September Morning

Chapter Two

For the rest of the evening she avoided Blake, sticking to Nan and Phillip like a shadow while she nursed her emotional wounds. Not that Blake seemed to notice. He was standing with Maude and one of the younger congressmen in the group, deep in discussion.

“I wonder what they're talking about now?” Phillip asked as he danced Kathryn around the room to one of the band's few slow tunes.

“Saving water moccasins,” she muttered, her full lips pouting, her eyes as dark as jade with hurt.

Phillip sighed heavily. “What's he done now?”

“What?” she asked, lifting her flushed face to Phillip's patiently amused eyes.

“Blake. He hasn't been in the same room with you for ten minutes, and the two of you are already avoiding one another. Talk about repeat acts!”

Her rounded jaw clenched. “He hates me, I told you he did.”

“What's he done?” he repeated.

She glared at his top shirt button. “He said…he said I couldn't be promiscuous.”

“Good for Blake,” Phillip said with annoying enthusiasm.

“You don't understand. That was just what started it,” she explained. “And I was teasing him about not being a monk, and he jumped all over me about digging into his private life.” She felt herself tense as she remembered the blazing heat of Blake's anger. “I didn't mean anything.”

“You didn't know about Della?” he asked softly.

She gaped up at him. “Della who?”

“Della Ness. He just broke it off with her,” he explained.

A pang of something shivered through her slender body, and she wondered why the thought of Blake with a woman should cause a sensation like that. “Were they engaged?”

He laughed softly. “No.”

She blushed. “Oh.”

“She's been bothering him ever since, calling up and crying and sending him letters…you know how that would affect him.” He whirled her around in time to the music and brought her back against him loosely. “It hasn't helped his temper any. I think he was glad for the European trip. She hasn't called in over a week.”

“Maybe he's missing her,” she said.

“Blake? Miss a woman? Honey, you know better than that. Blake is the original self-sufficient male. He never gets emotionally involved with his women.”

She toyed with the lapel of his evening jacket. “He doesn't have to take his irritation out on me,” she protested sullenly. “And at my homecoming party, too.”

“Jet lag,” Phillip told her. He stopped as the music did and grimaced when the hard rock blared out again. “Let's sit this one out,” he yelled above it. “My legs get tangled trying to dance to that.”

He drew her off the floor and back to the open veranda, leading her onto the plant-studded balcony with a friendly hand clasping hers.

“Don't let Blake spoil this for you,” he said gently as they stood leaning on the stone balustrade, looking out over the city lights of King's Fort that twinkled jewel-bright on the dark horizon. “He's had a hard week. That strike at the London mill wasn't easily settled.”

She nodded, remembering that one of the corporation's biggest textile mills was located there, and that this was nowhere near the first strike that had halted production.

“It's been nothing but trouble,” Phillip added with a hard sigh. “I don't see why Blake doesn't close it down. We've enough mills in New York and Alabama to more than take up the slack.”

Her fingers toyed with the cool leaves of an elephant-ear plant near the balcony's edge as she listened to Phillip's pleasant voice. He was telling her how much more solvent the corporation would be if they bought two more yarn mills to add to the conglomerate, and how many spindles each one would need to operate, and how new equipment could increase production…and all she was hearing was Blake's deep, angry voice.

It wasn't her fault that his discarded mistresses couldn't take “no” for an answer, and it was hardly prying into his private life to state that he had women. Her face reddened, just thinking of Blake with a woman in his big arms, his massive torso bare and bronzed, a woman's soft body crushed against the hair-covered chest where muscles rippled and surged…

The blush got worse. She was shocked by her own thoughts. She'd only seen Blake stripped to the waist once or twice, but the sight had stayed with her. He was all muscle, and that wedge of black, curling hair that laced down to his belt buckle somehow emphasized his blatant maleness. It wasn't hard to understand the effect he had on women. Kathryn tried not to think about it. She'd always been able to separate the Blake who was like family from the arrogant, attractive Blake who drew women like flies everywhere he went. She'd kept her eyes on his dark face and reminded herself that he had watched her grow from adolescence to womanhood and he knew too much about her to find her attractive in any adult way. He knew that she threw things when she lost her temper, that she never refilled the water trays when she emptied the ice out of them. He knew that she took off her shoes in church, and climbed trees to hide from the minister when he came visiting on Sunday afternoon. He even knew that she sometimes threw her worn blouses behind the door instead of in the clothes hamper. She sighed heavily. He knew too much, all right.

