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It was time, Daniel decided, to have a private little chat with young Preston McQuinn. It was simple enough to lure the man up into his tower office while Cybil was busy with Anna in another part of the house. And Matthewwell, the boy was likely off somewhere or other looking for inspiration for one of his metal toys.
Matthew's sculptures invariably brought Daniel both puzzlement and pride.
"Have a seat, lad. Stretch out your legs." Daniel walked to the bookshelf, took out a copy of War and Peace and chose a cigar out of the hollow. "Will you have one?"
Preston only lifted a brow. "No, thanks. Interesting literature, Mr. MacGregor."
"Well, a man does what he can to keep his woman off his back." Daniel ran the length of the cigar under his nose, sniffing in appreciation, sighed in anticipation as he sat, then took his time lighting it. Part of the pleasure was in the small and delightful steps.
He unlocked the bottom drawer in his huge oak desk, took out a large carved shell and set it in the center of his blotter as an ashtray. Following that came a tiny battery-operated fan. It was the newest of Daniel's attempts to keep Anna from sniffing him out.
"Wife doesn't want me smoking." The pity of it had Daniel shaking his head. "And the older she gets, the sharper her nose. Got one like a bloodhound," he muttered, then settled back, sighed. "Now, then."
"What if she comes up?" Preston wanted to know.
"We worry about that if and when, boy, if and when." But his healthy fear of his wife's wrath had him nudging the little fan closer. "So tell me, your play's going well for you?"
"Yes, it is."
"I'm not only asking as an investor, I want you to know. I'm interested in you."
"Mmm-hmm."
"Admire your father's work. Got some of his books around here." Daniel leaned back in the enormous leather chair, puffed out smoke. "A bird tells me that Hollywood's taken quite an interest in your work,
McQuinn."
"You've got a good ear for birds."
"I do indeed. How does it sit with you, this movie business?"
"Well enough."
"You play poker, don't you, McQuinn?"
"I've been known to ante up occasionally."
"I'll wager you play a fine game of it. You're not one to give your hand away. I like that."
Contemplatively, Daniel tapped his cigar on the shell. "You'll be in New York a few more weeks?"
"Another month, anyway. Most of the work on the house should be done by then."
"A fine big house, too, by the sea." Daniel smiled as Preston narrowed his eyes. "The birds tell me all manner of things. It's good for a man to have a house of his own. Some of us aren't meant to live in a hive, with people buzzing through the next wall. We need our own space, for ourselves, for our family.
Room to spread out," he continued, gesturing. "A place where a man can go to have a damn cigar in his own house without being nagged half to death."
As Daniel scowled, took another puff, Preston's lips twitched.
"True enough," Preston agreed. "Though I wouldn't say my house is anywhere near the scale of yours."
"Young yet, aren't you? You build as you go. And you'd need the sea, as I did, having grown up with it outside your door."
"I prefer it to the city." Since he wasn't quite sure where the conversation was headed, Preston didn't relax quite yet. "And if I had to live in a suburban development I'd likely slit my throat in a week."
Daniel laughed, puffed and eyed Preston through the cloud of smoke. "You're a man who needs his privacy, and that's a reasonable thing. But when solitude and privacy become isolation, it's not always healthy, is it?"
Preston angled his head. "I don't see any neighbors mowing their yards and trimming their hedges when I look out the windows of Castle MacGregor."
Daniel's grin flashed in his beard. "That you don't, McQuinn. But while private we are, isolated we aren't. You know Cybil grew up by the sea, as well." He clamped the cigar between his teeth. "Along the coast of Maine, where her father guarded his privacy like a pit bull."
"So I've heard," Preston said mildly.
"Her father's a good man for all he's a Campbell." Idly, Daniel drummed his fingers on the edge of his desk. "Time was a highlander'd sooner bed down with rats and weasels than let a Campbell through the front door. You don't hold the '45 against him and his, do you, McQuinn?"
It took him a minute, possibly longer, to realize Daniel referred to the Jacobite Rebellion over two
hundred years before. Thinking a laugh would be out of place, he disguised it with a cough. "No," he said, very seriously. "Times change. We have to move on."
