Night Whispers
Page 26
He pressed the button on the box.
"Yes?" a male voice spoke.
"Sloan Reynolds and Paul Richardson," he said.
The gates parted in the center and swung open.
14
Whenever Sloan had imagined this moment, she'd pictured her father opening the door and greeting her personally, so now she braced herself to look pleasant but noncommittal. Her effort was successful but entirely wasted on the tall, fair-haired butler who actually opened the door and who managed to seem almost as pleasant and even more noncommittal than she. "Good afternoon, Miss Reynolds. Good afternoon, Mr. Richardson," he intoned in a deep voice that bore faint traces of a Nordic accent. "The family is expecting you. Please follow me."
He led them down a wide, tiled hallway with archways on both sides that opened into numerous spacious rooms, all of them furnished in European antiques. At the end of the hall, a door opened suddenly, and Sloan had her first look at her father as he strode forward to greet her himself. Since he'd had a heart attack, and since he'd been so anxious for an opportunity to make amends, she naturally expected him to appear remorseful and haggard, but the man striding toward her was lithe, tanned, and very handsome. "Sloan!" he said, stopping in front of her and holding out his hand.
Sloan automatically held out her hand for what she presumed would be a handshake, but he covered her hand with both of his and kept it. "My God, you look so much like your mother that it's almost eerie," he said with a warm smile; then he added with simple sincerity, "Thank you for coming."
Sloan's entire body was shaking with nervous tension, but somehow her voice sounded steady and normal. "This is my friend, Paul Richardson."
The two men shook hands; then Carter's gaze returned to her. "For some reason," he admitted ruefully, "I assumed the friend you were bringing with you was female. Nordstrom had two guest rooms made ready, but—"
"That will be fine," Sloan said swiftly.
His smile warmed even more, and Sloan had the impression that her father was pleased that she wasn't so brazen that she wished to share a bedroom in his home with her "boyfriend." She wasn't quite certain how he managed to communicate that to her, and she had to remind herself that she didn't care what he thought. "Nordstrom will take care of your luggage," he said. "Now, come along with me. Your sister and your great-grandmother are in the solarium."
As they started forward, a slender man of about thirty-five with thinning hair and wire-rimmed glasses walked out of a room near the main staircase carrying a sheaf of papers that he was reading. Carter stopped him and introduced him to Sloan and Paul as Gary Dishler. "Gary is my assistant," Carter explained. "Whatever you need while you're here, just ask Gary if I'm not here."
With a pleasant smile and a manner as informal as the open-collared shirt he was wearing, Gary shook hands with both of them. "Please don't hesitate to call on me for any reason," he said. "I'm sort of a jack-of-all-trades."
The solarium was a huge, octagonal glass room at the back of the house, filled with full-size trees, tropical plants, and a little Asian bridge that crossed a miniature stream. Wicker settees with plump pillows were arranged in groupings beside pots filled with exotic blooms and beneath trellises covered in flowering vines. Near the footbridge, surrounded by towering trees and white orchids, two women watched the trio approach, and Sloan braced herself for a meeting that felt as odd as the setting in which it was taking place.
Paris's newspaper pictures had not done her justice, Sloan realized as she approached her glamorous sister. With her ivory skin, large brown eyes, and dark and glossy shoulder-length hair, Paris was the epitome of stylish elegance in a jade linen dress with a narrow skirt, wide sleeves, and tight cuffs decorated with bright gold buttons at the wrist. Still and silent, her hands folded loosely in her lap atop what appeared to be a sketchbook, she gazed at Sloan without betraying any emotion whatsoever.
Annoyed with her own attack of nervousness, Sloan concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Since she couldn't look as blasé as her sister, she focused instead on the ancient, thin woman seated beside her. Paul had described Edith Reynolds as a dragon, but Sloan thought she looked more like a frail hawk. Dressed in a stark black dress with a thick pearl choker at her throat, the old woman had a narrow patrician face, white skin as pale as her pearls, white eyebrows, and white hair pulled back into a severe chignon. Her light blue eyes were the only spot of color on her entire being, but they were as sharp and intense as twin laser beams as they focused on each and every feature of Sloan's face.
There was nothing frail about her voice either when she cut Carter off at the beginning of his attempted introduction. "Our identities must be obvious to her, Carter," she snapped. She transferred her glare to Sloan as if daring her to contradict that; then she said brusquely, "I am your great-grandmother, this is your sister, and you are Sloan."
Since her attitude verged on rudeness, Sloan decided to reply with nothing more than a silent nod of agreement, which caused the old woman to look a little taken aback. She switched her attention to Paul and attacked him instead. "Who are you?" she demanded.
This time, common courtesy required Sloan to speak. "This is my friend Paul Richardson," she said evenly; then she glanced at her father, who seemed to be completely unconcerned by the old woman's bizarre attitude. "I did make it clear that I was bringing a friend," she told the white-haired woman.
"Yes, but we naturally assumed you meant you were bringing a female with you," Edith Reynolds informed her. "I hope you do not intend to share a bedroom with him here."
Sloan had a swift, sudden urge to either laugh or leave, but since neither reaction fitted the personality Paul wanted her to assume, she tried to look completely oblivious to the old woman's provoking attitude. "No, ma'am, I didn't."
"Do not call me ma'am," she snapped. "You may address me as Great-grandmother," she decreed after a moment. She sounded like a monarch reluctantly granting an undeserved favor to a lowly peasant, and Sloan instantly decided never, ever, to address her in that way.
Oblivious of Sloan's mental mutiny, she turned her dagger gaze on Paul. "How old are you?"
"Thirty-nine."
"In that case, you are old enough to understand that in my house, certain rules of decorum are followed, regardless of whether anyone is around to watch you. Do you take my meaning?"
