Silver and Spice

Chapter 1

Anne was restless.

Just behind her, hothouse orchids festooned the curved mahogany banister. As she wandered outside onto the Cords’ terrace, she saw a trio of musicians playing Haydn, their foreheads glistening beneath Japanese lanterns. On the lawn by the pool, four long tables, draped in Irish linen, were laden with gourmet fare. Oysters, raw. Sautéed frogs’ legs. Crackers heaped with Russian caviar. The little black blobs were mounded high, Anne noted wryly. A bit of caviar denied the true taste; a mound delivered the appropriate experience. Tuxedoed waiters circulated between house and yard bearing trays of champagne in hollow-stemmed glasses. Anne considered dryly that Loretta Cord’s “only a simple Sunday barbecue, darling” had been rather an understatement.

She shouldn’t have come, Anne told herself as she went back into the house. Many nights she might have enjoyed the Cords’ gala, but tonight wasn’t one of them. Tonight she was in a strange mood; she felt like taking a midnight walk in her bare feet when the rain was pelting down, for instance. Knowing she wasn’t the walk-in-the-rain type made her feel even more irritable. And because she was rarely so out of sorts, she felt triply annoyed with herself.

She knew why Loretta had invited her. Oh, Link-the sweetheart-had undoubtedly been the one to propose her name for the guest list, but subject, of course, to his wife’s approval. And Loretta, naturally, had approved. Yes, Loretta Cord knew that a banker is a wonderful friend to have when one’s mink isn’t paid for. Actually, Loretta’s mink had been paid for, but the lady always covered her bets.

Others at the party had not been so clever through the recession. Certain pairs of eyes shifted from Anne’s as she wandered from room to room. It always happened. As a trust officer, Anne really didn’t know or care whether anyone regularly overdrew his or her checking account, but people assumed she was privy to all their financial transactions and reacted instinctively. When one saw a police car in the rearview mirror, one slowed down to the legal speed. When a priest wandered by, one stopped screaming at Jimmy and kissed the little monster. And when a banker ambled into the vicinity, one miraculously remembered every financial misdemeanor of one’s life.

Taking a sip from her first glass of champagne, Anne knew that she could make the effort, transcend the touchy social barriers, and even have a good time. These were neighbors if not close friends, and moodiness really wasn’t her scene. It was just tonight… She sighed and continued to prowl restlessly through the Cords’ spacious house, which was a mansion even by Grosse Pointe standards.

She caught a glimpse of herself in a hallway mirror and frowned broodingly. Her ash-blond hair was waist length; tonight, as always, it was appropriately roped, tied and tamed with pins. Her back was covered only by a latticework of black raw silk that seemed more bare space than fabric, though in front the gown demurely stretched to a high-banded collar. Well, perhaps “demurely” was not precisely accurate. The bias cut in front very definitely emphasized her pert, rounded breasts, unremarkable in size but rather sassily uptilted. At the waist, the gown gave up teasing and simply fell to the floor. As she strolled the length of the hallway, a slit in the dress revealed a slim long calf and thigh.

Nature had endowed her with vulnerable, deep-set eyes of a soft green, heavily lashed and accented with slim, arched brows. Nature had also bestowed on her a cameo-fragile complexion, high, delicate cheekbones, a nose just a little too long, and distinctly shaped, petal-soft lips.

Anne had never been grateful for nature’s gifts, however. She had chased the vulnerable look from her eyes with subtle gray eye shadow; she had used foundation and blusher to make her skin seem less fragile; and she had expertly lined her delicate mouth with lip pencil and then gloss. She’d learned a long time ago to make a little makeup go a long way. Overall the image was flawless, aristocratic-an image Anne expected of herself. She had hidden all of her natural touch-me looks inside a not-to-be-touched perfection.

Exactly the goal.

With a sigh, Anne strolled into the living room to join the other party guests, determined to shake herself out of the brooding mood. She was talking to Blaire Culverton when she saw him…the wolfish profile and sand-silver hair, pagan shoulders stifled in a black tux. He had his arm around a little brunette with beautiful, straight white teeth. He kissed the woman lightly, laughing…and-for no reason that Anne could tell-looked up.

