Paris’s closet, Sloan noted with some amusement, was larger and had more clothes rods in it than Lydia’s shop in Bell Harbor, and it connected to another large room filled with unfinished clothing that Paris was in the process of designing.
Sloan watched while her sister paused to pull out gown after gorgeous gown and reject each for reasons that were mostly obscure to Sloan.
“This is it!” Paris declared triumphantly, extracting a strapless white sheath from an entire rod of long gowns. “What do you think?”
Sloan thought it looked pretty much like Sara’s red linen sheath, except for the color and length—until Paris zipped her into it and turned her toward the mirror.
The top of the bodice was straight and fitted like a glove to Sloan’s waist; then it flared slightly over her hips and fell in a straight line to the floor. Clusters of embroidered white flowers with shining gold leaves and stems adorned the bodice and were scattered at the hem.
“Oh,” Sloan whispered, “this is so beautiful.”
‘You haven’t seen the rest of it,” Paris announced as she whisked a gossamer stole patterned in white and gold leaves off a hanger and draped it over Sloan’s arms. “Now we need the right jewelry,” she declared, pulling open drawers that were built into the wall.
“What about my hair?” Sloan asked over her shoulder. “Should I change it and wear it down?” Instead of parting her hair on the side and letting it swing freely as she usually wore it, she’d pulled it off her face and twisted it into a loose chignon at the back of her head.
Paris was holding up two gold filigree chokers and studying them, but she looked round to give an opinion. “Your hair is perfect and so is your makeup, but you need earrings. And I”—she held up a pair that looked like long, gleaming gold raindrops—“have just the right ones!”
Sloan put on the earrings and fastened the wide gold filigree choker at her throat; then she studied herself in the mirror, marveling at the difference Paris could make in her appearance. She turned to tell Paris that, but Paris wasn’t finished. She’d vanished, returning a minute later with three fresh white rosebuds in her hand. “I stole these from one of last night’s centerpieces,” she explained while she reached up and pinned them into Sloan’s chignon.
• • •
“Does anyone have any idea where we’re going?” Paul asked as a uniformed chauffeur held open the back door of Noah’s Rolls-Royce for him.
“I don’t,” Sloan told him, as she followed him into the car, “but wherever it is, you’re going to knock the ladies dead!”
Sloan’s excitement and enthusiasm were so contagious that even Paul was in a lighthearted mood. “They’re out of luck,” he joked. “I’m already with the two most beautiful women in Florida. Paris, do you have any idea where we’re going?”
She settled into the car beside Sloan, looking like a bird of paradise in a long, brightly colored silk sarong. “I do,” she teased smugly, “but I am not at liberty to divulge all the information.” She looked at Sloan and relented a little. “I suppose I could give you a hint: You’re going to dine at the most exclusive restaurant in Palm Beach.”
“Which is?” Paul prodded, grinning at her playful mood.
“It’s called Apparition.”
An odd expression crossed his face, and Sloan had the feeling he recognized the name. “Have you eaten there before?”
He looked truly confused by her assumption. “No. Never heard of it.”
“It must be an incredibly fancy place if we need to dress like this,” Sloan remarked.
A short while later, the car turned into a private marina with large yachts tucked into spacious slips along the piers. “I should have guessed—” Sloan said delightedly, turning to Paris. “Apparition is a boat.”
Paris didn’t answer. She was leaning forward, frowning as the Rolls glided past the last pier and stopped just inside a remote parking area where a small white helicopter was already waiting, its rotor whipping the air. “Oh, no . . .” she said as the chauffeur got out and opened her door.
Paul and Sloan followed her out of the car, but Paris took two steps and stopped dead, her gaze swinging from the little helicopter to the chauffeur. “I assumed Mr. Maitland would send the launch for us, Martin,” she said to him in a slightly accusing voice.
Martin, the chauffeur, was a big man in his late forties who looked strong enough to carry the Rolls, not merely drive it, and he spoke with more authority in his voice than deference. “The launch has an engine problem today,” he informed her. “Mr. Maitland expects everyone to fly out to the Apparition, where you will enjoy a very pleasant evening, I’m sure.”
