quoi,” she added quickly, “because that’s the entire extent of my French vocabulary, despite Madame Dubonne’s most diligent efforts.”
“You are at La Belle Ecole?” he exclaimed. “Why, my cousin is there.” He named a girl whom Brianne knew just faintly.
“She has black hair,” Brianne recalled. “And she always wears a long sweater, however hot it is,” she added with a chuckle.
“Oui,” Henri said, shaking his head. “The enfant is always cold. Here, let me help you, mademoiselle,” he said, and assisted them to the elevator.
Henri helped them into the elevator, which was fortunately empty except for the operator, and instructed the man in rapid French to get Monsieur Hutton into his apartment.
“He will assist you,” he assured Brianne. “And we will take excellent care of monsieur,” he added gently.
She grinned at him. “Then I won’t worry.”
He nodded, thinking what a kind young woman she seemed. And such glorious blond hair!
She rode up in the elevator with Pierce and the operator, who helped her get him to the apartment, which she unlocked with his key. They maneuvered him into the huge bedroom, done in a black-and-white color scheme that seemed to suit him. The bed was king-size, with four posts that rose like slender wraiths toward the ceiling. They lowered him onto it, and he opened his eyes as he stretched on the black coverlet.
“I feel odd,” he murmured.
“I don’t doubt it,” Brianne mused, thanking the elevator operator, who smiled at her and closed the door behind him.
Pierce’s black eyes searched over Brianne’s flushed face. “Feel like helping me undress?” he asked.
She colored even more. “Well…”
“There’s a first time for everything,” he reminded her.
She hesitated. He wasn’t in any condition to do it himself. He was very drunk. Probably he wouldn’t remember what she looked like in the morning.
She untied his shoes and pulled them off, and his socks with them. He had nice feet. They were long and elegant, and very big. She smiled as she walked around the bed and eased him up into a sitting position. She took off the jacket and then unbuttoned the shirt. He smelled of expensive soap and cologne, and under that shirt was a broad, dark-skinned chest with thick black hair covering it. She touched it accidentally and her hand tingled.
“Margo was a virgin,” he said softly. “I had to coax her out of her clothes, and even though she loved me desperately, she fought me at first, because I had to hurt her.” He touched Brianne’s red face gently. “I don’t suppose there are any virgins left these days. Margo and I were always the odd ones out. Very traditional. I didn’t make love to her until we were married.”
“Can you move your arm…? Yes, that’s fine.” She didn’t want to hear this, but she was a captive audience. She pulled the shirt off and had to fight not to admire the tanned, muscular arms and chest. He didn’t look like a man who spent a lot of time behind a desk.
“You’re only nineteen,” he said on a rough breath. “If you were older, I think I could make love to you. You’re very pretty, little one. Your hair excites me. It’s so long, and there’s so much of it.” He took it in both hands and closed his fingers. “Sexy hair.”
“Yours is nice, too,” she said for the sake of conversation. “Now, I don’t think I can…” she added, her hands hesitating at his belt.
“Of course you can,” he said quietly. He coaxed her hands to the belt and held them there, helping her, his eyes on her face as she fumbled the buckle loose. He guided her to the fastenings and then deliberately placed her hands under both waistbands. “Now, pull,” he coaxed. And he arched his back to help her.
A hundred shocked, outraged, delighted thoughts flooded her mind as the clothing came away from that lithe, powerful body. He was nothing like the painting in the Louvre. He was beautifully made, a work of art in himself, with not a white streak or a bulge or a hint of fat anywhere. Fine hair shaded the most intimate part of him, and she hesitated with the slacks around his knees, with her heart beating her to death as she stared helplessly at where he was most a man.
It was a good thing, he thought dimly, that he was drunk, because her rapt expression would have triggered a raging arousal any other time. As it happened, he was too relaxed to feel desire at all, and for her sake, he was glad. She found him intimidating even in relaxation. He permitted himself a small upturn of the lips as he considered her expression if she saw him in full arousal.
That, of course, would never happen. Margo was dead. He was dead, inside and out. The brief amused light in his eyes went out. He lay back on the pillows with a long sigh.
“Why do people have to die?” he asked wearily. “Why can’t they go on forever?”
She broke out of her trance and finished stripping him, before she tugged the coverlet over his hips to spare herself any more embarrassment.
“I wish I knew,” she confided. She sat down beside him on the bed. Her hand went to rest on his where it spread over his chest. “Try to get some sleep now. It’s the best thing for you.”
His eyes opened, searching, haunted. “She was only thirty-five,” he said. “That’s no age at all these days.”
“I know.”
His hand turned and caught hers, smoothing it palm down into the thick hair that covered him. “White knights come in both sexes, it seems,” he mused drowsily. “Where’s your armor and lance, fair Joan?”
“In my pocket. Want to see?”
He smiled. “You’re good for me. You chase the clouds away.” He studied her. “But I’m bad for you. A very bad influence.”
“It was only a sip of whiskey,” she reminded him.
“And a striptease,” he added blithely. “I’m sorry about that. If I’d been more sober, I wouldn’t have put you in such an embarrassing situation.”
“Oh, it wasn’t so bad. I’d seen that painting in the Louvre, among others, after all.” She cleared her throat. “He really was, uh, stunted, wasn’t he?”
He chuckled with pure delight.
“Sorry.” She pulled her hand away and got to her feet. “Can I bring you anything before I go?”
He shook his head. It was already beginning to hurt, despite the stupor. “I’ll be all right now. You’d better get back to school. Did you get in trouble for cutting that class?”
She chuckled. “Not a bit. I’ll finish next month.”
“Then where do you go?”
She looked forlorn for an instant before she disguised it. “Oh, back to Nassau, I guess, for the summer. But next fall, it’s university, whatever they say, even if I have to pay for it myself. I’m already a year behind the class I should be in. I’m not waiting any longer.”
“I’ll pay for it if they won’t,” he said, surprisingly. “You can pay me back when you have your degree.”
“You would…do that for a total stranger?”
He frowned slightly. “Total stranger?” he asked pointedly. “When you’ve seen me totally nude?”
She couldn’t manage a response.
“Which is something of an accomplishment, let me tell you. Until now, Margo was the only woman who ever saw me like that.” His eyes became dull again. He winced.
She put her fingers against his cheek in a comforting gesture. “I envy her,” she said genuinely. “It must have meant everything to her, to be loved like that.”
“It was mutual,” he managed to say through his teeth.
“Yes, I know.” She drew her hand away with a little sigh. “I’m sorry I can’t stop it from hurting so much.”
“You can’t imagine how much you’ve helped,” he replied solemnly. “The day I was in the Louvre I was looking for a way to get to her, did you know?”
She shook her head. “I only knew that you seemed totally alone and despondent.”
“I was. You eased the pain. Today, it came back, and you were there.” He searched her pale eyes. “I won’t forget that you pulled me back from the edge. Whatever you need, I’ll be around. I have a house of my own in Nassau, not too far from Brauer’s. When things get too hot, you can always come visiting.”