“…Kathryn!”

She jumped. “Sorry, Phil,” she said quickly, “I was drinking in the night. What did you say?”

He shook his head, laughing. “Never mind, darling, it wasn't important. Feeling better now?”

“I wasn't drunk,” she said accusingly.

“Just a little tipsy, though,” he grinned. “Three glasses of punch, wasn't it? And mother emptied the liquor cabinet into it with our hostess's smiling approval.”

“I didn't realize how strong it was,” Kathryn admitted.

“It has a cumulative effect. Want to go back in?”

“Must we?” she asked. “Couldn't we slip out the side door and go see that new sci-fi movie downtown?”

“Run out on your own party? Shame on you!”

“I'm ashamed,” she agreed. “Can we?”

“Can we what?”

“Go see the movie. Oh, come on, Phil,” she pleaded, “save me from him. I'll lie for you. I'll tell Maude I kidnapped you at gunpoint…”

“Will you, now?” Maude laughed, coming up behind them. “Why do you want to kidnap Phillip?”

“There's a new science fiction movie in town, and…” Kathryn began.

“…and it would keep you out of Blake's way until morning, is that how this song goes?” Phillip's mother guessed keenly.

Kathryn sighed, clasping her hands in front of her. “That's the chorus,” she admitted.

“Never mind, he's gone.”

She looked up quickly. “Blake?”

“Blake.” Maude laughed softly. “Cursing the band, the punch, the politicians, jet lag, labor unions, smog and women with a noticeable lack of tact until Eve almost wept with relief when he announced that he was going home to bed.”

“I hope the slats fall out under him,” Kathryn said pleasantly.

“They're box springs,” Maude commented absently. “I bought it for him last year for his birthday, remember, when he complained that he couldn't get any rest…”

“I hope the box springs collapse, then,” Kathryn corrected.

“Malicious little thing, aren't you?” Phillip asked teasingly.

Maude slumped wearily. “Not again. Really, Kathryn Mary, this never-ending war between you and my eldest is going to give me ulcers! What's he done this time?”

“He told her she couldn't be promiscuous,” Phillip obliged, “and got mad at her when she pointed out that he believed in the double standard.”

“Kathryn! You didn't say that to Blake!”

Kathryn looked vaguely embarrassed. “I was just teasing.”

“Oh, my darling, you're so lucky you weren't near any bodies of water that he could have pitched you into,” Maude said. “He's been absolutely black-tempered ever since that Della toy of his started getting possessive and he sent her packing. You remember, Phil, it was about the time Kathryn wrote that she was going to Crete on that cruise with Missy Donavan and her brother Lawrence.”

“Speaking of Lawrence,” Phillip said, drawling out the name dramatically, “what happened?”

“He's coming to see me when he flies down for that writers’ convention on the coast,” she said with a smile. “He just sold another mystery novel and he's wild with enthusiasm.”

“Is he planning to spend a few days?” Maude asked. “Blake has been suspicious of writers, you know, ever since that reporter did a story about his affair with the beauty contest girl…who was she again, Phil?”

“Larry isn't a reporter,” Kathryn argued, “he only writes fiction…”

“That's exactly what that story about Blake and the beauty was,” Phillip grinned. “Fiction.”

“Will you listen?” Maude grumbled. “You simply can't invite Lawrence into the house while Blake's home. I've got the distinct impression he's already prejudiced against the man.”

“Larry isn't a pushover,” Kathryn replied, remembering her friend's hot temper and red hair.

Maude frowned, thinking. “Phillip, maybe you could call that Della person and give her Blake's unlisted number just before Kathryn Mary's friend comes, and I'll remind him of how lovely St. Martin is in the summer…”

“It will only be for two or three days,” Kathryn protested. Her soft young features tightened. “I thought Greyoaks was my home, too…”

Maude's thin face cleared instantly and she drew Kathryn into her arms. “Oh, darling, of course it is, you know it is! It's just that it's Blake's home as well, and that's the problem.”