Sloan was taken aback by his unspoken command to get into the plane and stop hesitating, but Paris was more intimidated by the helicopter than the chauffeur.
“What’s wrong?” Paul asked her gently.
She bumped into him as she backed up, trying to put as much distance between herself and the craft as possible. “I’m sorry, but I really don’t think I can get into that thing. I know I can’t. I don’t even like big commuter helicopters, let alone miniature ones!”
Sloan’s heart sank. She didn’t mind missing out on the helicopter or the boat, but she didn’t want to miss out on an evening with Noah. “Are we the only guests Noah is expecting?” she asked, hiding her distress behind a sympathetic smile. “If we are, maybe he could join us somewhere else on land?”
“That wouldn’t be fair,” Paris said emphatically. “Noah had his chef make a special dinner, and he planned a whole evening because he wanted to surprise you.” Twisting around, she looked sadly at Paul. “I don’t want to spoil the evening. You go with Sloan, and I’ll go back home.”
Sloan opened her mouth to veto that plan, but Paul gallantly intervened. “That wouldn’t be fair to me,” he said. “Sloan can go ahead, and you and I will have dinner someplace here.”
“Are you certain you don’t mind?” Paris asked hesitantly, gazing at him with a mixture of sorrow and melting gratitude.
He appeared to find the situation more humorous than distressing. Nodding toward the helicopter, he told Sloan, “You’d better get going before that thing runs out of fuel.” Then he turned to Paris and gestured toward the open car door. “Shall we go?”
In the car, Paris watched the helicopter lift off the landing pad and veer sharply over the water into the sunset; then she turned to Paul. “I hope you aren’t terribly disappointed.”
“Not at all,” he said smoothly. Crossing his arms over his chest, he angled his back toward the car door and regarded her in amused silence.
A little unnerved by his attitude and his scrutiny, Paris blurted, “You must think I’m silly and neurotic.”
Silently, he shook his head, indicating he didn’t think that.
“I’m afraid of helicopters.”
He looked at her. “That must take some of the fun out of it.”
“Out of what?”
“Out of flying them.”
Laughing, she slumped against the back of her seat and admitted defeat. “How did you know?”
“Your father is very proud of all your accomplishments. Just out of curiosity,” he added wryly, “what would you have done if I’d decided to fly out there with Sloan?”
She met his gaze unflinchingly. “I knew you wouldn’t do that.”
In the front seat, the chauffeur was on the car phone, notifying the Apparition that the helicopter had just taken off with Miss Reynolds. He hung up and gazed speculatively at Paris in the rearview mirror, waiting for her decision. “We don’t have to pretend, Marty,” she said ruefully. “I’ve been caught. Mr. Maitland said he was going to make reservations somewhere else for us. Take us there.”
The chauffeur nodded, made a sharp U-turn, drove to pier number three, and brought the car to a stop. Paris’s forehead furrowed into a puzzled frown. “Now what happens?”
“By a strange coincidence,” the chauffeur lied straight-faced, reciting his prepared sp
eech, “the Apparition’s chef and captain will be returning in the copter shortly. When I telephoned Mr. Maitland just now to notify him that Miss Reynolds was on her way, he was very upset that he hadn’t remembered your lifelong fear of helicopters. He instructed me to insist that you let him provide you with a substitute dinner and cruise aboard the Star Gazer.” He nodded unnecessarily to a sixty-five-foot sailboat docked directly in front of them in the first slip..
Paris looked at Paul, her face shining with merriment. “What do you think? Is it fair to let Noah go to so much trouble?”
“It’s the only fair thing to do,” Paul said mildly, but he wasn’t proof against her childlike delight in the evening. With a reluctant grin, he added, “It would serve him right if we took her out without his crew.”
“Can you sail a boat that large?”
“With a little help from you.” He said it so casually that Paris immediately concluded he was perfectly capable. “Can you cook?” he countered.