“It would be nice to have a friend in Nassau,” she confessed.
His eyes narrowed. “I don’t have a friend. At least, I didn’t.” He laughed coolly. “You’re a damned funny friend for a man my age.”
She smiled. “I was going to say the same thing.”
“So people will talk. Let them.” He caught her hand and brought the palm to his mouth. It was firm and cool against the faint moisture under her fingers. “I’ll see you again, Brianne.”
“I know.” She got to her feet, and her eyes lingered on his broad, dark face. “You have to look ahead, you know,” she said gently. “One day, it won’t be so hard. You must have things you haven’t done that you’ve always wanted to, designs that you haven’t tried yet, projects to complete.”
He stretched a little sorely. “For the past two years, I took care of Margo while the cancer ate her alive. It’s not easy, learning to live for myself. I don’t have anyone to take care of.”
She opened her eyes wide. “Don’t look at me. I’m independent, I am.”
His eyes darkened. “You’re a miracle,” he said unexpectedly. “Maybe guardian angels really do exist and you’re mine. But it’s reciprocal. I get to be yours. Pick the college you want. I’ll get you in, even if it’s Oxford. I have connections everywhere.”
Her eyes twinkled. “You don’t look like anyone’s fairy godfather.”
“Appearances can be deceptive. I’ve never seen a father confessor with long blond hair, either.”
She chuckled. “I’m going.”
“Go on, then. Thank you,” he added.
“It was no trouble. You’re worth saving from yourself.” She paused at the bedroom door and looked back, a little less bubbly now. “You…will be all right, won’t you?” she asked. “I mean, you won’t do anything…”
He leaned up on an elbow. “I won’t do anything,” he promised solemnly.
She made an awkward movement, a little unsure of herself. “Take care of yourself.”
“You, too,” he replied.
She opened the door, hesitated.
“I know you don’t want to go,” he said, his voice deep and a little curt. “But you have to.”
She looked at him over her shoulder with huge, curious eyes. “I don’t understand,” she murmured worriedly.
“We’ve learned more about each other in a lot less time than people usually do,” he explained. “It’s a kind of bonding that I haven’t experienced, either.” He smiled dryly. “Don’t worry about trying to understand it. Friendship is a rare thing. Just accept it.”
She smiled. “Okay.”
“Wait a minute. Hand me my slacks.”
“You’re going with me?” she mused, handing them to him.
“Funny girl,” he muttered darkly. “I’d fall down the elevator shaft in my present condition. No. I want to give you something.”
“If you try to pay me…!”
“Will you stop flashing those eyes at me?” he grumbled, pulling a card from his wallet. He tossed it onto the coverlet. “That has my private number, here in the hotel. If you get in trouble, if you need me, use it.”
She picked it up and lifted her eyes to his. “I’m sorry I misunderstood.”
“And what exactly would I pay you for, anyway?” he demanded irritably. “The sort of woman you’re thinking of does a little more than take off a man’s pants!”
She gasped.
“Get out,” he told her. “And take your evil mind with you, nasty girl.”
“You stop calling me names,” she said haughtily. “I don’t have an evil mind.”
“Ha!”
She put the card in the pocket of her dress and smiled at him. “You must be feeling better, you’re growling again. Now, I’m really leaving.”
“It’s just as well if all you have to offer me are insults.”
She glared at him from the door. “Would you like me to go back to Chez Georges and send that woman with the thick lipstick up here to visit your wallet? I’ll bet she’d know what to do when she got your pants off.”
“Why, you libertine,” he accused softly.
“And one of these days, I’ll learn what to do, too, then you just look out.”
“Brianne.”
She turned with the door open. “What?”
His expression was very solemn. “Be careful about tutors for that particular skill. Be very careful.”
She tossed back her hair. “Oh, you don’t need to worry. I already have someone in mind.”
“Really? Who?” he asked curtly.
She stepped out the door and stuck her head around it. “You, when you’ve had enough time to get over your grief,” she said gently. “I think you’ll be worth waiting for.”
And while he was getting over that shock, she closed the door and left him.

Nassau was filled to bursting with tourists, strolling along the coastline from the new development at Coral Cay all the way into Nassau itself. Colorful jitneys darted through traffic, barely avoiding collisions with mopeds and cars and pedestrians. Brianne wandered through the market at Prince George Wharf, admiring the colorful straw purses and hats and dolls, but all she bought was a new hat. This one was made of crushable hemp with woven purple flowers on the brim. As she paid for it, she grinned at the lady who sold it to her, then moved along to watch an ocean liner from the United States being maneuvered out of the expanded bay. She was sure that she’d never get tired of watching the huge ships come in and out of the port city. Often, too, there were military ships in port, like the United States destroyer down at the end of the pier. Sailors filtered through the tourists on their way back to the ship, pausing to admire a pretty brunette boarding one of the glass-bottom tourist boats.
It was time for lunch, but she wasn’t ready to go home. Not that Kurt’s villa could be called anyone’s home, except perhaps, her mother’s and half brother’s. The baby, Nicholas, was a year old now and the apple of his mother’s eye.
Brianne spent as little time at the villa as she could. Kurt had a business acquaintance staying with them, a Middle Eastern national who was very nearly Pierce’s age. He was tall and slender and dark, with scars on one lean cheek that gave him a dangerous look. Brianne hadn’t met him before, and now she wished she hadn’t come home. Philippe Sabon was said to have a perverted obsession for young, innocent girls. He was some sort of rich state-official in an underdeveloped Arab nation. Sabon’s mother was of Arab descent and his father, allegedly, was French but of Turkish ancestry. Very little was known about his shady background. He had millions, they said, but he’d spoken to Brianne of small, ragged beggars in the souks of Baghdad, as if he knew firsthand what their life was like. If it hadn’t been for his smarmy reputation, Brianne might have enjoyed his company.
Kurt kept throwing Brianne and Sabon together at every opportunity. He was always nice, but there was something in the way Sabon looked at her that made her very nervous. He wanted Kurt to invest in some project in his homeland of Qawi, which was sandwiched between several other small nations in the Persian Gulf. It was the only nation that had, until now, refused to consider developing its oil potential. Its ruler, an elderly sheikh, was old enough to remember European domination, and he wanted no more of it. Sabon had convinced him that the abject poverty in his nation was too widespread to ignore. Sabon owned his own island, Jameel, just offshore from Qawi. The name, he told Brianne, meant “beautiful” in Arabic.
Sabon had apparently talked Kurt into approaching an oil consortium for him, and even investing in this scheme to develop the poor country’s oil wealth. As a high minister in that nation—and many said that he’d bought the office—Sabon now had power enough to put through any sort of land deal he chose. He controlled the country’s mining rights. He had given Kurt a part interest in these, and Kurt had sent a firm of mining engineers to do a study on the oil-producing potential of the untouched land. The move had been a good one. The engineers found a wealth of untapped gas and petroleum under the hot sands. All that was needed was more money for equipment to exploit the resources, because the oil company was only willing to provide a percentage of the capital required for drilling, and the national treasury of Qawi itself was apparently off-limits for such industry. Brianne thought that odd, but Kurt seemed not to care as long as he held title to half the mining potential of the country.
