The Saint. Kathleen O'Brien
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apoplexy at the sight of an orange house. “Gray and white,” Dolly Jenkins had kept repeating at today’s meeting, sounding weak with shock. “Gray and white. Anything else is just vulgar!”
But what did they want Kieran to do about it, anyhow? He had inherited a lot of the property around here, but his dad’s estate wasn’t even probated yet, and besides, this wasn’t feudal England. He couldn’t exactly throw Mr. Millegrew in the dungeon and commandeer his absurd orange house.
Kieran tossed his towel on the bed and, still yearning for the pizza he couldn’t have, he reluctantly began to assemble his tux. He hated parties. This must be one of the ways in which he took after his mother, who everyone said had been a quiet, unassuming woman. She’d died when Kieran was born, so he knew her only as a wispy, smiling face in a small watercolor painting on the living-room wall.
He certainly didn’t take after his dad, who even at seventy had been all strong, primary colors, all great bold strokes in oil, like the portrait of him that hung above the fireplace mantel.
His dad could have handled Dolly Jenkins and Larry Millegrew with one hand, then tossed off tonight’s party like an after-dinner cognac. Old Anderson McClintock had loved people. He’d loved parties. He’d loved power games. And, as he had every day since his father died, Kieran wished the old devil were still alive to play them.
Kieran knew he was dragging his feet and probably running late, so he wasn’t surprised when the doorbell rang.
It was probably Aurora. She had asked him to come over early to help with the lights. She’d be mad as hell to discover he wasn’t even dressed.
“Coming,” he called as he trotted down the stairs with his dress shirt still half in, half out of his trousers. His black tie dangled between his teeth as he tried to insert his cuff links.
“Sorry, Aurora,” he mumbled as he swung open the door. “But you’re just in time to tie my—”
But it wasn’t Aurora, who at seventy-five was still an imposing old lady. She would have stood about five-eleven, higher if you counted her heels and the feather plume she invariably wore in her hat.
This was someone younger, smaller—someone who stood back, out of the glare of the porch lamp, clearly far less sure of her welcome than Aurora had ever been in her life.
But who…?
The woman moved awkwardly, and the creamy light washed over her.
Kieran dropped his cuff link. It was Claire Strickland.
The little ebony square clattered out onto the porch, and Claire stooped stiffly to pick it up. Watching her, Kieran pulled his tie slowly from between his teeth. He tried to gather his thoughts, which were about as disorganized as darting minnows. But it was just such a shock. What was Claire Strickland doing showing up here, unannounced, on his doorstep?
The last time he had seen her was that strange, unforgettable night in Richmond. He’d thought of her—and of the sex, of course—almost every day since. But he hadn’t called. After they’d awakened in the echoing, predawn hours, she had asked him to leave. And she’d made it clear she did not want to hear from him ever again.
In the distance, he could hear the sounds of the party tuning up. Laughter, the strum of an electrified cello, the distant thud of car doors.
But here on the porch everything was silent. He felt a sudden flash of anxiety. Was she all right? He knew she wouldn’t have come here without a very serious reason, not after the way she had told him goodbye….
And why was she dressed in black, her face as somber as if she had just been to a funeral? Good God, had someone else in her life died? He hadn’t thought she had anyone else.
“Kieran, I’m… May I come in?”
“God, yes, of course. I’m sorry.” He backed away from the door and let her enter. She stood there in the foyer, glancing around as if she’d never seen the inside of his house before. Which, he realized with surprise, she actually hadn’t. Their relationship—or whatever embryonic version of a relationship they’d been trying to develop when Steve’s death had shattered it to bits—had never progressed far enough for him to bring her here.
As she took it all in, her gaze held a strange combination of curiosity and apathy. It was as if she knew she should care what his house looked like, but she just didn’t.
He tried for a second to see it through her eyes. The big, classical Georgian mansion was pristine, thanks to his housekeeper. The only item out of place was his half-empty beer bottle. He didn’t have anything to feel ashamed about.
And yet, oddly, he did.
Perhaps it was just that the place was so ridiculously big. That he had so much when she had always had so little. He remembered the simple house she and Steve had shared. And that half-empty tomb she called home in Richmond.
“Claire, is everything all right? Why have you come? Do you need anything?”
She looked up at him. Her eyes were bottomless, and circled with thin, blue-shadowed skin. Her cheeks were pale, and for a moment he thought he saw her shudder. He put out his arm to steady her, but she backed away.
“Claire, what’s wrong? Are you ill?”
“No,” she said. “I’m pregnant.”
CHAPTER FIVE
SHE HAD KNOWN, OF COURSE, that he’d be stunned—and upset, too, especially when he realized what she wanted to do about the pregnancy. She wasn’t a fool. She certainly hadn’t been expecting him to hug her and start passing out cigars.
But she could never have imagined the look of pure, unadulterated horror that fell over his features. It was as if someone had announced the end of the world.
Strange how painful it was to see. Her face burned as if she’d been slapped.
However, she had to pull herself together. She had intended to be strong and businesslike, presenting her facts and her demands unemotionally. She was furious with herself for suddenly coming across all weak and weepy. It must be the hormone fluctuations the doctor had warned her about.
And maybe it was also the confusion of entering this house, which had always been the symbol of unassailable power in Heyday. She’d felt uncomfortable even ringing the bell, like some unfortunate chambermaid come to tell the lord of the manor he’d done her wrong.
She’d always known Kieran was rich and important. Everyone in Heyday knew that. But knowing an abstract fact and seeing him here, dressed in a tuxedo, his handsome face and imposing physique so at home against the marble and the tapestries and the sheer impressive magnitude of his mansion, were two very different things.
She straightened her shoulders. Damn it, she wasn’t the chambermaid. And he wasn’t a lord. He wasn’t even the Saint everyone had always called him. He was just a guy who’d slept around once too often and gotten himself caught.
“I’m sorry,” she said, keeping her voice cool. “Maybe I shouldn’t have been so blunt. I know it’s a shock, but—”
“Yes,” he said. “It is.”
“It was for me, as well. But it’s true.” She let her fingers rest against the black purse that hung at her side. She realized they were trembling. “I brought documentation from the gynecologist, in case you—”
He squinted and put out his hand, as if to stop her, though he didn’t actually touch her arm. “For God’s sake, Claire. I don’t think you’re lying.”
“Okay. Well, then, I assume you’ll want some proof of paternity. I haven’t looked into that yet. I thought it likely you’d rather work with doctors, or laboratories, of your own choosing, to ensure an unbiased—”
He shook his head tightly. “If you say it’s mine, I believe you. It’s just that I had thought that we— I mean I did—”