“Not without a lot of help from you.”
He held out his hand for hers. “Let’s go.”
32
The Apparition lived up to its name, Sloan thought as the helicopter banked left and she gazed in astonished disbelief at the ship that lay below, five minutes offshore. Silhouetted against a sunset ablaze with red, orange, and purple, the gleaming white ship looked as graceful and solid as a seagoing Taj Mahal.
“Welcome aboard, miss,” a man in a white uniform said, bending low and holding out his hand to help her alight from the helicopter. He showed her the way to the main deck, two levels below, and escorted her to the bow, where a table had been covered with a linen cloth and set with china and crystal for a formal dinner for two. “Mr. Maitland had an urgent telephone call, but he’ll join you here shortly,” he explained; then he hurried off.
Mesmerized, Sloan looked about her. She had never expected Noah to possess anything like this; she had never seen anything like this except in travelogues about places like Monte Carlo, where the fabulously rich put into port in gigantic yachts.
Trailing her hand along the polished railing, she strolled slowly along the main deck toward the stern. Most of this level appeared to be taken up by a spacious saloon with large windows overlooking the sea and glass doors that opened onto the deck. The draperies were open, and Sloan was surprised that the interior looked more like an ultramodern penthouse apartment than part of a ship. The carpeting was white with shades of plum and platinum sculptured into a waving design that created a wide border at the edges and a surrealistic medallion in the center. A circular staircase with a chrome railing led to an upper and lower level. Groups of sofas and chairs, upholstered in the carpet’s colors, were invitingly arranged around tables with thick glass tops. Modernistic sculptures in shining silver and gold reposed on tables; on pedestals, giant geodes displayed glittering rock interiors in a rainbow of colors including amethyst and powder blue.
Since Noah wasn’t in the saloon, she rather expected him to emerge from one of the doorways she passed, but he didn’t. She found him instead at her starting point on the bow. He was standing at the railing, talking on a cellular telephone, his face in profile, his voice low and harsh: “I’m not interested in any more of Warren’s excuses, I’m interested in results,” he was saying to someone. “Tell Graziella that if he fucks this up one more time, I’m not going to bail him out with the Venezuelan government, and he can rot in prison down there.”
He paused, listening. “You’re damned right I’m serious.” He paused again but very briefly. “Good, then take care of Graziella and get the hell out of there.” Without saying good-bye, he disconnected the call and tossed the phone onto a table. His tone was entirely different from any Sloan had ever heard him use, and she found it a little hard to equate this cold, forbidding man with the affable one she’d come to know.
He saw Sloan as he tossed the telephone on the table, and his entire expression softened.
“Hi,” he said with a lazy, devastating smile that was almost as unnerving as the picture of dazzling elegance he presented in an immaculately tailored raven black tuxedo, snowy shirt, and formal black bow tie.
Sloan stopped just out of his reach, so off-balance from his ship, his helicopter, his telephone conversation, and the way he looked in a tuxedo that she couldn’t think of what to say. He seemed like an unapproachable stranger. “Hello,” she said in a polite, but formal voice.
If he noticed her reserve, he gave no indication of it. Leaning down, he lifted a bottle of champagne that was chilling in a silver bucket on the deck table beside him and poured some into two glasses. He held one out to her, forcing her to come close enough to take it from him.
They both looked up as the helicopter rotor began to whine, and Sloan saw three men climbing into the craft along with the pilot. “This is all a little overwhelming,” she said aloud, watching the helicopter begin to lift off.
Noah restrained an urge to reach out and trace the perfection of her profile with his fingers and instead leaned an elbow on the railing, taking pleasure in the way she looked in that strapless gown, secure in the knowledge that he was going to take it off her tonight.
Sloan used the departing aircraft as a diversion for as long as she could; then she turned to face him with an overbright smile and blurted out the first thing that came to mind: “Paris didn’t come with me—she’s afraid to fly in helicopters.”
“What a shame,” he said solemnly.
Sloan nodded agreement. “Paul stayed ashore with her.”