Kurt and Sabon had combined their own resources, and Kurt had coaxed an oil consortium to join in the venture. Kurt now had most of his fortune committed to the enterprise, which he expected to put him in the billionaire class. He had to keep Sabon in his hands, however, to realize that potential. Sabon had already inferred that another rich Middle Eastern friend would be happy to replace Kurt in the endeavor. Kurt had too much money tied up to risk backing out now. He’d noticed Sabon’s fascination with Brianne. If dangling Brianne as bait would keep Sabon in his power, he was more than willing to provide it, with or without her permission.
There were stories about Sabon’s perverse appetites circulating all over Nassau. The way he’d looked at Brianne when they were introduced made her feel as if he’d touched her body under her clothing. He found Brianne’s coldness a challenge; she found him frightening. There was something in his dark, intent eyes that intimidated her. He was dignified and courteous to a fault; he was charming. But there was something about him that belied his reputation, and Brianne couldn’t think what it was. He was like an iceberg in the sense that most of his character was carefully hidden behind a shield of reserve. People said he was perverted, yet Brianne saw nothing about the man that spoke of perversion in any form. He seemed always to be apart from others, always alone. He sought out Brianne and watched her quietly, but there was no hint of disrespect or lewdness in his manner toward her. Perhaps, she mused, it was her inexperience that kept her from seeing the truth about him.
She’d heard that Sabon was an enemy of L. Pierce Hutton, who had publicly denounced Sabon’s recent support of a nation that was constantly under sanctions from the world community because of its aggressive political stance. Pierce seemed certain that Sabon was only seeking political support in the region by his public friendship with the other country. He wanted wealth and power and didn’t mind what he had to do to obtain it. In that, he had something in common with Kurt Brauer, Brianne mused. Kurt didn’t seem to have a conscience or a limit in his search for material wealth. And there was still something very shady about his income. He seemed to do no real work of any sort, although he was connected in some way to oil exploration. But the men who visited him didn’t look like oilmen to Brianne. They looked like…well, like killers.
Philippe Sabon’s continued presence at the villa, and his unwavering scrutiny, made Brianne very nervous. She spent as much time away from the villa as possible. Her mother thought she was overreacting to an older man’s interest in her, and Kurt didn’t care what his friend and associate was up to as long as he benefited from it financially. Brianne had no allies in that elegant house on the bay, not one.
Pierce Hutton had come back to the island three months earlier, but Brianne had only seen him once, last night, at a fancy social gathering that Kurt and her mother had taken her to. He was conducting business with a vengeance. He looked much better, but there was still a haunted darkness in his eyes. And he seemed ill at ease when he saw Brianne.
She remembered walking up to him with a smile, only to have him give her a strangely hostile glare and turn his back on her. It had hurt more than anything in recent years. Presumably he only wanted to be friends with her when he was drunk. She’d taken the hint and she’d avoided him all evening. Not one word had passed between them. That had probably been the best thing that could have happened, because Sabon disliked Pierce and Kurt wouldn’t do anything to irritate him. Certainly it wasn’t likely that Pierce would receive any invitations to the Brauer home while Sabon was in residence.
As she gazed at the crowds at Prince George Wharf, she realized that thoughts of Pierce’s hostility had kept her awake most of last night. Silly, she thought, to imagine that he’d meant anything he said while he had half a bottle of Scotch whiskey inside him. She really was naive for someone who’d just turned twenty years old. She remembered her last birthday vividly. She’d spent it with Pierce. This year had no such pleasant associations. Her mother and stepfather had given her a pearl necklace, and her friend Cara Harvey had mailed her a scarf from Portugal, where she was spending the summer with her parents and having a rough time with a Portuguese nobleman who thought she was trying to seduce his younger brother. Except for Cara’s gift, it had been a singularly uneventful birthday.
Sabon had wanted to throw her a party on his yacht, but she’d quickly found a reason to go into town. She had visions of being kidnapped and carried off into sexual slavery by that libertine. She’d heard rumors about him that didn’t exclude kidnapping.
The wind blew her loosened blond hair around the shoulders of the pink silk tank top she was wearing with white Bermuda shorts and sandals. She wore a fanny pack so she wouldn’t have to lug a purse, and she felt young and full of ginger. If it hadn’t been for her situation at home, Nassau would have been all she wanted from life. It was so fascinating.
As she watched the big white ocean liner being turned by two tiny tugboats in a bay that seemed far too small for such an operation, she became aware of someone standing just behind her, watching. She turned, and there was Pierce, neat as a pin in white slacks and a yellow knit shirt.
He had his hands in his pockets. His black eyes were still full of storms, but they were oddly intent on her face.
“Hello, Mr. Hutton,” she said politely, and with a smile. It was the sort of smile she’d have given the most distant acquaintance. He knew it, too.
His broad shoulders shifted as he glanced past her to the ship. “I’ve been entertaining a businessman from the States.” He nodded toward the ocean liner. “He just left, on that.”
She didn’t know what to say. She only nodded awkwardly, turned and started back down the pier toward the wharf, her long hair flying away in the breeze. She knew that he wanted nothing to do with her; he’d made that clear at the party. She was willing to oblige him.
“Oh, hell, stop!”
She froze, but she wouldn’t turn around. “Yes?” she asked.
All around them, tourists walked past, talking excitedly, gesturing. Nearby, one of the boat owners was singing a West Indian tune, hoping to attract more business with his talent. Brianne was hardly aware of the noise. Her heart was beating so loudly that it shook her.
She felt the warmth of his body at her back.
“I’ve been trying to forget Paris,” he said after a minute.
“You, and Humphrey Bogart,” she said dryly.
“What? Oh. Oh!” He chuckled. “I see.”
She turned around then and squared her shoulders. “Look, you don’t owe me a thing. I don’t want rewards or even attention. I’m doing all right. I think Kurt will be more than willing to put me through college just to get me out of his hair.”
His eyes narrowed. “That isn’t what local gossip says. I hear there’s a move to involve you with his brand-new business partner, a sort of family merger.”
She lost color, but she didn’t blink an eyelash. “Really?”
“Don’t prevaricate,” he said impatiently. “I know everything that goes on in Nassau.”
She felt her blood go cold. Kurt hadn’t said any such thing to her, but if it was common knowledge around the island, it might be true. She straightened her shoulders. “I can take care of myself.”
“At nineteen?”
“Twenty,” she corrected him. “I had a birthday this week.”
He made a rough sound. “Okay, maybe you’re not such a kid, after all. And maybe you can take care of yourself, in your own league. But, honey, you’re fighting city hall when you tangle with Kurt Brauer, much less with Sabon.”
“Something you know from experience?”