His eyes captured hers before she could look away. Silvery-gray eyes. Predatory eyes.

They shifted slowly up and down the black silk dress, the carefully applied makeup and the well-constrained hair; just as slowly, a crooked half-smile appeared at the corners of his mouth. Anne could guess the picture he had conjured up in his mind, of each layer of perfection peeled away at the slow, lazy pace that would suit him. His jaw firmed as the smile suddenly left his mouth and the wolfish eyes met hers again and his gaze bored into her. The message was starkly sexual, not a playful come-on or invitation, but a bold claim of possession. I’m going to have you…

Don’t hold your breath, she thought fleetingly, but her face went pale. Not that she couldn’t hold her own with a wolf here and there. She was thirty-one, no child. Yet her palms were oddly cold and damp, her throat ridiculously dry. And her heart was beating a mad tattoo…

She put an arm on Blaire’s shoulder and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, murmuring an apology for having to leave the arresting conversation on supply-side economics. In a graceful swirl of black silk, she deliberately wended her way out of the living room and into the hall, near the banister with the orchids. There were people there, lots and lots of people…

“Anne? Darling, I haven’t seen you in so long!” In a cloud of Chanel and rose chiffon, Jane Harrison gathered up Anne for a buss and a hug. The two women laughed and settled on the third step of the long stairway. “I’m so glad to see you after all this time!” Jane exclaimed. “I’ve got all sorts of things to tell you…”

The caterers were even willing to deliver champagne to stair-sitters, and Jane Harrison had the same sort of effervescence as the sparkling wine. Their friendship had initially been created by sharing any number of totally erroneous concepts about love, life and sex-late at night over potato chips-at the private high school they’d both attended. After fifteen years, Jane was still the talker-her children, her interests, her divorce-while Anne still listened, not unhappy to dole out numerous affectionate servings of compassion, as long as Jane didn’t expect her to bare her own soul. But Jane certainly never did that, so gradually Anne felt her limbs relax again, her pulse obediently slow as Jane chattered.

Twenty minutes lapsed, full of laughter and old memories, before another tray of champagne lilted past and Jane rose and stepped forward to retrieve fresh glasses for the two of them. Out of nowhere, Anne felt a shivery touch at the nape of her neck.

Jane turned around, her blue eyes widening as she took in the retreating figure in a black tux. When he was out of sight, she grinned impishly at Anne, setting down both champagne glasses. “Did you see that hunk?” she whispered appreciatively, sighing as she refolded the rose chiffon over her chunky legs. “Wonder what he was doing upstairs?” she added with a wicked little smile. “You don’t know him, do you? What’s the matter, darling?”

“Nothing. Oh, of all the ridiculous… I seem to have lost some hairpins.”

They both searched. Nothing remotely resembling a hairpin was anywhere near the stairs. With a smile, Anne cut off the conversation with Jane and maneuvered quickly down the hall to a bathroom. Apprehensively, she forced herself to look in the mirror. The loss of a half-dozen hairpins made a difference to a mane of hair that reached her waist. The style, rearranged, was of necessity less severe, with looser loops and curls that were not anywhere near as…perfect.

She’d taken merely four steps into the living room when she realized that he was there. This time he was talking to a cluster of men, his tux jacket open and one of his hands loosely in a pocket as he laughed. The strong features and silvery eyes again reminded her of a wolf. On the endangered species list in many parts of the world, wolves. Anne, normally sympathetic to that cause, couldn’t seem to raise any compassion. He managed to turn toward her before she could back up and out of sight.

His silver eyes were steely with determination. The intent to stalk his prey was so blatant that she caught her breath. And then lifted her chin, turning away with a small smile. The poor man was so arrogant. But just how far did he think he could take his little game in a houseful of people?

She wanted air, anyway. On the terrace, dancers were cuddled up for the torch songs the musicians were now playing. A restless breeze ruffled the white tablecloths on the lawn by the pool; lanterns swayed in the cloudy September night. A very nice, very safe man caught her eye…

She’d occasionally dated Warren Stuart summers, or on college semester breaks. He’d earned his law degree at Harvard since then, and as if his body knew it, he wasn’t nearly as good a dancer as he’d once been. The stiffness lingered even as he tried to hold her close, undoubtedly hoping to forget his wife and two children. So much for safety. Still, Anne closed her eyes, the picture of a lady enjoying herself, caught up in the music and the night and a good-looking man. The slight breeze cooled her, bringing unaccustomed color to her cheeks.