"Yes?" a male voice spoke.
"Sloan Reynolds and Paul Richardson," he said.
The gates parted in the center and swung open.
14
Whenever Sloan had imagined this moment, she'd pictured her father opening the door and greeting her personally, so now she braced herself to look pleasant but noncommittal. Her effort was successful but entirely wasted on the tall, fair-haired butler who actually opened the door and who managed to seem almost as pleasant and even more noncommittal than she. "Good afternoon, Miss Reynolds. Good afternoon, Mr. Richardson," he intoned in a deep voice that bore faint traces of a Nordic accent. "The family is expecting you. Please follow me."
He led them down a wide, tiled hallway with archways on both sides that opened into numerous spacious rooms, all of them furnished in European antiques. At the end of the hall, a door opened suddenly, and Sloan had her first look at her father as he strode forward to greet her himself. Since he'd had a heart attack, and since he'd been so anxious for an opportunity to make amends, she naturally expected him to appear remorseful and haggard, but the man striding toward her was lithe, tanned, and very handsome. "Sloan!" he said, stopping in front of her and holding out his hand.
Sloan automatically held out her hand for what she presumed would be a handshake, but he covered her hand with both of his and kept it. "My God, you look so much like your mother that it's almost eerie," he said with a warm smile; then he added with simple sincerity, "Thank you for coming."
Sloan's entire body was shaking with nervous tension, but somehow her voice sounded steady and normal. "This is my friend, Paul Richardson."
The two men shook hands; then Carter's gaze returned to her. "For some reason," he admitted ruefully, "I assumed the friend you were bringing with you was female. Nordstrom had two guest rooms made ready, but—"
"That will be fine," Sloan said swiftly.
His smile warmed even more, and Sloan had the impression that her father was pleased that she wasn't so brazen that she wished to share a bedroom in his home with her "boyfriend." She wasn't quite certain how he managed to communicate that to her, and she had to remind herself that she didn't care what he thought. "Nordstrom will take care of your luggage," he said. "Now, come along with me. Your sister and your great-grandmother are in the solarium."
As they started forward, a slender man of about thirty-five with thinning hair and wire-rimmed glasses walked out of a room near the main staircase carrying a sheaf of papers that he was reading. Carter stopped him and introduced him to Sloan and Paul as Gary Dishler. "Gary is my assistant," Carter explained. "Whatever you need while you're here, just ask Gary if I'm not here."
With a pleasant smile and a manner as informal as the open-collared shirt he was wearing, Gary shook hands with both of them. "Please don't hesitate to call on me for any reason," he said. "I'm sort of a jack-of-all-trades."
The solarium was a huge, octagonal glass room at the back of the house, filled with full-size trees, tropical plants, and a little Asian bridge that crossed a miniature stream. Wicker settees with plump pillows were arranged in groupings beside pots filled with exotic blooms and beneath trellises covered in flowering vines. Near the footbridge, surrounded by towering trees and white orchids, two women watched the trio approach, and Sloan braced herself for a meeting that felt as odd as the setting in which it was taking place.
Paris's newspaper pictures had not done her justice, Sloan realized as she approached her glamorous sister. With her ivory skin, large brown eyes, and dark and glossy shoulder-length hair, Paris was the epitome of stylish elegance in a jade linen dress with a narrow skirt, wide sleeves, and tight cuffs decorated with bright gold buttons at the wrist. Still and silent, her hands folded loosely in her lap atop what appeared to be a sketchbook, she gazed at Sloan without betraying any emotion whatsoever.
Annoyed with her own attack of nervousness, Sloan concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Since she couldn't look as blasé as her sister, she focused instead on the ancient, thin woman seated beside her. Paul had described Edith Reynolds as a dragon, but Sloan thought she looked more like a frail hawk. Dressed in a stark black dress with a thick pearl choker at her throat, the old woman had a narrow patrician face, white skin as pale as her pearls, white eyebrows, and white hair pulled back into a severe chignon. Her light blue eyes were the only spot of color on her entire being, but they were as sharp and intense as twin laser beams as they focused on each and every feature of Sloan's face.
There was nothing frail about her voice either when she cut Carter off at the beginning of his attempted introduction. "Our identities must be obvious to her, Carter," she snapped. She transferred her glare to Sloan as if daring her to contradict that; then she said brusquely, "I am your great-grandmother, this is your sister, and you are Sloan."
Since her attitude verged on rudeness, Sloan decided to reply with nothing more than a silent nod of agreement, which caused the old woman to look a little taken aback. She switched her attention to Paul and attacked him instead. "Who are you?" she demanded.
This time, common courtesy required Sloan to speak. "This is my friend Paul Richardson," she said evenly; then she glanced at her father, who seemed to be completely unconcerned by the old woman's bizarre attitude. "I did make it clear that I was bringing a friend," she told the white-haired woman.
"Yes, but we naturally assumed you meant you were bringing a female with you," Edith Reynolds informed her. "I hope you do not intend to share a bedroom with him here."
Sloan had a swift, sudden urge to either laugh or leave, but since neither reaction fitted the personality Paul wanted her to assume, she tried to look completely oblivious to the old woman's provoking attitude. "No, ma'am, I didn't."
"Do not call me ma'am," she snapped. "You may address me as Great-grandmother," she decreed after a moment. She sounded like a monarch reluctantly granting an undeserved favor to a lowly peasant, and Sloan instantly decided never, ever, to address her in that way.
Oblivious of Sloan's mental mutiny, she turned her dagger gaze on Paul. "How old are you?"
"Thirty-nine."
"In that case, you are old enough to understand that in my house, certain rules of decorum are followed, regardless of whether anyone is around to watch you. Do you take my meaning?"