“Just because Larry's a writer…”

“That isn't the only reason,” Maude sighed, patting her back. “Blake's very possessive of you, Kathryn. He doesn't like you dating older men, especially men like Jack Harris.”

“He has to let go someday,” Kathryn said stubbornly, drawing away from Maude. “I'm a woman now, not the adolescent he used to buy bubble gum for. I have a right to my own friends.”

“You're asking for trouble if you start a rebellion with Blake in his present mood,” Maude cautioned.

Kathryn lifted a hand to touch her dark hair as the breeze blew a tiny wisp of it into the corner of her mouth. “Just don't tell him Larry's coming,” she said, raising her face defiantly.

Phillip stared at Maude. “Is her insurance paid up?” he asked conversationally.

“Blake controls the checkbook for all of us,” Maude reminded her. “You could find yourself without an allowance at all; even without your car.”

“No revolution succeeds without sacrifice,” Kathryn said proudly.

“Oh, good grief,” Phillip said, turning away.

“Come back here,” Kathryn called after him. “I'm not through!”

Maude burst out laughing. “I think he's going to light a candle for you. If you're planning to take Blake on, you may need a prayer or two.”

“Or Blake may,” Kathryn shot back.

Maude only laughed.

***

The house was quiet when they got home, and Maude let out a sigh of pure relief.

“So far, so good,” she said smiling at Kathryn and Phillip. “Now, if we can just sneak up the stairs…”

“Why are you sneaking around at all?” came a deep, irritated voice from the general direction of the study.

Kathryn felt all her new resolutions deserting her as she whirled and found herself staring straight into Blake's dark, angry eyes.

She dropped her gaze, and her heart thumped wildly in her chest as she dimly heard Maude explaining why the three of them were being so quiet.

“We knew you'd be tired, dear,” Maude told him gently.

“Tired, my foot,” he returned, lifting a glass of amber liquid in a shot glass to his hard, chiseled mouth. He glared at Kathryn over its rim. “You knew I'd had it out with Kate.”

“She's been gorging herself on the rum punch, Blake,” Phillip said with a grin. “Announcing her independence and preparing for holy revolution.”

“Oh, please, shut up,” Kathryn managed in a tortured whisper.

“But, darling, you were so brave at the Barringtons,” Phillip chided. “Don't you want to martyr yourself to the cause of freedom?”

“No, I want to be sick,” she corrected, swallowing hard. She glanced up at Blake's hard-set face. The harsh words all came back, and she wished fervently that she'd accepted Nan's invitation to spend the night.

Blake swirled the amber liquid in his glass absently. “Good night, Mother, Phil.”

Maude threw Kathryn an apologetic glance as she headed for the staircase with Phillip right behind.

“You wouldn't rather discuss the merger with the Banes Corporation?” Phillip grinned at Blake. “It would be a lot quieter.”

“Oh, don't desert me,” Kathryn called after them.

“You declared war, darling,” Phillip called back, “and I believe in a strict policy of non-interference.”

She locked her hands behind her, shivering in her warm sable coat despite the warmth of the house and the hot darkness of Blake's eyes.

“Well, go ahead,” she muttered, dropping her gaze to the open neck of his white silk shirt. “You've already taken one bite out of me, you might as well have an arm or two.”

He chuckled softly and, surprised, she jerked her face up to find amusement in his eyes.

“Come in here and talk to me,” he said, turning to lead the way back into his walnut-paneled study. His big Irish Setter, Hunter, rose and wagged his tail, and Blake ruffled his fur affectionately as he settled down in the wing armchair in front of the fireplace.

Kathryn took the chair across from his, absently darting a glance at the wood decoratively piled up in the hearth. “Daddy used to burn it,” she remarked, using the affectionate name she gave Blake's father, even though he was barely a distant cousin. He was like the father she'd lost.

“So do I, when I need to take the chill off. But it isn't cool enough tonight,” he replied.

She studied his big, husky body and wondered if he ever felt the cold. Warmth seemed to radiate from him at close range, as if fires burned under that darkly tanned skin.

He tossed off the rest of his drink and linked his hands behind his head. His dark eyes pinned Kathryn to her chair. “Why don't you get out of that coat and stop trying to look as if you're ten minutes late for an appointment somewhere?”

“I'm cold, Blake,” she murmured.