Her fingers curled loosely over Warren’s collar, as his did at her waist. He pulled back, smiling at her. “You always were the best, Anne,” he said warmly. “I haven’t seen you in so long. Happy these days?”

She nodded simply, and he pulled her close again. The patio around them grew crowded, making it more and more difficult to dance without bumping into someone. When the last chords of the second song died, she drew back from Warren, smiling. “You think we’ve been at it long enough to make your wife jealous?” she asked teasingly.

He laughed, throwing back his head. “If it weren’t for Amanda, honey…”

Warren’s hands were affectionately holding hers, yet like the caress of a breeze she again felt the shiver of fingertips behind her. It was nothing. Just the merest touch at the base of her neck, and then the swift sweep of a hand all the way down to the intimate curve of her hips. Undoubtedly an accident-someone trying to move past the crowd of dancers. Of course. Her smile never faltered, but her hand whipped out of Warren’s, her fingers instinctively closing around the nape of her neck as if she’d suddenly discovered an aching muscle. “I’m going to have a little talk with your Amanda,” she told Warren with a little laugh before leaving him and swiftly making her way off the patio.

Unfortunately, both bathrooms on the ground floor were occupied. Belatedly, she remembered a small one off the kitchen, and smiled apologetically at the harried catering crew filling up trays as she passed. In the tiny square cubicle, she hurriedly refastened the collar that held up her dress. If she had been any less quick, her breasts would have been on display. Not Anne’s style.

There was a million-to-one chance, of course, that the two hooks and eyes had loosened on their own. Most people, she knew, would probably never even notice his resemblance to a wolf. Most people would probably be taken in by the character lines etched deeply between the man’s brows, around his mouth and eyes. A character made up of humor and certainly intelligence and whatever wayward charm had led a group of conservative, prominent men to cluster around him… No one but Anne would have guessed that he was capable of such a childish, unforgivable, ridiculous, arrogant…

Anne glanced at the mirror and was taken aback at the sight of her luminous jade-green eyes so unconsciously full of laughter. The devil!

Hurriedly, she slipped back to join the party, this time deliberately seeking her host. She found Link Cord near the pool filling his plate, his wife at his side. Link was sixty, gray-haired and husky, these days sporting iron-gray whiskers that were supposed to look distinguished…and in any case hid a smoothly rounded chin. To Anne, he still very much resembled the neighbor she remembered from childhood-the man who had filled her pockets with silver dollars the day she’d dropped an ice cream cone on the grass, a long time ago. And when he saw her, his dark blue eyes sparkled, the corners crinkling like tiny fans. He opened his arms, and she willingly snuggled into them.

“I was beginning to wonder if you were here, sweetheart. I didn’t see you.”

“I’ve been here and having a marvelous time,” Anne assured him, and then hugged Loretta Cord as well, with a little less enthusiasm. “You’ve done it all exactly right, as always,” she whispered to Link.

He was sensitive about that. Link had come from some rustic cow town in Nebraska, and the exact amount of caviar on each cracker was a critical matter to him, thanks to years of lectures from Loretta. He beamed down at Anne. “Come on, come on. We’ll get you something to eat. And don’t give me any nonsense about your figure. You’ve got everyone in the place outclassed and you know it…”

Obediently, Anne filled up her plate with oysters and crab and frogs’ legs she had no intention of eating, and edged away just a little so that Link and Loretta could greet another guest.

From the corner of her eye, she saw him again. He was dancing, his partner a tall, sylphlike woman with a spectacular head of red hair. A lovely woman, really…

The silver-gray eyes met hers. Did he actually understand that once she’d paid her respects to the Cords she was free to leave? The man seemed to have no manners at all, deserting his redhead in the middle of a dance. Rapidly, Anne averted her eyes and frantically searched for a place to set her plate down. The game was fun, but the thought of an actual meeting caused panic to well up inside her.