He cocked an eyebrow and smiled. He didn’t want to tell her that he’d once intervened in a shady oil deal that Brauer was making with a terrorist group to provide them with arms in return for making an assault on a rival’s oil tanker fleet. That information hadn’t gone past his own security chief, Tate Winthrop, a former government operative who’d foiled Brauer’s attempted coup. Winthrop was a full-blooded Sioux Indian with a mysterious background and friends in some of the highest offices in Washington, D.C. He had sources that even Pierce didn’t.
He smiled at Brianne. “I didn’t say I couldn’t win. I said you couldn’t. Where are you in such a hurry to go?”
“I thought I’d get on my swimsuit and lie on the beach for a while. Kurt owns the Britanny Bay Hotel, you know. I can use the facilities there, and I keep a bathing suit in the office.”
“Come home with me. I have a private beach. You can swim there.”
She remembered his attitude the night before and hesitated. “You don’t really want me around.”
“No,” he agreed at once. “I don’t. But you need someone. I seem to be all you’ve got right now.”
She flushed with angry pride. “Thanks a lot!”
“Don’t knock it,” he added heavily, and his eyes were resigned and quiet as he studied her. “You’re all I’ve got.”
The statement rocked her right down to her feet. He was the most astounding man. He came out with the most profound things at the oddest times.
“I told you,” he added, “that I don’t have family. I was an only child, and after Margo miscarried, she couldn’t conceive again. Except for some cousins in Greece and France and Argentina—all distant—I have no family. And no close friends.” He stuck his hands in his slacks pockets and stared out over the turquoise water of the bay as he spoke. “Brianne, do you really think anyone else would have given a damn if I got rolled that night I drank too much?” he asked ruefully. “Do you think anyone would have cared if I’d died right there?”
“I would have,” she said.
“Yes, I know. It doesn’t make things any easier. You’re too young.”
“You’re too old,” she retorted. She smiled. “Does it matter, really?”
His black eyes surveyed her with faint amusement. “I suppose not. Come on. I’ve got the car.”

Chapter Three
The entrance to Pierce’s villa was through a high wrought-iron gate that had to be opened electronically by a device in the Mercedes he drove on the island. The paved driveway was lined by towering casuarina pines with their feathery spines, and flame trees in glorious bloom. Along the sand that flanked the driveway were blooming hibiscus plants and sea grape trees with circular leaves, which slaves were said to have used for plates in the days of pirate ships.
Two huge German shepherds lived in a kennel near the main house.
“King and Tartar,” Pierce said, indicating the dogs as they drove past the chain-link fence that contained the animals. “They’re let loose at night inside the gates. I wouldn’t want to run into them myself.”
She smiled. “I guess in your income bracket, you can’t afford to take chances.”
“I don’t. I have a security chief who makes the White House brigade look sloppy.” He glanced at her. “I’ll have to introduce you one day. He’s Sioux.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Indian?”
“Indigenous aborigine,” he corrected her with a grin. “Don’t ever call him an Indian. He speaks five languages fluently and has a degree in law.”
“Not your average security chief.”
“Not at all. There’s still plenty I don’t know about him, and he’s worked for me for three years.” He pulled up in front of the house and stopped. As he helped Brianne out, a middle-aged man with a Mediterranean look came out the door, smiled and replaced Pierce behind the wheel.
“Arthur,” Pierce said, waving the man away. “He usually drives me. He’ll put the car in the garage. And this is Mary,” he added, smiling at the pretty middle-aged black woman who opened the door. “She came with the villa. Nobody, but nobody cooks conch the way she does.”
“Nobody except my mama,” Mary agreed. “How you doing, miss?”
“I’m fine, thanks,” Brianne said, and smiled.
“Any calls?” Pierce asked.
“Only one, from Mr. Winthrop, but he said it wasn’t urgent.”
“Okay. We’ll be at the pool.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mary closed the big wooden door behind them, and Pierce led Brianne down a cool arched stone walkway that led to a huge swimming pool with a commanding view of the ocean beyond it.
She shaded her eyes with her hand and looked toward a jutting promontory where casuarina pines waved in the breeze and two sailboats lay at anchor.
“It’s so peaceful here,” she commented.
“That’s why I like it.”
She turned back to him. He pulled out a cushioned chair at a white wrought-iron table with an umbrella covering it and indicated that she should sit down.
“Do you spend much time in the pool?” she asked curiously.
“Not a lot. I can swim, but I don’t care too much for it. I like to sunbathe out here. It helps me think things through.” He motioned to Mary, who brought a tray with two tall, milky-looking drinks on it and a plate of small cakes.
Mary put the tray on the table and smiled as she left them by the pool.
“Mary makes good tea cakes,” he said, reaching for his drink. “Help yourself.”
She reached for one and put it on the saucer Mary had provided. She tasted it with delight.
“How delicious!” she exclaimed.
“Mary says it’s the amount of flavoring she uses that gives them such a nice taste.”
She reached for her drink and sipped it, surprised to find that it didn’t contain any alcohol.
He noticed her expression and chuckled. “I’m not giving alcohol to a minor, even in Nassau,” he murmured.
“I’m not exactly a minor,” she informed him.
“You’re not twenty-one yet,” he replied. His dark eyes slid over her youthful figure and up to her pretty face with intense scrutiny as he sat with one big lean hand wrapped around his glass. “You’re young. Very young.”
“Blame it on a sheltered childhood,” she said. Her gaze slid over him like searching fingertips. “How old are you?” she asked abruptly.
One bushy eyebrow lifted. “Older than you.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Much older?”
He shrugged and sipped his drink. “Much older.” His dark eyes met hers levelly. “Almost twice your age.”
“You don’t look it,” she said, and meant it. He had the physique of a man ten years younger, and there were only traces of silver at his temples. She smiled at him wistfully. “I guess you haven’t given a lot of thought to seducing me?”
Both eyebrows went up. “I beg your pardon?”
His tone would have made a lesser woman falter, but Brianne was made of stouter stuff. “We talked about it in Paris,” she reminded him. “Of course, you were pretty drunk at the time, so I can’t really expect you to remember too much of our conversation. But I did admit that I was going to wait for you.” She grinned wickedly. “And I have, despite the temptation.”
He hated himself for asking. “What temptation?”
“There was a very handsome Portuguese nobleman in one of my classes. He was older than the rest of us, very cultured, very correct. All of us were wild about him, but there was a fiancée waiting back home.” She shook her head. “Poor Cara.”
“Who’s Cara?”
“My best friend. She’s from Texas. She went to Portugal this summer to stay with her sister, and guess whose brother her baby sister got involved with?”
“The nobleman’s.”
“Bingo. I understand it’s been open warfare since her ship docked.” She shook her head. “Cara never liked Raoul in the first place,” she recalled. “They couldn’t get along.”
“But you liked him.”
She nodded and smiled at him. “Very much. He was nice to me.”
He chuckled deep in his throat, and there was a look in his eyes that didn’t make much sense to her.
“Why are you laughing?” she asked.
He gave her a complicated look. “Do you think I’m nice?” he asked softly.
She looked stunned. “Nice? You? Good Lord, you’re a barracuda!”
