Thirty Nights. JoAnn Ross
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“The fact is that I fancy your daughter. I’ve been thinking about her too much lately, and those thoughts are disturbing my work. So, I’ve come to the conclusion that the logical thing to do is to get the woman out of my system.
“I could take the time to go through some lengthy, ridiculous courtship routine, and, since I’ve been assured that despite certain obvious physical disadvantages, I’m a fairly good catch, I have no doubt that I could seduce her without a great deal of difficulty.
“However, since I possess neither the time nor the patience for such social game playing, I’ve decided to put the problem into your hands.”
“My hands?”
“It’s quite simple. I expect you to convince your daughter to come here to Maine, where I assure you, she will be treated with consideration and respect. I will not physically harm her. Nor will I play with her emotions the way so many lovers might.
“I’ve read that she’s just coming off a grueling tour and needs a rest. I’m offering leisurely days spent in a remote, idyllic location.
“As for her nights—” he enjoyed watching the older man flinch as he flashed a wicked, sexually suggestive grin “—I won’t bore you with the details.”
“You’re a devil, St. John.” Cassidy’s nervous eyes drifted to the twisted red-and-white flesh that ran from temple to jaw on the left side of Hunter’s face.
“Perhaps. I’m also a man, Cassidy.” Hunter’s tone remained as detached as his unblinking gaze. “A man with needs. Which is where the lovely Gillian comes in. And when those needs have been sufficiently satisfied, I’ll send her back to you. Safe and sound.”
“What makes you think I’d lift a finger to help you sleep with my daughter?”
Cassidy was shaking with rage; his face was so red Hunter wondered idly if he were on the verge of having a stroke. He also wondered if somehow he’d stumbled upon the old man’s soft spot. Perhaps he did care for his only daughter, after all.
“The stories I’ve heard about your diminishing capacity must be true.” Hunter shook his head with mock regret. “You are losing it, George, old man. The reason you’ll convince your daughter to join me here is because if you don’t, I’ll go public with what happened thirteen years ago.”
The older man blanched, the color fading from his too bright cheeks. “You couldn’t prove a thing!”
“That’s where you’re wrong. But it’s a moot point. Because the tables have turned. Whom do you think people would believe? A man recently voted the most brilliant scientist of his time? Or a broken-down has-been, clinging desperately to tenure with both hands, while trying to drown his failures in a bottle?”
“You wouldn’t.”
Hunter looked him straight in the eye. “In a heartbeat.”
He stood up and looked dispassionately down at Cassidy. “Since I have no desire to interrupt her tour, I’ll give Gillian seven days to show up.”
“If it were up to me, I’d send her to you,” George said. “But she’s always been ridiculously stubborn. Even those ruler-wielding Swiss nuns at the convent school in Lucerne couldn’t make the girl do anything she didn’t want to.”
He shook his leonine head again and looked balefully up at Hunter. “I’ll try. But I can’t promise anything.”
His former mentor’s response proved that there were no depths to which he’d sink to save his miserable career and overblown reputation. Despite his victory, Hunter found himself vaguely sickened by Cassidy’s willingness to act as pimp for his own daughter.
“Now, that’s where we’re different again. Because I can promise something. I promise to ruin you if Gillian isn’t here by the end of the week.”
With a defeated slump of his shoulders—though for himself or for his daughter, Hunter wasn’t quite sure— Cassidy silently left the room.
As Hunter stood at the window, watching the car that was taking Cassidy back down the cliff, he allowed himself, just this once, to enjoy the feeling of long-overdue satisfaction.
Then, as he remembered Gillian Cassidy’s soft green eyes and lush pale mouth, satisfaction gave way to anticipation.
Cambridge
GILLIAN COULDN’T BELIEVE what she was hearing.
“Let me get this straight.” She dragged her hand through her hair and faced her father across the lush Persian carpet covering the mahogany-plank study floor. “After thirteen years, Hunter St. John suddenly invites you to his home, then threatens to blackmail you?”
“The man’s a devil,” Cassidy grumbled, pouring another two fingers of whiskey into the Waterford old-fashioned glass.
“So you’ve said.”
Gillian was having trouble with that idea. Although she admittedly may have once gazed at Hunter St. John through foolishly romantic, rose-colored glasses, she didn’t believe her father’s harshly derogatory description fit.
There was something more to all this. Something her father wasn’t telling her.
“But it doesn’t make any sense,” she argued, every instinct she possessed on alert. She couldn’t remember once, in all her twenty-five years, her father ever revealing this much emotion. “You’re a respected scientist. How could Hunter possibly ruin your reputation?”
A log shifted on the fire, creating a shower of sparks. Appearing openly grateful for the diversion, George leaped from his bark brown leather chair and began jabbing at the fragrant applewood with the poker.
Gillian was not to be distracted. “I asked you a question, Father. Does Hunter know something you’ve neglected to mention? Was there something about the project you two were working on—”
“We weren’t working on any project together!” George’s ruddy cheeks were made even brighter by his anger. “Hunter St. John was a graduate lab assistant. No different from hundreds of others who have worked for me over the years.”
“He was obviously more intelligent than most,” she pointed out. “While flying back from New Zealand, I read in Newsweek that many in the scientific community consider him a genius.”
Wondering how old a woman had to get before she outgrew schoolgirl crushes, Gillian had been disgusted by whatever knee-jerk impulse had made her read the entire cover article. Twice.
The bombing that had nearly killed him had made the news, and although details had been sketchy, reports at the time had suggested that the assassination attempt was due to some top secret government project he’d been working on. The Newsweek journalist had reported that while Hunter had recovered well enough to resume his work—which had relieved Gillian greatly—he’d subsequently become more reclusive than ever. The fact that he’d refused to be interviewed for the article had not surprised Gillian, who remembered Hunter being very private.
“The man’s bright enough,” Cassidy allowed, his grudging tone jerking her wandering mind back into the murky conversational waters. “In that respect, he obviously inherited his parents’ genes. But Isabel Montgomery and David St. John were logical, scientific thinkers. Neither could have ever been described as given to emotional tantrums as St. John unfortunately is. Even during his student days, the boy was far too headstrong for his own good….
“He refused to follow my instructions, always thinking he knew best. And he wasn’t dependable.” The still-firm jaw jutted out defiantly. “Which is why I had no choice but to let him go.”
“So you said at the time.”
That afternoon, like everything else about Hunter, was emblazoned on Gillian’s memory. Even now, thirteen years later, she could recall with vivid clarity how livid he’d been when he’d stormed out of the laboratory.