One True Secret

HEAD HIGH, Emerson led the way to the patio’s gate and unlocked it. She did not so much as glance at the two men behind her, but her heart beat a herky-jerky rhythm.

Merriman, the photographer, didn’t alarm her. He seemed to have surrendered completely to the visual charms of Mandevilla.

But she sensed a menacing edge in Eli Garner. He had what she thought of as gunfighter’s eyes, keen and permanently narrowed in watchfulness.

Yet he was handsome, as well. Nana was right; this was a man with sex appeal, possibly more than should be legal. She must be on guard against it.

She let the men enter the patio, then followed, closing the gate behind her. She turned to face them. They both stood by the pool, whose water glittered and quivered like a live blue gem.

She walked to the white wrought-iron table and stood behind the master chair, setting her hands on its back to claim it for her own. It was the largest of the four chairs, thronelike. It would give her the air of command.

“Sit,” she said in a no-nonsense tone. “Please.”

Merriman, busy gawking at the foliage and flowers, mechanically sat in one of the smaller chairs. Giving her a calculating glance, Eli Garner took another.

He was lean with strongly carved features. His high cheekbones seemed sharp enough to cut diamonds. His dark hair waved nearly to his collar, and he was so tanned that he looked more like an outdoorsman than a writer.

She gave each man a cool smile. Merriman, gazing entranced at the hibiscus tree, didn’t notice. Eli returned the smile but made it several degrees cooler than hers.

Before they’d arrived, she’d placed a silver tray on the table. On it were a carafe of turquoise crystal and three matching goblets.

“Lemonade?” she asked. She meant to be hospitable, but only minimally.

“No, thanks,” murmured Merriman. He was absorbed by the garden’s flowers.

“Please,” said Eli, not taking his eyes from her.

She filled two of the goblets and handed him one. A gold pocket watch lay on the tray beside the remaining glass. She opened it and set it on the table so both he and she could see its face.

“I said I’d talk to you for an hour today. I’ll begin by stating the ground rules.” She turned to Merriman. “You can take all the exterior shots of the house and grounds you want. On your other visits, you may take pictures of the paintings, the studio and some of the more interesting family pieces. No pictures of the family itself.”

Merriman seemed to jerk back into reality. He blinked his cobalt blue eyes. “Not even you?”

“No pictures of the family,” she repeated.

He shrugged amiably and went back to contemplating the flora.

She faced Eli Garner, whose gaze stayed fastened on her with unnerving steadiness. “I’ll be the main person you’ll talk to. Day after tomorrow, my grandmother will speak with you for half an hour. No more.”

One of Eli’s brows lifted, just a trace. “I hope she’s not unwell.”

“No. Her health is fine.”

“Will I talk with your sister?”

“No. She doesn’t choose to speak with you.”

He sat back in his chair and sipped from the goblet. She noticed that he had a tattoo on one sinewy forearm. It was a picture of a dancing Hindu god with four arms and an elephant’s head.

Emerson recognized it—Ganesh. The sight unsettled her, for she had an expensive figurine of Ganesh in her bedroom. He was the deity invoked to help overcome obstacles. She’d bought the figurine when she’d made her first solo trip to New York to take over her father’s job.

It agitated her to see a symbol she’d chosen for herself etched on the arm of a man she thought of as an opponent. She pulled her gaze away. Don’t think about it.

He ran a knuckle over his chin thoughtfully. “Your sister is shy, perhaps. Maybe she’s picked up a reclusive gene from your grandfather.”

This was close enough to what Emerson feared about Claire that she blinked in irritation. “No. She doesn’t choose to speak to you. That’s all.”

His mouth crooked in a mocking smile. “This isn’t going to be much of an interview if you just keep repeating yourself.”

Don’t let him control this conversation, she told herself sternly. She tilted her head, gave him a flirtatious glance. “Why don’t you ask me questions that don’t force me to repeat myself?”

He nodded as if he were humoring a troublesome child. “All right. Your father was your grandfather’s agent. He knew he was a very sick man. He trained you to take his place. Did you know how sick he was?”

“Yes,” she lied. She hadn’t known. He’d always had a weak heart, but his decline had come swiftly and inexorably. Learning he was doomed had made her feel as if she were dying, too. But she would not tell that to this stranger, this intruder.

She was saved from elaborating on the lie by Merriman. “There’re some interesting cloud formations blowing in. If you don’t mind, I’d like to start those exterior shots. Go down and take a few from the beach. You’ll excuse me?”

“Of course,” she said and gave him her most dazzling smile. He didn’t seem to notice. He stood and pulled his camera from its case as he went out the gate.

She turned her attention back to Eli, who was still watching her as a cat watches a particularly tricky mouse. She smiled at him, hoping coquettishness might make him forget that she was journalistic prey.

“We were talking about my father. We were a close family. And private. That’s why I’m not very good at being questioned. I’m afraid I give a bad interview.”

For all the effect it had on him, she might as well have smiled at a boulder. “Your father died of cardiovascular disease. Is this something that runs in the family?”

She sidestepped the question. “My father was born with a heart defect—congenital, not hereditary. He looked very healthy. Strapping, even. But he always knew he might not live to old age.”

She and Claire had known that, too, from the time they were little girls. But they hadn’t realized it. People would say, “Damon has a heart problem.” To Emerson and Claire, the words generated a vague fear about something that seemed far away and was not truly possible.

Eli frowned. “Your mother died when you and your sister were quite young. Would you tell me about it?”

Oh, hell, she thought, how can I try to flirt when he keeps asking questions about everybody I love dying?

She decided to use tears. She could cry at will if she thought of sad things. Her father had always said she could have been an actress. So she thought of her father’s funeral and her mother’s, and the tears welled up.

She tossed her hair as if exasperated at her own weakness. “I really don’t like to talk about those things.”

To prove it, she let a tear spill over and slide down her cheek.

He stared at the tear with the air of a scientist examining an interesting bug. He pulled a clean handkerchief from his back pocket and held it out to her. “Could you try? To say just a little?”

She let two more tears fall then, her voice breaking, said, “No.” Stalling for time, she added, “I’ll be all right in a few minutes.” She dabbed the tears away but kept clutching his handkerchief as if one more such question would reduce her to a sobbing heap.

The dark eyes studied her, but she thought she saw unexpected sympathy in them. He reached out and put his hand over one of hers. “Sorry,” he said gruffly. His touch sent unexpected tingles through her.

She looked down, astonished that he’d do such a thing. She found herself gazing at the Ganesh on his arm, dancing on one foot, his four arms waving merrily. Eli’s hand felt good wrapped around hers—it actually felt comforting—but she drew back as if unready for such intimacy.

“Excuse me,” he said frowning again. “I didn’t mean to be forward.”