The laughter grew, deep and rich. “Well, you’re honest.”
“I try to be.” She looked down into her glass with a sigh. “Philippe Sabon’s after me, you know,” she said with visible discomfort. “He wanted to throw a birthday party for me on his yacht, and my stepfather was all for it. I refused, and now he’s not speaking to me. But I heard the two of them talking, and it made me nervous.”
He didn’t have to ask why Sabon was interested in her. He already knew. He spun the ice around in his glass before he took another sip.
“According to what I’ve heard, Sabon has a yen for virgins,” he said curtly. “I won’t tell you what he’s said to do with them. But he isn’t doing it to you.”
His concern made her feel warm inside. She smiled. “Thanks. Could you loan me your security chief for a few days to make sure of it?” she added half-jokingly.
“I’ll take care of it myself,” he said, and he didn’t smile. His eyes narrowed on her young face. “You can hang out over here until he leaves. I understand that he’s facing the threat of a military coup by a poor neighboring country with no oil. They want his.”
“So does my stepfather,” she informed him. “He’s all but bankrupted himself putting money into developing the oil fields over there, and he’s attracted other investors to help him. If the military coup succeeds, he’ll be standing on the street corner selling pencils out of a cup.”
“Or diving for conch,” he added mockingly.
“That isn’t likely. He can’t swim.”
“He’s made a bad bargain there,” Pierce murmured thoughtfully. “A real deal with the devil.” His dark eyes narrowed as they slid over her. “What are you supposed to be, collateral?”
She flushed. “Over my dead body.”
He didn’t reply to that. He was thinking, and his thoughts weren’t pleasant. “How did you end up with Brauer for a stepfather?” he asked after a minute.
“My mother is beautiful,” she said simply. “I’m just a poor carbon copy of her. She was selling jewelry in an exclusive shop and he was buying a present for a friend. She said it was love at first sight.” She shrugged. “I don’t know. Anyway, my father had just died a few months earlier and she was lonely. But not lonely enough to become a rich man’s mistress,” she added with a faint smile. “It was marriage or nothing, so he married her.” She toyed with her glass. “They have a new son and he’s the whole world for Mother.”
“Is Brauer good to her?”
“No,” she said flatly. “She’s afraid of him. I don’t know that he’s actually hit her, but she’s very nervous around him. Now that she has the baby to think about, she never argues with him like she used to when they were first married.”
“Does she talk to you about him?”
She shook her head. “Kurt makes sure that I never have much time alone with her.” She met his eyes. “I didn’t like him from the beginning, but she thought I was resentful because it was so soon after Dad’s death.”
“Brauer is nobody’s idea of a white knight,” he murmured curtly.
She studied him. “You know something about him, don’t you.”
“I know that he’s devious and underhanded and that he’ll do absolutely anything to make money, and he does,” he said flatly. “We’ve been rivals for some time now. I cost him a lot of money a few years ago, and he’s never forgotten. If he has an enemies list, I’m at the very top of it.”
“Can I ask how you cost him money?” she wondered aloud.
He was reluctant to tell her, but in the end, he decided that she needed to know the truth about her stepfather. “He was trying to make a deal with a terrorist group to attack an oil platform and cause an environmental disaster.”
“Why?” she asked, aghast.
“I’ve never been quite sure,” he told her. “Kurt plays a close hand, and his business dealings are kept under the table. All I know is that an enemy of Kurt’s was making some threats. Kurt reasoned that by making the man look criminally careless about damaging the global ecology, he could give him enough bad publicity to bring him down. And it might have succeeded.”
“You stopped it?”
“Tate Winthrop did,” he said with a faint smile. “My security chief has contacts everywhere, and we soured the deal. Brauer never knew how it was done, but I know he suspects that I was behind it.”
“Are you in competition with him?”
He chuckled as he finished his drink. “Not really. I’m in the oil business, of course, but I deal primarily in the construction of oil platforms. Kurt has an interest in an oil shipping firm. Still, he’s got a few scores to settle with me, and I’ve heard some veiled threats that I don’t like about my newest site. I can’t afford an environmental disaster. I’ve spent too much money building this platform with adequate safeguards to prevent any wholesale leaks. So I’ve sent Winthrop and some of his men out to my new platform to stand guard while it goes into operation. Just in case.”
“Where is it?”
“In the Caspian Sea,” he said. “It’s brimming over with oil, but most drillers won’t put a lot of money into extracting it because of the dicey situation in the Middle East. It would have to be piped through hostile territory or tanked around. But we’re working on a deal, and with any luck, we may strike a bargain that’s mutually beneficial.”
“It sounds very complicated.”
“It is. We’re very sensitive to environmental issues. I don’t want to cause an oil spill. And not because it’s bad publicity. I have no patience with people who are willing to sacrifice the planet on the altar of profit margins.”
She smiled at him. “No wonder I like you.”
He smiled back. She was bright and she seemed to sparkle. He liked her, too. It wouldn’t do to let that feeling get out of hand, of course. He had to try to think of her as a child.
“You aren’t eating the tea cakes,” he pointed out. “Don’t you like sweets?”
“Very much. But I’m not really hungry,” she confessed. “I’ve been worried about Mr. Sabon.”
“You can stop worrying. I’ll deal with Sabon.”
“He’s very rich,” she said worriedly. “He owns a whole island somewhere off the coast of his native country in the Middle East. It’s called Jameel.”
“I own two islands,” he countered with a chuckle. “One’s off the coast of South Carolina, and I own one here in the Bahamian chain.”
“Really?” She was impressed. “Are they inhabited?”
He shook his head. “Not inhabited or developed. I’m leaving them both as wildlife habitats.” He smiled at her delighted expression. “I’ll take you to them one day and show them to you.”
Her heart skipped and she sighed with open pleasure. “I’d like that a lot.”
He searched her face with quiet, thoughtful eyes. His expression became somber. “So would I.” He put his empty glass down on the table. “Tell me about your father. What did he do?”
“He was a loan officer in a bank,” she said. “He wasn’t handsome or terribly intelligent, but he was kindhearted and he loved me.” Her eyes grew sad with the memories of him. “Mother never had time for me, even when she was at home. She worked a six-day week at the jewelers, and she always seemed to feel that Dad didn’t give her the life-style she deserved. He was a failure in her eyes, and she never stopped telling him so.” She grimaced. “One day he went to work and we got a phone call just after lunch. They said he’d started toward an office to talk to one of the vice presidents and he just folded up. He died right there of a heart attack. Nothing they did brought him back.”
“I’m sorry. It must have been rough.”
“It was. Mother didn’t really even mourn. And just three months later, there was Kurt, and suddenly I didn’t have a family I belonged in anymore.”
A long silence fell between them. Then he said, “I never had a family at all. My parents died when I was in grammar school, in a plane crash. I went to live with my father’s father in America. He had a small oil transport fleet and a smaller construction company. My first job was helping to put up buildings. I learned it from the ground up, the hard way. Grandfather never pampered me, but he loved me. He was Greek, very old-world even after becoming a naturalized American citizen.” He chuckled at the memory of the gruff old man. “I adored him, rude manners and all.”