He was moving slowly toward her, enjoying the stalk. Behind her host’s back, Anne set her plate down, took a single quick step and felt Link’s hand curl around her wrist like a velvet handcuff. “Come on, sweetheart,” he whispered. “There’s someone I’ve been wanting you to meet for a long time.”

With Link hugging her shoulder, Anne turned, smiling weakly as she stared with deliberate disinterest at a chin made of steel. Just a small distance up from that chin was a disconcertingly sensual mouth, curved in a half-mocking smile. “Anne Blake, is it?” She had to lift her head to meet his gaze. He had the advantage of looking down, his silvery eyes hooded for Link’s benefit. Not for hers. He was staring at her mouth, as if the only thing on his mind was crushing it…very softly, very thoroughly.

“This is Jake Rivard, Anne. I never did understand how the two of you never happened to meet up before,” Link said jovially. “Heck, you both had parents that hopped the globe, but your grandparents lived just three doors away from each other. And in the last few years Anne’s even done business for your grandfather, Jake.”

“Mr…Rivers?”

He took the hand she had not extended, chuckling appreciatively at her deliberate mistake. “Rivard,” he corrected lazily. “Fine party, Link.”

“I noticed you were having a good time, Jake,” Link said with satisfaction.

Anne had also noticed that Jake was enjoying himself. First with the brunette, and then with the redhead. And he was still having a good time, imprisoning her small hand neatly in his larger one. She could feel the grain of calluses on his palm, and she could also feel her control begin to slip, the control she always resented losing. The stalk had been going on for more than an hour. Her humor was beginning to give way to an attack of nerves. A delicious adrenaline was coursing through her bloodstream; she was well aware of the danger. She felt high, light-headed. He was a powerful sexual animal. She valued that in the same way that she respected any predator-as long as he understood that she wasn’t prey.

His hand slowly freed hers, his thumb gently rubbing against her slender wrist as he let her go. “You don’t mind if I take Anne away for a dance, do you, Link?”

“Of course not. You just show her a real good time, Jake. She’s one special lady to me.”

Anne smiled weakly. “Actually, I sort of left a friend all alone in the house. If you would mind just for a moment, Mr.-”

“Rivard,” he supplied.

“I’ll be right back to claim that dance,” she assured him.

“I’m sure you will.”

There would be a snowstorm in hell before her cool, calm flesh would come in direct contact with his lean, hungry body-and he knew it. She could feel his eyes on the open spaces in the back of her dress as she walked away.

It didn’t matter. Anne was leaving. Well, in a minute she was leaving. She wanted to see one last person before she left.

Angela Stone was a white-haired wisp of an aristocrat, dressed in a plain white gown with a blaze of sapphires at her throat. “How’s your grandmother, Anne? I spoke to her on the phone last week, but neither of us really had a chance to talk…”

Anne tried to relax, taking the straight chair next to the older woman. “I miss her when she goes south,” Anne admitted. “In fact, I’ve been worried about her lately.”

“Now, she has a horde of people to take care of her, dear. You’re so very like her, Anne, never letting anyone do a thing for you. One doesn’t quibble with that kind of character. One simply tries to relax and not worry. Tell me what you’ve been up to.”

Anne automatically shied from talking about herself. Instead, she switched to Mrs. Stone’s favorite subject-her artists and the scholarships she’d set up for budding sculptors. Occasionally, people came by to interrupt; Link, for one, bent over to kiss Angela’s cheek, and another neighbor did the same to Anne. The later it grew, the cooler the breeze became, and more and more people wandered inside. Still, it wasn’t until Anne felt a curl start to slip on her neck that she realized he’d been there again.

With a flush in her cheeks, she stood up-but not soon enough. She could feel all the snaky coils of long hair begin to unwind. “I’ll tell Gran everything you said, Mrs. Stone. How good it is to see you again.”

“So few people take the time for an old lady these days, Anne. Give Jennie my love.”

Anne managed to reach the front door before her hair actually tumbled. She reached up frantically; there were three pins left. Irritably, she wrenched those out, and the rest of the tumbling mane promptly cascaded down her back, all soft and tickly through the silk latticework of her dress.