“Turn up the thermostat, then.”

“I won't be here that long, will I?” she asked hopefully.

His dark, quiet eyes traveled over the soft, pink skin revealed by her white dress, making her feel very young and uncomfortable.

“Must you stare at me like that?” she asked uneasily. She toyed with a wisp of chiffon.

He pulled his cigarette case from his pocket and took his time about lighting up. “What's this about a revolution?” he asked conversationally.

She blinked at him. “Oh, what Phil said?” she asked, belatedly comprehending. She swallowed hard. “Uh, I just…”

He laughed shortly. “Kathryn, I can't remember a conversation with you that didn't end in stammers.”

Her full lips pouted. “I wouldn't stammer if you wouldn't jump on me every time you get the chance.”

One heavy dark eyebrow went up. He looked completely relaxed, imperturbable. That composure rattled her, and she couldn't help wondering if anything ever made him lose it.

“Do I?” he asked.

“You know very well you do.” She studied the hard lines of his face, noting the faint tautness of fatigue that only a stranger would miss. “You're very tired, aren't you?” she asked suddenly, warming to him.

He took a draw from the cigarette. “Dead,” he admitted.

“Then why aren't you in bed?” she wanted to know.

He studied her quietly. “I didn't mean to ruin the party for you.”

The old, familiar tenderness in his voice brought an annoying mist to her eyes and she averted them. “It's all right.”

“No, it isn't.” He flicked ashes into the receptacle beside his chair, and a huge sigh lifted his chest. “Kate, I just broke off an affair. The silly woman's pestering me to death, and when you said what you did, I overreacted.” He shrugged. “My temper's a little on edge lately, or I'd have laughed it off.”

She smiled at him faintly. “Did you…love her?” she asked gently.

He burst out laughing. “What a child you are,” he chuckled. “Do I have to love a woman to take her into my bed?”

The flush went all the way down her throat. “I don't know,” she admitted.

“No,” he said, the smile fading, “I don't suppose you do. I believed in love, at your age.”

“Cynic,” she accused.

He crushed out the cigarette in his ashtray. “Guilty. I've learned that sex is better without emotional blinders.”

She dropped her eyes in mortification, trying not to see the unholy amusement on his dark face.

“Embarrassed, Kate?” he chided. “I thought that experience with Harris had matured you.”

Her green eyes flashed fire as they lifted to meet his. “Do we have to go through this again?” she asked.

“Not if you've learned something from it.” His gaze dropped pointedly to her dress. “Although I have my doubts. Are you wearing anything under that damned nightgown?”

“Blake!” she burst out. “It's not a nightgown!”

“It looks like one.”

“It's the style!”

He stared her down. “In Paris, I hear, the style is a vest with nothing under it, worn open.”

She tossed her hair angrily. “And if I lived in Paris, I'd wear one,” she threw back.

He only smiled. “Would you?” His eyes dropped again to her bodice, and the boldness of his gaze made her feel strange sensations. “I wonder.”

She clasped her hands in her lap, feeling outwitted and outmatched. “What did you want to talk to me about, Blake?” she asked.

“I've invited some people over for a visit.”

She remembered her own invitation to Lawrence Donavan, and she held her breath. “Uh, who?” she asked politely.

“Dick Leeds and his daughter Vivian,” he told her. “They're going to be here for a week or so while Dick and I iron out that labor mess. He's the head of the local union that's giving us so much trouble.”

“And his daughter?” she asked, hating herself for her own curiosity.

“Blond and sexy,” he mused.

She glared at him. “Just your style,” she shot at him. “With the emphasis on sexy.”

He watched her with silent amusement. Blake, the adult, indulging his ward. She wanted to throw something at him.

“Well, I hope you don't expect me to help Maude keep them entertained,” she said. “Because I'm expecting some company of my own!”

The danger signals were flashing out of his deep brown eyes. “What company?” he asked curtly.

She lifted her chin bravely. “Lawrence Donavan.”

Something took fire and exploded under his jutting brow.

“Not in my house,” he said in a tone that might have cut diamond.

“But, Blake, I've already invited him!” she wailed.

“You heard me. If you didn't want to be embarrassed, you should have consulted with me before inviting him,” he added roughly. “What were you going to do, Kathryn, meet him at the airport and then tell me about it? A fait accompli?”