“But your last name doesn’t sound Greek,” she said.
“It was Pevros, before he changed it to Hutton, after a wealthy family he’d read about in the States,” he replied. “He wanted to be American all the way. I still have French citizenship, but I could qualify as an American citizen, having spent half my life in New England.”
“You said your grandfather had a small construction company,” she murmured. “But yours is enormous and international.”
His broad shoulders rose and fell. “I had a sort of sixth sense about mergers that paid off big. Once I got the hang of it, there was no stopping me. I sold the oil tankers and parlayed the proceeds into an enterprise that became the core company of an empire.” His eyes narrowed as he studied her. “Margo’s father had a chain of building supply companies in Europe,” he recalled. “The merger led to a marriage and ten of the happiest years of my life.” His face seemed to harden to stone. “I thought she was immortal.”
Impulsively, she laid her hand over his big one on the table. “I still miss my dad,” she said softly. “I can only imagine how it must be for you.”
His hand stiffened. Then it relaxed and turned, enveloping hers in its warm, strong grasp. “That empathy of yours saved me,” he said, searching her eyes quietly. “If you hadn’t taken me home to my hotel that night in Paris, I really don’t know where I would have ended up.”
“I do,” she murmured dryly. “You’d have ended up with that industrial-strength blonde, being rolled for your wallet!”
He chuckled. “I probably would have. I was too drunk to care what happened to me.” His eyes softened. “I’m glad you were there.”
Her fingers curled trustingly into his. “I’m glad I was there, too.”
His eyes grew slowly darker as they stared intently into hers. His thumb began a lazy stroking motion against her palm. She felt the sensation all through her body, as if he was touching her bare skin instead of just her hand.
He saw the reaction and deliberately enlarged the area of her palm that he was stroking. He hadn’t wanted women in his life since Margo’s death, and he certainly shouldn’t be encouraging this green little innocent. But she made him feel kingly when she looked at him with those soft, drowning eyes, when she trembled from the merest touch of his hand. Any man could be forgiven for being tempted.
Her breath was choking her. She looked at him with an ache that made her sick all over. “I don’t suppose you’d like to stop that?” she asked unsteadily.
“Why?” he asked softly.
“Because I’m getting this awful ache in a place I can’t tell you about,” she whispered tightly.
His hand tightened around her soft fingers. He wasn’t thinking about right and wrong anymore. He had an ache of his own, and he needed something to numb it before it doubled him over.
“Suppose I told you that I have a similar ache?” he asked huskily, holding her gaze with steady, hot black eyes.
“In a…similar place?” she asked outrageously.
“Tell me where yours is,” he murmured wickedly.
“Just south of my navel,” she said bluntly, and her mouth felt bone dry. “And my breasts hurt,” she added huskily.
His eyes fell to them with keen, sharp interest and he saw the peaked nipples under her thin top. His intake of breath was audible.
“Nobody ever looked at me there, or touched me there,” she whispered when she saw where his eyes were riveted. “I’ve saved it all up.”
He felt as if the world were crashing down on his head. He had to stop looking at her, thinking of her, wanting her. He’d put her right out of his mind until he’d come to Nassau. Then he’d seen her again, at her stepfather’s, and all the wicked, forbidden longings had surfaced again at his first sight of her after the months of absence.
His fingers edged between hers in a sensual caress. “I’m thirty-seven,” he bit off.
“So what?” she asked breathlessly.
“So you aren’t even legal yet.”
“Excuses, excuses,” she muttered huskily. Her lips parted as the sensual caress of his fingers threatened to stop her heart. “For God’s sake, can’t you just do something? Anything!”
His eyes narrowed to slits as he looked at her. “With Mary right in the house and Arthur likely to come looking for me any second?”
She groaned aloud.
He made a rough sound under his breath and glared at her. He jerked his hand back and stood up, turning his back to her while he fought to stop himself from reaching for her, right over the table.
He jammed his hands hard into his pockets and grimaced when he saw how it outlined the raging, highly visible arousal he couldn’t help.
Margo was the only woman who’d ever been able to do this to him instantly. It seemed that the long abstinence was making him careless, and vulnerable. He had to get this wide-eyed innocent out of his life.
She was already inside the house by the time he turned around, heading right toward the front door.
He went after her, noticing when he joined her at the curb that she wouldn’t look at him.
“Sorry,” she said through her teeth. She was clutching her purse as if she expected it to make a break for freedom. “I don’t honestly know what came over me. Maybe it’s some tropical virus that makes your mouth independent of your brain.”
He chuckled in spite of himself. “Not quite. But it seems to be contagious.”
She wouldn’t look at him. “Don’t make fun of me, please.”
“I don’t know what else to do,” he said bluntly. “I’m not seducing children this week. Sorry.”
She glared up at him. “I was trying to seduce you,” she pointed out. “With no success whatsoever, I might add. I guess I’ll have to find some sort of school where they teach seduction and take lessons.”
He burst out laughing. “You shameless hussy!”
“Thanks. I’ll file that compliment along with all the others.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
“If you don’t do it, he will,” she said, suddenly serious. “I’ll throw myself in Nassau harbor right in front of the Prince George Wharf before I’ll let Sabon touch me!”
“What do I have to do with him?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.
“He likes virgins. Virgins!”
“Ah,” he murmured. “I begin to see the light. If you become suddenly experienced, he’ll lose interest, you think?”
“Yes, I do. And if you’d cooperate, I’d be right off the endangered species list. But, oh no, you can’t make one little sacrifice for my whole future! Excuse me for asking you to risk your body in bed with me!”
His eyebrows levered up as he stared down at her. “Careful,” he said softly. “You’re walking on broken glass.”
“I’d like to create some,” she muttered. She looked away from him and sighed loudly. “Well, I’ll go to the casino over on Paradise Island tonight. Surely there’s some man desperate enough to give me what I need….”
He jerked her around and held her bruisingly by one arm. His black eyes blazed down at her. “Don’t you dare,” he said in a voice that sent chills down her spine.
“Well, you won’t!” she protested.
“Maybe I will,” he murmured. He was disturbed, and he looked it. He felt Margo’s loss keenly, still, and even to think of sleeping with another woman seemed like adultery. But Brianne was young and sweet and loving, and it wouldn’t be any hardship to give her what she wanted. On the other hand, she was painfully young and impressionable. If it hadn’t been for the specter of Philippe Sabon lurking somewhere in the shadows, he wouldn’t even be considering this harebrained proposition in the first place.
“You just hold your horses,” he said shortly. “Don’t lead with your head.”
“Advice, advice,” she muttered. “Why don’t you just back me up against a wall and give it your best?”
He dropped her arm. “You incredible child!”
“I’m not a child, thank you.”
“You’re outrageous,” he continued.
“Totally. It comes from living among idiots.” She stared at him with quiet, soft eyes. “I’ll wear you down,” she promised. “Day by day.”
He stared at her with mixed emotions. “Whatever happened to virginal terror?”