“I’m devastated.”
She saw it then—the gleam of amusement in his beautiful gray eyes that made him seem infinitely more familiar to her. At the same time, something else occurred to her, and she looked swiftly at the table, noting the flowers, the candles flickering in crystal bowls, and the place settings of china and silver. Two place settings. Two chairs. Torn between guilt over Paris and mirth at his highhandedness, Sloan settled for trying to look indignant. “You knew all along that Paris is afraid of helicopters!”
“The possibility never occurred to me,” he said piously.
“It didn’t?” Sloan was startled but not convinced.
Slowly, he shook his head, his eyes laughing at her expression because she clearly knew he was hiding something and she was not going to give up until she figured it out.
“You’ve known her for years, but you didn’t know until today that she’s afraid of helicopters—?” Sloan summarized dubiously. A new possibility suddenly occurred to her, and she put it into words: “By any chance, is that because Paris isn’t really afraid of them?”
Noah couldn’t stand it anymore. Leaning down, he nipped her ear and whispered, “Paris is licensed to fly them.”
Laughing, Sloan tried to ignore the effect of his warm breath in her ear and gestured toward the table and the ship. “But why did you go to all this trouble for just the two of us?”
“I wanted to atone for last night’s lawn chair.”
“With all this?” Sloan teased. “Don’t you ever do anything halfway?”
“I did that last night,” he said meaningfully.
The subtle change in his tone and the underlying significance of his remark momentarily slipped past Sloan. “But I liked the lawn chair.”
“You’ll like the accommodations here better.”
It was fair warning of his intentions, and Sloan’s stomach lurched.
“Would you like a tour?”
“Yes,” she said quickly, imagining a tour of engines and boilers and bilge pumps. He took her hand, linking his fingers through hers, but even the warmth of his firm handclasp couldn’t banish the raging misgivings she felt at the realization he intended to make love tonight.
She’d known this moment would come, but he’d chosen the wrong time, the wrong place, because everywhere she looked, she saw unmistakable, dramatic proof that the world he inhabited wasn’t merely different from hers, it was in another solar system. This was a fleeting holi
day fling for him, a two-week diversion, if it lasted the full two weeks. For her, it was . . . She couldn’t bear the thought, but she could no longer escape it: This was history repeating itself.
She was her mother, only thirty years later. She was insane about Noah Maitland, and he was as unattainable as he was irresistible. She’d waited her whole life to fall in love, and now she’d spend the rest of it comparing everyone to him.
He led her one flight up the nearest exterior stairway and stopped at the first door on that deck. “This is the master stateroom,” he said, swinging the door open.
Sloan tore free from her growing panic, glanced into the large, opulent room, and her gaze riveted on the king-size bed. The thick coverlet was already turned back invitingly, the recessed lighting low and seductive. In a deliberate attempt at flippancy, she said brightly, “It’s not Motel Six, but I guess at sea people like you have to settle for what’s available.” She hated the way she sounded so much that she apologized in the next breath. “I’m sorry. That was a rude, stupid thing for me to say.”
He studied her in silence, his expression unreadable. “Why did you say it?”
Sloan sighed and opted for honesty. Lifting her eyes to his, she admitted with quiet candor, “I did it because I’m nervous and uneasy. I’m used to thinking of you as you are with Courtney and Douglas.” She made a halfhearted gesture that included him and the ship. “I didn’t expect to find you here, with all this. I didn’t even recognize the tone of your voice when I heard you talking on the phone. I don’t really know you at all,” she finished in a desperate, despairing voice.
Noah understood her problem perfectly, because he didn’t recognize himself when she was near. Gazing at her alluring upturned face, he contemplated the sweetness of what she was saying and admired her courage for saying it—while he tried to decide whether he most wanted to bury his face in her fragrant hair and laugh at her misgivings, or bury his lips in hers and smother her doubts there. She actually regarded his wealth as a drawback, rather than his most desirable attribute, and that made her all the more unique to him—and twenty times more desirable.