She couldn't meet his eyes. “Something like that.”

“Cable him. Tell him something came up.”

She lifted her eyes and glared at him, sitting there like a conqueror, ordering her life. If she buckled under one more time, she'd never be able to stand up to him. Never. She couldn't let him win this time.

Her jaw set stubbornly. “No.”

He got to his feet slowly, gracefully for such a big man, and the set of his broad shoulders was intimidating even without the sudden, fierce narrowing of his eyes.

“What did you say?” he asked in a deceptively soft tone.

She laced her fingers together in front of her and clenched them. “I said no,” she managed in a rasping voice. Her dark green eyes appealed to him. “Blake, it's my home, too. At least, you said it was the day you asked me to come live here,” she reminded him.

“I didn't say you could use it as a rendezvous for romantic trysts!”

“You bring women here,” she tossed back, remembering with a surge of anguish the night when she had accidentally come home too early from a date and found him with Jessica King on the very chairs where they were now sitting. Jessica had been stripped to the waist, and so had Blake. Kathryn had barely even noticed the blonde, her eyes were so staggered by the sight of Blake with his broad, muscled chest bared by the woman's exploring hands. She'd never been able to get the picture of him out of her mind, his mouth sensuous, his eyes almost black with desire…

“I used to,” he corrected gently, reading the memory with disturbing accuracy. “How old were you then? Fifteen?”

She nodded, looking away from him. “Just.”

“And I yelled at you, didn't I?” he recalled gently. “I hadn't expected you home. I was hungry and impatient, and frustrated. When I took Jessica home, she was in tears.”

“I…I should have knocked,” she admitted. “But we'd been to that fair, and I'd won a prize, and I couldn't wait to tell you about it…”

He smiled quietly. “You used to bring all your triumphs straight to me, like a puppy with its toys. Until that night.” He studied her averted profile. “You've kept a wall between us ever since. The minute I start to come close, you find something else to put up in front of you. Last time it was Jack Harris. Now, it's that writer.”

“I'm not trying to build any walls,” she said defensively. Her dark eyes accused him. “You're the mason, Blake. You won't let me be independent.”

“What do you want?” he asked.

She studied the delicate scrollwork of the fireplace with its beige and white color scheme. “I don't know,” she murmured. “But I'll never find out if you keep smothering me. I want to be free, Blake.”

“None of us are that,” he said philosophically. His eyes were wistful, his tone bitter. He stared at her intently. “What is it that attracts you to Donavan?” he asked suddenly.

She shrugged and a wistful light came into her own eyes, echoing his expression the minute before. “He's fun to be with. He makes me laugh.”

“That's all you need from a man—laughter?”

The way he said it made shivers run down her stiff spine, and when she looked at him, the expression on his hard face was puzzling. “What else is there?” she asked without thinking.

A slow, sensuous smile turned up the corners of his mouth. “The fires a man and woman can create when they make love.”

She shifted restlessly in her chair. “They're overrated,” she said with pretended sophistication.

He threw back his head and roared.

“Hush!” she said. “You'll wake the whole house!”

His white, even teeth were visible, whiter than ever against his swarthy complexion. “You're red as a summer beet,” he observed. “What do you know about love, little girl? You'd pass out in a dead faint if a man started making love to you.”

She stared at him with a sense of outrage. “How do you know? Maybe Lawrence…”

“…maybe not,” he interrupted, his eyes confident, wise. “You're still very much a virgin, little Kate. If I'd had any fears on that account, I'd have jerked you off Crete so fast your head would have spun.”

She grimaced. “Virginity isn't such a prize these days,” she sighed, remembering Missy Donavan's faintly insulting remarks about it.

His silent appraisal lasted so long that her attention was caught by the faint ticking of the big grandfather clock in the hall. “Don't get any ideas about throwing yours away,” he warned softly.

“Oh, Blake, don't be so old fashioned,” she grumbled. “Anyway,” she added with a faint, mischievous smile, “where would you be today if all the women in the world were pure?”

“Rather frustrated,” he conceded. “But you're not one of my women, and I don't want you offering yourself to men like a nymphomaniac.”

She sighed. “There's hardly any danger of that,” she said dully. “I don't know how.”