It didn’t matter; she was through with the party anyway. From the front steps, she could see the long line of cars parked along the road; the cement walk that led down to them was bordered by hedges trimmed into animal shapes. One bush was a wolf. The long slope of grass had the sheen of dew; fall leaves whispered as she hurried through the darkness toward the shores of Lake St. Clair. She had parked her car a block away.

As she approached her little red MG, her step faltered. He was already there, leaning back against the car directly ahead of hers. The dark green Morgan had not been there when she parked; her MG had barely fit between two monstrous gas guzzlers, and she remembered both well. His sleek car was of classic vintage, long and low, not the type of car she was likely to forget.

He was leaning back, arms folded lazily across his chest. Even in the darkness, she could make out the silvery eyes, glinting directly on hers, the waiting in them controlled. Barely. Impatiently, she reached her car, leaned over to toss in her purse, and then, with exasperation, slipped off one shoe and hurled it at him. Then the other. He was picking up the silver sandals when she vaulted into the driver’s seat, hitching up her skirts in a motion that proved she had given up on ladylike modesty.

Her stockinged toe pressed lightly on the accelerator as she started the engine, and with practiced finesse she edged the MG rapidly out of the parking space. In seconds, she was roaring down the quiet boulevard, her long hair spinning a cloak around her. She saw from her rearview mirror that he hadn’t even gotten in his car yet.

During the fifteen-minute drive to her condominium, nearly all of Anne’s image of perfection was destroyed. Her stockings were snagged, her skirt was hitched up over her knees, her hair was a witch’s tangle around her, she’d bitten off the shiny lip gloss, and the wind had whipped away most of her other makeup. She was exceeding the speed limit, so she hugged the dark side roads where no one was likely to notice her. The police had little to do in this affluent suburb of Detroit except catch speeders.

Braking sharply as she reached her condo, Anne felt a moment of triumph when she saw that there wasn’t another car in sight. Certainly not a long, low Morgan. Holding her skirts up, she sprinted over the wet, grassy yard to reach her door, breathless as she worked the key in the lock.

In seconds, she was inside and throwing the dead bolt, and then she leaned back against the door until she could breathe normally again. Every nerve ending was tingling. Laughter was trying to bubble up inside of her.

The condo was dark, with only the pale light from the small lamp falling on the pair of white velvet couches with their scattering of shocking pink pillows. Her fig tree was getting huge, playing a marvelous game of Shadows on the thick white carpet. The chrome and pewter appointments gleamed, giving evidence of her meticulous care. Magazines were neatly aligned on small, elegant tables. Somewhere along the way she seemed to have accumulated a collection of marble eggs; their pearly pink surfaces shone from the far corner of the French bookcase. Everything was in its place, all feminine perfection. She loved the look of the room.

Usually.

Switching off the small lamp, Anne ran her fingers back through her hair with a little sigh. A desperate feeling of disappointment came from nowhere to clutch at her heart. The chase had set off a confused kaleidoscope of emotions, none of which she wanted to deal with. Taking a brush from her purse, she restored at least basic order to her hair as she wandered into the kitchen. Suddenly thirsty, she took a long drink of water and listened, for a moment, to the lonely silence. A neighbor’s light went off in the distance across the courtyard, the only other light that had been on besides her own.

Slowly, she made her way to the bedroom and pushed open the door.

He was there. Lying back against her pillows, his shoes off and the tux jacket opened, his unbuttoned shirt baring several inches of that sand-silver mat of hair on his chest.

Her heart skipped two beats and then raced; a small fist clenched in the folds of her skirt. “To begin with, there isn’t any possible way you could have gotten here ahead of me, and don’t even tell me how you got in,” she said furiously. “And to end with, Jake, the answer is no. Not again. Not this time.”

“Now, Anne.” His tone was coaxing, lazy. Slowly, he swung his legs over the side of her bed, taking three long strides before he reached her, her silver sandals dangling by their straps from one finger. “You didn’t really think the dead bolt would keep me out?” The hardness left his eyes, taking in that odd blend of vulnerability and stubborn determination that was Anne. “I’ve come better than two thousand miles to tell you I think it’s about time we got married,” he told her. “Let’s not start off with a quarrel.”