“I don’t know. I’ll ask someone.”
“Aren’t you afraid of the first time?”
“With someone like you? Are you crazy?”
He laughed in spite of himself. His eyes twinkled with humor. “All those expectations. I’m getting older. What if I can’t live up to your expectations?”
“Oh, but you can,” she said with solemnity. “You want to. You just think I’m too young. I’m not, you know. I grew up around people older than me, and I’ve always been more mature than my own age group.”
“I’m not making you any promises,” he assured her. “I said I’d think about it.”
She shrugged. “Take your time. No rush. But if that lobo wolf comes looking for me, I’m coming after you, and I don’t care what time it is.”
“How is he supposed to know, at your age, that you’re still virginal?” he asked reasonably.
She glowered at him. “Because, unknown to me, Kurt had a private detective following me from the day I went off to school,” she muttered. “I was watched like a hawk, and two months ago Kurt demanded that I have a physical to make sure that I hadn’t caught some virus he said I’d been exposed to.” She shivered at the thought of what the doctor had done to her. “Part of the physical included a gynecological exam,” she added. “I had no idea that the doctor was going to do that, until I was in the examination room and the nurse had me on my back.” She let out a breath. “I yelled the place down, but the doctor had the information Kurt wanted.”
“No reputable doctor…” Pierce began furiously.
“He wasn’t a reputable doctor,” she returned. “He was barred from practice in the States and came down here to run some sort of clinic.”
“I see.”
“I never connected it until Sabon started turning up at the house at all hours and watching me like a hawk.” She lifted her gaze to his hard face. “I’m not scared of much,” she said, “but that man gives me the shivering willies.”
“Don’t feel bad. He has that effect on some men.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “On you?”
He chuckled. “I was a drill rigger for a couple of years.” He held out his big hands and showed her his knuckles, replete with tiny white scars.
She pursed her lips. “Tough guy, huh?”
“Yes,” he said simply. “And I’m not afraid of much, either.”
She searched his eyes. “What scares you?”
He leaned close to her, so that his eyes filled the world. “Sex-crazed virgins,” he whispered.
He looked and sounded so wicked that she burst into helpless laughter. “I asked for that one,” she murmured through her chuckles.
He laughed with her. He’d never known anyone like Brianne. She was changing him, changing his life, his world. She made the sun come out again, brought back the rainbows. He didn’t dare consider the implications of what he was feeling. He turned away and went to find Arthur to tell him to bring the car around, so that he could drive them back into Nassau.

In the weeks that followed, Brianne became Pierce’s shadow. To her stepfather’s dismay, she kept a mile away from his friend Philippe Sabon and spent so much time with Pierce that rumors began to abound. They were seen together everywhere, fishing and swimming and just sunbathing. Mostly they did the latter at Pierce’s house, but occasionally they went to the beach.
The companionship they shared was as rare as the humor that bound them together. Pierce didn’t realize how necessary Brianne was beginning to be to him, but the hours he spent alone brooding over Margo were dwindling with time. He looked forward to Brianne’s wry insight on the world around them, to her savvy sense of politics. For a young woman, she had a mature outlook. He was impressed with her. More than impressed. He didn’t mind her constant presence in his house.
But Kurt did. Things came to a head when Philippe sailed into port on his yacht to see Brianne and she wasn’t at home. Worse, his private detective had a very thorough report of where she’d been most recently.
Sabon’s rage was all the more intimidating for being quiet. He glowered at Kurt, his black eyes flashing, his lean fists clenched at his side. “You know that your stepdaughter has become special to me,” he began. “I have even told you that my plans for her might include marriage. Yet you have permitted her to practically live with Hutton. What must I do to keep her around when I wish to see her, kidnap her?”
Kurt held up a hand, his face worried. “No, you have it all wrong. You have the medical report,” he said quickly, wary of his wife’s presence somewhere nearby. He didn’t want her to hear this. “I assure you, the girl is fastidious, chaste, regardless of the time she spends with Hutton!”
Sabon didn’t speak for a moment. His eyes caught every nuance of expression in the other man’s face, from the fear that made him pale to the greed that made his eyes hot. Brauer had no idea at all of his real plans, or his true desire. He had made certain of it. The man’s cooperation was essential at this point. He had to ensure it any way that he could.
“I know how badly you need my help,” he told Kurt coolly. “I have had your financial assets examined most thoroughly. If I should back out now, before the oil is discovered and processed, and replace you with someone else, you would be left destitute, would you not?”
Kurt swallowed. He was in over his head, with no way out. The man knew too much. “Yes, I would,” he confessed heavily. He drew out a spotless white handkerchief and wiped his sweaty forehead. “I have no option but to go right through to the end. But this business about involving the United States—I don’t know. I don’t know if it will work.”
Sabon’s thin lips pursed thoughtfully. “Of course it will.” He studied Brauer. “I have told you that I think a marriage between Brianne and myself might be advantageous for both of us. A…seal on our agreement.”
“Marriage.” Kurt’s greedy eyes glittered as he turned the thought over in his mind. Sabon had millions. He was supposedly one of the wealthiest men in the world. He would certainly take care of his wife’s relations. Even if the oil deal fell through, Kurt would have all the money he needed, without having to fall back on his usual means of making money—a tricky enterprise these days, with so many customers who reneged on their promises of payment. He would never have to worry about money again! He smiled from ear to ear. “What a wonderful proposition! Yes, yes, it would be the perfect seal on our bargain!”
Sabon didn’t meet his eyes as he bent his head to light one of the small, thin Turkish cigars he liked to smoke. “I thought it might appeal to you.”
Kurt almost drooled with pleasure. His future was assured. Now he had to talk to his wife, quickly, to make her understand how important Brianne’s acquiescence was in all this. She would back him up. She was the girl’s mother, and Brianne was still a minor. She could be made to comply. And so, he thought with cold reason, could her mother.
“And you will handle the chore I require of you in America,” Sabon added.
“Of course.” Kurt waved a careless hand. “You may consider this done. It will be my pleasure, in fact. Brianne will make you a lovely wife, give you many children!”
Sabon said nothing. The thought of joining their families by marriage had turned the trick. He would have no more worries with Kurt. Briefly he thought of the young, bright Brianne in his arms and the torment almost bent him double. Brauer would sell his stepdaughter, anything he owned, in his headlong search for power. Sabon hid the contempt he felt for the unscrupulous man before him and wished, not for the first time, that he had other options, other means, to accomplish what he must for his country. Although he’d sorted Brauer out, Pierce Hutton would pose as big a threat as the too-close enemy on the borders of Qawi. He had to keep the man at a distance before Hutton learned anything from Brianne that might tempt him to interfere.
By demanding Brianne’s company, by dangling the bait of marriage with her before Brauer, he hoped to accomplish that. Sabon gave one regretful thought to Brianne, so desirable and kind, who would suffer at her stepfather’s hands because of his proposal. But he couldn’t hesitate now, when so much was at stake! He had to think of his people.
