Keir O'connell's Mistress. Sandra Marton
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her mouth to his, moaning as he’d bunched up her skirt and slid his hands under her dress, that long, gauzy dress that made her look like an old-fashioned dream instead of a Las Vegas cocktail waitress…
This kind of crap wasn’t going to get him anywhere. He was maybe fifty miles from Vegas and exactly thirty days and nights from what had happened—what had almost happened—in that garden, and why was he thinking about it again?
He was hungry, that was why. His stomach wasn’t just growling, it was snarling. He’d pretty much been living on black coffee and catnaps, just pulling off the road long enough to fill the car with gas and his system with caffeine. It had been a long forty-eight hours from Connecticut to Nevada.
If you wanted to get philosophical, he thought, goosing the car back to speed, it had been the longest journey of his life.
Other cars were feeding onto the road now, all of them heading toward that glittering Mecca in the desert. Keir slowed the Ferrari to what seemed a crawl.
He’d gone to New York on vacation, though that hadn’t been his original plan. He’d intended to drive to Tucson, then to Phoenix, just get away for a couple of weeks, enjoy the feel of the car—he’d bought it only weeks before—on the long, straight desert roads.
And then, right after the ceremony, his mother and Dan Coyle, the Desert Song’s Head of Security, had taken him aside.
“Keir,” the duchess had said, clinging to Dan Coyle’s arm, “I know this will come as a surprise…darling, Dan and I are getting married.”
Keir smiled.
A surprise? Yeah, but once he’d thought about it, he realized it shouldn’t have been. He’d caught Dan casting longing looks at the duchess for quite a while and caught her blushing like a schoolgirl in response.
So he’d kissed his mother, clapped Dan on the back, and after they’d laughed and maybe cried a little, the duchess had taken his hands in hers and told him that he was to take a month’s holiday, at least.
“Orders from on high must be obeyed,” Dan had said with a wink, when Keir had begun to protest.
“You deserve a real vacation,” Mary had insisted. “Just be sure you’re back for the wedding.”
Dan had grinned, told him that they’d chosen a date, even a time, and then Keir had kissed his mother, shaken Dan’s hand, said if he expected him to start calling him Daddy he was in for a rude surprise.
And when all the good wishes and jokes were over, Keir had taken a deep breath and said he thought it might be time for Mary to take over the management of the Desert Song again, and for him to move on.
Dan had urged him to reconsider.
“Is it because I’m marrying your mother? Keir, that isn’t necessary. There’s no need for you to leave.”
“No,” Mary had said softly, “of course there isn’t.” Her smile had trembled a little. “But he wants to leave. Don’t you, Keir? Running the Song was never what you wanted to do in the first place.” She’d touched his arm. “I think I’ve always known that.”
It was the truth and Keir hadn’t denied it. They’d talked a bit, the three of them, of how things would be with him gone and Mary in charge.
“With Dan sharing responsibility,” she’d said firmly and Keir had nodded his agreement. He liked Coyle; he’d be good for the duchess and if anyone could keep her in line, Keir figured Dan could.
After that, he’d gone back to the wedding festivities…
And Cassie.
Keir frowned, took his sunglasses from the visor and slipped them on.
He’d intended to start for Tucson early the next morning but after the fiasco in the garden, he’d tossed his things in his car and headed east instead of west, not just in search of a holiday but in search of his own life.
It was one thing to be free of the responsibilities he’d assumed six years ago, but free to do what? The only thing he was sure of was that he didn’t want to go back to arbitrage. He’d made a fortune in the complex world of stocks and bonds before taking over the Song, but that was the past.
He had yet to glimpse the future.
To that end, and, yeah, maybe because he’d figured that keeping busy would block memories of how stupidly he’d behaved with Cassie, he’d made some discreet inquiries of colleagues once he reached New York. Within a couple of days, an attorney representing a French hotel conglomerate approached him about a five star facility planned for the East side of Manhattan. They wanted his expertise and were willing to pay handsomely for it. A lunch, then a couple of dinners, and Keir had begun thinking about becoming a consultant in New York. The idea pleased him. He loved the pace and power of the city and started looking to put down roots.
That was why he’d been standing on the terrace of a penthouse a few mornings ago, the realtor beside him gushing over the view, the rooms, the lap pool and spa, when suddenly her voice seemed to fade and Keir had found himself seeing not the view but himself, forever trapped inside a paneled office, forever doomed to wear a suit and a tie and sit behind a desk.
What had happened to the boy who’d wanted to be an astronaut? To the kid who’d wanted to slay dragons? A penthouse suite, a private pool and an expensive view had never been part of those dreams.
How could he have forgotten that?
He’d turned to the realtor, told her he was sorry but he’d just remembered an appointment. Then he’d gotten into the Ferrari, pointed it north and let the car eat up the miles until he’d found himself in Connecticut farmland.
He’d been driving without an agenda, figuring on turning back once he knew what in hell he was doing, but the weather was beautiful the car was purring. When he pulled out a map while he filled up at a gas station, he realized that if he went just another few miles he could check out the Song’s competition. A couple of northeastern Native American tribes had opened casinos and hotels in Connecticut. They were very successful. Why not combine business with pleasure and take a look? He might not be running the Song anymore, but he might find something interesting to pass on to Dan and his mother.
So Keir had piled back into his car and headed a little further north and east.
The Native American casinos had proved enlightening. He’d spent the rest of the morning strolling around, discreetly observing the operations. Then for reasons he’d never be able to fathom, he’d gotten back in the Ferrari and driven another hour, hour and a half, until he’d ended up on a road that knifed through tall stands of oak and maple, where his car was the only traffic and the only sound was the cry of a hawk, circling overhead.
He’d almost missed the sign.
DEER RUN VINEYARD, it read, Luncheon and Dinner Thursday thru Sunday, By Reservation Only.
It was Thursday, Keir had thought, glancing at his watch. It was almost two. A little late for lunch and besides, you needed a reservation but, what the hell?
So he’d turned down a narrow dirt road and found, at its end, a scene that might have been a painting: a handsome old barn converted into a small restaurant, a garden surrounding a patio filled with umbrella tables and a profusion of flowers, and beyond that, row after row of grapevines climbing a hill toward a handsome old stone house set against a cloudless blue sky.
Keir felt a tightening in his belly.
Yes, the hostess said, someone had just phoned to cancel a reservation for the second seating. If he’d just wait a few minutes…?
He’d accepted a glass of wine and gone for a stroll up the hill, walking through the rows of vines, drawing the rich smell of the earth and the grapes deep into his lungs…
And suddenly known that he belonged here.
He’d asked the owner to join him for coffee. Keir came straight to the point. He wanted to