“Yes. Clayton, North Carolina. I thank you, Mr. Vandiver.”
“Good evening, Lauren. Would you care for some sherry?” Olivia spoke to her for the first time. She was dressed in black, the first evidence of mourning Lauren had seen her display since the funeral. Jet earrings dropped from her ears and matching beads glittered darkly from the bodice of her dress. She was beautiful, but in a dangerous sort of way. Lauren looked at her much as one would look at a deadly beast—with admiration, but caution.
“Yes, thank you. I’ll get it myself,” Lauren replied to Olivia’s question.
“No, allow me, please, Miss Holbrook. Sit down and I’ll bring it to you.” Kurt lightly took her elbow, guided her to one of the small sofas, and went to the sideboard that was well stocked with liquor and glasses.
Lauren’s eyes moved involuntarily to the silent man lounging in the chair and she was disconcerted when they locked into his golden gaze. He had not even stood when she came into the room. How very rude! His stare was almost menacing.
She held her breath, afraid that he would make reference to that afternoon, but he only held his glass to the light and studied it carefully as he said in a bored fashion, “Good evening, Miss Holbrook.” He made her name sound like an insult.
Kurt handed her the sherry, and she took a quick sip, determined to divert her attention from Jared. Kurt sat next to her on the sofa and began asking questions about her visit to Texas. She kept her responses as general and vague as she could. Kurt’s interest made her uneasy. His heavy body took up much of the space on the sofa, and she had to make an effort to avoid touching him. Deftly she steered the conversation away from herself.
“What line of business are you in, Mr. Vandiver?” Hadn’t Olivia and Carson referred to the Vandivers one evening at dinner? She couldn’t remember what had been said.
“Investments.” She looked puzzled, and he laughed slightly. “All kinds of investments—railroads, lumber, cattle. Currently we’re interested in getting electricity into these smaller towns.”
“I see,” murmured Lauren, although she didn’t see at all.
Carson picked up the conversation by launching into what he considered a humorous tale. Out of the corner of her eye, Lauren watched Jared get up from the chair, saunter to the sideboard, and pour himself another neat whiskey. Abruptly Olivia suggested they all go into dinner. To Lauren, the suggestion sounded like a command. Or a threat.
Lauren looked toward Olivia quickly and saw her gimlet eyes boring into her son. As if to be deliberately provoking, Jared gulped his drink and poured another, which he carried into the dining room along with the crystal decanter. If anyone but Lauren had noted this hostile exchange between mother and son, they didn’t show it. The Vandivers laughed heartily at Carson’s story as they crossed to the dining room.
Olivia and Carson sat at opposite ends of the table, with Lauren and Kurt on one side, and Jared and Parker on the other. Jared was directly across from Lauren. He gave her a slow appraisal as he took his seat, but his face was expressionless.
As dinner was served by Rosa, who had forsaken her bright skirts and loose blouse for a starched white uniform, Lauren studied the Vandivers.
Parker had a pugnacious face, almost brutal in its strength of feature. His piercing blue eyes darted around the room in quick movements, as if looking for hidden secrets. His voice and manner were polite and conversational, though Lauren suspected that he absorbed only the facts he considered pertinent and sloughed off the rest of what was said as inconsequential. His body was thick and solid. His fat hands, with fingers like tight, pink sausages, rested folded on his stomach whenever he was not using them. This relaxed posture was contradicted by his busy eyes.
Kurt was taller, though built in the same solid way. His eyes were as aggressive as his father’s, but he had deep dimples which appeared and disappeared at will, relieving the belligerence of his face. The cropped blond hair, also like his father’s, was crisp and wiry, fitting his head like a snug cap. His ruddy complexion made his eyebrows look white against his beefy forehead.
Though the Teutonic-featured Vandivers had exhibited perfect manners toward her, Lauren was instinctively wary of them. Their etiquette was too polished, their conversation too eloquent, their attitude too humble. Their entire demeanor seemed too rehearsed to be sincere. When she caught Kurt’s eyes on her, she shivered involuntarily. His rapacious expression was reminiscent of William’s.
Jared spoke very little, ate almost nothing, drank quite a lot. He responded in low, disinterested mumbles when anyone directed a question to him, and initiated no conversation himself. Lauren was uneasy at his careful, persistent scrutiny of her. It seemed that his implacable eyes never left her face for the hour they were at the table.
If Lauren found the meal tedious, to Jared it was interminable. He despised the Vandivers and the grasping ambition that they unsuccessfully tried to camouflage with sleek conversation and courtly manners. Jared hated all forms of deception and pretense. And this China doll opposite me is an expert at it, he thought cynically.
He tried to ignore Lauren, but finally gave up the effort and studied her, wanting to figure her out. He admitted to himself that she wasn’t what he had expected. Not at all. And Jared didn’t like surprises. That’s why he had been furious with Ben the night before he died.
No, I refuse to think of that, he told himself.
Lauren handled her cutlery with graceful ease, and Jared was intrigued by her hands. They looked soft and smooth. The fingers were long and slim and tapered to pink oval nails that were well kept. What had he expected to see? Red nail lacquer?
What had Ben said? Oh, yes. She was a pianist. Jared chuckled to himself and thought ribaldly of a more pleasant activity for those han
ds. Then he wondered fleetingly if this woman even knew about things like that, and quickly decided that she didn’t. He had seen the fearful caution in her eyes this afternoon when he had touched her. It was genuine. That was the rub.
She raised the velvety lashes that hid her eyes and glanced in his direction. For a moment, she returned his steady gaze, then rapidly shifted her eyes away from him. He could see why Ben had been hoodwinked by the little tart. A man could drown in those dove-colored eyes before he even knew he was sinking. She knew how to use them, too. You were never graced with a full look, only an elusive glance. It was enough to make you go crazy if she didn’t look at you directly.
She had too much hair, he decided. It was too heavy for her finely boned face and figure. Yet the knot on top of her head was softened by the bouffant fullness around her face. She didn’t need any “rats” like other women used to achieve this style. The wispy tendrils that framed her temples seemed more translucent than the china from which they ate.
His eyes moved to the gold watch pinned to her breast. He shifted in his chair uncomfortably and unconsciously moistened his lips with his tongue when he looked at the gentle rise and fall of her bosom. Whatever else was fake about her—her quiet voice, circumspect manners, her reasons for trailing Ben halfway across the country—one thing was real. He could still feel the firm cushion of her breast against his palm. His hand trembled slightly as he poured another glass of whiskey, and his manhood refused to relax.
He should leave now. He should mount Charger and go into Pueblo for a nice, uncomplicated toss in the hay with a whore. But he didn’t really want to. He knew his constant staring was making Lauren ill at ease. If it weren’t such a damned entertaining exercise in itself, her discomfort was incentive enough for him to stay.
* * *
As they returned to the parlor after the meal, Carson commented, “It’s a pity that you don’t have a piano, Olivia. Lauren could play for us.”