Kurt watched him curiously. “You weren’t serious about kidnapping her?”
The more Philippe thought of the idea, the more it appealed to him. His dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “It would be one way to ensure her…cooperation, would it not?”
Kurt scowled. Brianne was an American citizen, and Hutton was possessive of her. “It could complicate matters,” he persisted.
Philippe smiled coolly. “Indeed it could.” He said no more, but there was a new and introspective look about him that made Kurt nervous. He had so much riding on this endeavor, almost too much! He simply could not afford to let Philippe double-cross him. And the best way to accomplish that was to get in the first blow. Kurt had half the rights to the long-protected mineral wealth of Sabon’s little country. If he could overthrow the government—and what sort of defense was a sick old sheikh with a small army?—he could cut Sabon right out of the loop and deal directly with the oil consortium. He’d have all the wealth he’d ever need, and he could put his shady friends on the payroll to protect his investment. He would never have to resort to arms dealing, his true business, again. The more he thought about it, the better he liked the idea. Sabon was so trusting, really. He thought he held all the aces. He would discover that he had nothing. Nothing at all.

Chapter Four
The minute Philippe left to return to his yacht, Kurt Brauer went immediately to find his wife. She had told him that Brianne and Pierce had gone to Freeport on a shopping trip. She didn’t know that the shopping trip had been a last-minute invention, because Brianne had seen Sabon’s yacht coming into port and she’d run to Pierce’s house to keep out of his way. In fact, she’d stayed there until she was sure that Sabon had sailed away.
Kurt had been impressed by Sabon’s threats, and his finances were such that he couldn’t afford to back out. He was between the proverbial rock and the hard place, and Brianne was slowly crushing him with her determination to avoid Sabon.
He was upset that she wouldn’t help him keep in the good graces of Sabon, and angry that she seemed determined to outflank him. He didn’t know if Philippe had been serious about kidnapping her, but he was beginning to think it might be the only way to make her see sense. He spoke firmly to his wife, but he couldn’t find Brianne until the next day. He cornered her in the living room of the beach house the minute he saw her and spoke to her about it.
“Philippe went away angry about the way you avoided him. He knows that I can’t afford to back out of the deal, and he’s talking about new partners. I don’t like your refusal to help me entertain him,” he said in his faintly accented English as he glared at her, both hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers. “And I especially don’t like you hanging around with Hutton. You must know that he and I aren’t on good terms.”
“He’s my friend,” Brianne said simply. “And I like him.”
“Bosh! He’s years too old for you,” he said, conveniently forgetting that his friend Sabon was the same age as Pierce. “I don’t want you spending so much time with him. It looks bad. Besides,” he added uneasily, “Philippe has heard of it, and it made matters even worse. He doesn’t approve.”
“Philippe doesn’t app—” she burst out.
He silenced her with a raised hand. “You don’t understand how I’m placed!” he said angrily. “I can’t afford to upset him in any way! Everything I have is invested in his country’s oil exploration and development. I’m risking all of it!”
“You shouldn’t have let him talk you into the investment in the first place,” she pointed out.
He glared at her. “I talked him into it,” he corrected her, “because I saw the chance to triple my investment. My finances are not what they once were,” he said coldly. “If I do nothing, I will lose what little I have left. This is a perfect investment opportunity, absolutely foolproof. But in order to make it work, I must remain friendly with Philippe. I cannot afford to antagonize him—or permit you to do so.” He cleared his throat, aware of the building resentment in her young face. “It is time you married,” he said harshly. “Philippe has said that he wishes it. It will be the best way to cement our business partnership.”
“Marry…him!” she burst out, appalled. “Listen, I am not marrying your friend Philippe! He scares me to death! You must surely have heard the gossip about him, about what he does to young girls!”
He turned and looked at her down his nose. “Your mother is quite happy here, ja?” he asked slowly. He smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “She and the child. You wouldn’t want anything to…upset her, now, would you?”
As veiled threats went, it was a masterpiece. She felt her body going numb as she considered what he was hinting at. She knew that her mother was afraid of him and that she was deeply regretting her marriage. Brianne also knew that her mother was vulnerable with the new child. She couldn’t really afford to make Kurt madder than he already was, for her mother’s sake. But there was no way on earth she could marry that repulsive man, even to save her mother and half brother!
She stood there, defiant but frightened, uneasy, searching for the right words. Pierce could save her. She couldn’t tell her stepfather that; her words might inflame him to the point that he would do something desperate to her poor mother. For almost two years she’d blamed her mother for her hasty marriage and equally hasty pregnancy, but blood was thicker than water. She couldn’t cause her only remaining parent to come to harm, regardless of her feelings of betrayal.
“You understand me, Brianne?” Kurt continued slyly. “You will do as I say?”
“Do I have a choice?” she replied quite calmly.
He smiled, not a pleasant smile at all. “No,” he returned. “So I think we might discuss plans for the wedding. Your mother will be happy to assist you, I am sure.”
“Not today,” she said, and searched desperately for an excuse. She squared her shoulders and came up with the perfect one. “I’m meeting a girlfriend for lunch at the Lobster Bar downtown.”
“A girlfriend?” He was immediately suspicious. “Who is she?”
Her mind would barely cooperate. “My friend Cara, from school,” she invented. “She’s on a cruise and will only be in town this afternoon. I haven’t see her since graduation.”
He hesitated, still not quite trusting her. He pursed his lips and thought for a minute. “Very well. But Philippe has sailed to one of the outer islands and is to arrive back here tomorrow. I will expect cooperation from you.”
“Certainly.”
She was pale and not as confident as she sounded, but she forced a smile for him and went to dress.

Brianne’s mother, Eve, having left the baby with the live-in nurse, slipped into her room as she was changing into jeans and a green silk shirt that matched her eyes.
“Has he spoken to you?” the older woman asked quickly.
“Yes,” Brianne replied. She stared at her mother, seeing the new lines in her pretty, soft face, the new haunted look in her pale eyes. “Indeed he has.”
Eve twisted her hands together. “I had no idea that he was going to take it this far, Brianne,” she said miserably. “I know you don’t like Mr. Sabon. I know what people say about him. But he’s very rich and powerful—”
“And you think money is the most important thing in the world,” she replied with cold eyes.
Her mother averted her gaze quickly. “I didn’t say that. He could give you anything you wanted, though. And it would make Kurt happy.”
“Making your husband happy isn’t my main goal in life, Mother,” Brianne said with an unfamiliar iciness in her tone. “And if you think I’m going to marry that man to keep Kurt Brauer happy, you are sadly misinformed.”
Her mother looked horrified. “You…you didn’t say that to him?” she asked with real fear.
“Of course not!” she replied quickly. “Mother, I’m not a fool. He did make certain threats about you, and the baby,” she added reluctantly. She and Eve had never been close. At times like this, it was sad, because they could have confided in each other, comforted each other. Eve had always lied about her age. Brianne’s very presence, not to mention her age, was a visible contradiction. Like many pretty women, she had a hard time accepting the advance of her years.

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