Night Whispers Read online

  “I don’t have a problem, exactly. I just don’t know what to do with him. He was trying to flirt with me.”

  “Then flirt with him.”

  Sloan twisted the stem of her wineglass in her fingers. “I’m not very good at flirting, and he’s very good at it.”

  “Well, practice on Maitland. Pretend he’s someone you’re investigating, only smile at him when you ask him questions about himself, and then remember to smile at him while he’s answering. Look straight into his eyes. No, not like that!” he said with a sharp crack of laughter. “You looked catatonic.”

  “Just what do you suggest I ask him about?” Sloan retorted, stung by his laughter.

  “What’s the first thing you wondered about after he picked us up tonight?”

  “I wondered how much he pays for a tune-up for his Rolls-Royce!”

  “Well, don’t ask him that,” Paul warned with another laugh.

  “We don’t exactly have a lot in common,” Sloan said, irritated anew by his mirth. “He’s a rich, spoiled aristocrat from another universe. Just look at the suit he’s wearing. How much do you think it cost?”

  “Don’t ask him that, either,” Paul said.

  “I’m not completely stupid. However, I’m glad you think this is so funny.”

  She sounded genuinely hurt, and Paul sobered. “Sloan, you have a job to do. I’d like to know about those documents he brought over to the house this morning. Make peace with him. Better yet, make friends with him. Friends tell each other things. Your father regards Maitland as a friend, and he’s undoubtedly mentioned things to Maitland in passing that we might find interesting even if they don’t seem significant to Maitland. Understand?”

  Sloan decided to take advantage of their remaining moments of privacy to discuss something else. “If you’re interested, I know the security layout at the house.”

  “I’m interested.”

  • • •

  The music was winding down, and Sloan hurriedly added the rest of the information she needed to share with him: “One more thing—Paris asked me today about my relationship with you, and I told her that we aren’t romantically involved.”

  She told him what she’d said and why she’d done it, and Paul nodded. “Okay. That’s good. Actually, the way things are working out, I think it’s going to be very much to our advantage if she and Maitland both know that.”

  “Paris likes you,” Sloan warned. “She thinks you’re trustworthy.”

  “I like her, too.”

  “You know what I’m trying to say.”

  “I do, and stop frowning at me. It looks odd.” Sloan smoothed her frown into a smile. “That’s better. You concentrate on Maitland. I’ll worry about Paris.”

  Sloan had neither the desire nor the opportunity to follow Paul’s instructions on that matter, because Noah Maitland treated her with chilling courtesy for the rest of the evening.

  23

  Courtney poked her head into the kitchen, where a stout woman in her early sixties was stirring chopped pecans into pancake batter. “Morning, Claudine. Where is everyone?”

  “Your brother decided to have his breakfast on the terrace,” she said without looking up. “Your father is outside, too.”

  “I’ll have a waffle. I’m glad you don’t get sick very often. Yesterday we had to fend for ourselves at breakfast. I burned my bagel.”

  “It’s a miracle you survived,” Claudine unsympathetically replied.

  “When I have my own cook, I’m going to have a French chef!”

  “Good, then you’ll get fat from all that rich food, and it will serve you right.”

  Satisfied with their ritual morning sparring session, Courtney grinned and retreated back through the doorway. “I think I’ll have French toast instead of pancakes.”

  Outside, she stopped at a serving cart where Claudine had set out a pitcher of fresh orange juice. She poured orange juice into a glass; then she sauntered down the terrace steps to the second level, where Noah was seated at a table beneath a bright yellow umbrella, reading one of several newspapers stacked near his elbow.

  “How did you make out with Sloan Reynolds last night?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You’re kidding,” Courtney said with unconcealed delight as she slid into the chair next to him. “You struck out?”

  He turned to the financial section before he answered. “I crashed and burned,” he murmured without looking up.

  “The woman must be blind!”

  Noah mistook her remark for loyalty and flashed her a brief smile. “Thank you.”

  Courtney was quick to correct his mistake. “I meant she must be blind, or else she can’t read, because she obviously hasn’t had a look at your financial statement. If she had, she’d be sitting in your lap, right now.” When that failed to evoke a reaction from him, she looked over her right shoulder across the lawn, toward the beach. “Where is our father?”

  “The last time I saw him, he was digging in a flower bed near the edge of the lawn.”

  Courtney leaned back and peered around a clump of trees, looking for him. “That’s not what he’s doing now. He’s standing around like he’s watching for someone. I’ll bet he’s watching for Sloan! It was about this same time yesterday when he saw her.”

  That got Noah’s attention, Courtney noticed. He twisted around in his chair and squinted into the sun.

  “Just because you struck out doesn’t mean he will. Maybe she prefers older men. I would love to have a look at this woman. I think I’ll go down there and hang around with him.”

  “No you won’t. Don’t embarrass us.”

  “I like to embarrass us.”

  Noah had a feeling she was right about their father’s reason for lingering by the shrubbery at the edge of the lawn, and he sighed in disgust. “Roger Kilman called for him a little while ago. Run down there and tell him he had a phone call. It’s absurd for him to be standing around like that.”

  “Jealous?”

  “That’s enough!” Noah warned sharply; then he instantly regretted his tone. “Will you just do what I asked you to do without an argument for a change?”

  “Possibly,” Courtney replied with a sudden smile, watching her father wave at someone and start forward. A moment later a blonde in running shorts and a tank top jogged into view on the beach and stopped to talk to him. Courtney watched for a few moments. “I’ll bring him back here no matter what it takes,” she promised enthusiastically, already sliding her chair back.

  Sloan had given Douglas Maitland several reasons why she couldn’t accept his invitation to join him for breakfast on the terrace, but he overrode her protests with charming insistence, pointing out that her family were all late sleepers; then he put his hand beneath her arm and marched her forward.

  A sloping, beautifully landscaped lawn stretched the two-hundred-yard distance from the beach to the house, where it ended in a broad limestone terrace with three levels. Umbrella tables, chaise lounges, and white wrought-iron chairs with bright yellow cushions were invitingly arranged on each level, and as they neared the terrace, Sloan belatedly realized that one of the tables was already occupied by a man and a girl.

  Sloan didn’t need to see his features to be certain the man was Noah Maitland. She had seen him only three times, but his chiseled profile, his glossy black hair, and his wide-shouldered physique were emblazoned on her brain, and her nervous system reacted to the stimulation of his presence with an annoying jolt of adrenaline.

  Sloan was trying to think of some last-minute excuse for a hasty retreat when the girl at the table jumped up and trotted down the terrace steps, heading straight toward them.

  “You are about to meet my daughter, Courtney,” Douglas warned her cheerfully, and tightened his grip on Sloan’s elbow as if he sensed her desire to flee and somehow automatically attributed it to the girl’s impending arrival. “It is an experience most people find difficult to forget. Her mother was my fourth wife. A lovely woman, but