"Right enough." Pleased, Daniel thumped a fist on the desk. "And as I said, he's a good man, and his wife's a fine woman. Comes from good stock herself. Their children do them proud."
At sea, Preston merely nodded. "I'm sure you're right."
"Of course I'm right. You've seen for yourself, haven't you? She's a bright and lovely woman, my Cybil.
A heart big as the moon, warm as the sun. She draws people to her just by being. There's a light about her, don't you think?"
"I think she's unique."
"That she is. There's no deceit in her, or guile," Daniel continued, his blue eyes sharp and focused. "Too often she puts her own feelings aside to spare another's. Not that she's a doormat, not with that good Scots' blood in her. She'll spit when she's cornered, but she's more likely to hurt herself before she'd hurt another. Causes me some worry."
Though he was hearing no more than he'd seen for himself, Daniel's words had Preston shifting uncomfortably in the chair. "I don't think you have to worry about Cybil."
"It's a grandparent's right, duty, and pleasure if it comes down to it, to worry about his chicks. She wants a place to put all the love she holds inside her. The man who engages that heart of hers will live his life lucky."
"Yes, he will."
"You've had your eye on her, McQuinn." Daniel leaned forward now. "I don't need birds to tell me that."
More than my eye, Preston thought with an inward wince. "As you said, she's a lovely woman."
"And you're a single man of thirty. What are your intentions?"
Well, Preston thought, that was cutting straight to the core. "I don't have any."
"Then it's time you got some." To punctuate, Daniel banged his fist on the desk. "You're not blind or stupid, are you?"
"No."
"Well then, what's stopping you? The girl's exactly what you need to lighten up that serious nature of yours, to keep you from burrowing into a cave like a bear with indigestion." Eyes narrowed, he jabbed out with the cigar. "And if I didn't know you were just what's best for her, you wouldn't be within arm's reach, I can tell you that."
"You put me in arm's reach, Mr. MacGregor." Feeling trapped, and furious because of it, Preston pushed out of his chair. "You dumped me on her doorstep, under the guise of doing me a favor."
"I did you the finest favor of your life, lad, and you should be thanking me for it, instead of looking murderous."
"I don't know how the rest of the family and acquaintances handle your button pushing, but I can tell you I don't appreciate or need it."
"If you didn't need it," Daniel disagreed in a roar, "why are you still moping about something that's goneand never really wasinstead of taking hold of what is?"
The temper that had been heating Preston's eyes turned to ice. "That's my business."
"It's your flaw," Daniel disagreed, more pleased than not to watch the anger, and the control. "And a man's entitled to one or two. I've had over ninety years in this world to watch people, to measure them, to see them as they are. I'll tell you something, McQuinn, that you're either too young or too stubborn to see for yourselfyou match, the pair of you. One balancing the other."
"You're wrong."
"Hah! Damned if I am. The lass wouldn't have asked you to this house if she wasn't already in love with you. And you'd not have come unless you were already in love with her."
So he goes pale at that, Daniel thought, sitting back again with satisfaction. Love, for some, was a scary business.
"You've miscalculated." Preston spoke softly as his stomach clenched into a dozen tight fists. "Love has nothing to do with what's between Cybil and me. And if I hurt her. When I hurt her," Preston corrected,
"you'll own part of the blame for it."
He stalked out, leaving Daniel puffing on his cigar. Hurt was part of love, he acknowledged. Though he'd suffer for knowing his precious girl would ache a bit along the way. And yes, he'd own part of the blame for it. But when the man stopped wriggling like a stubborn trout on the line and made her happy Well then, who would own the credit, he'd like to know, if it wasn't Daniel MacGregor?
And laughing, he finished his cigar in secret delight.
Cybil was sorry the trip to Hyannis had put Preston in a prickly mood. One, she thought, that hadn't completely reversed itself after a week back in New York.
He was a difficult man. She accepted that. Now that she knew the full story of what he'd been through, what had been done to him, she didn't see how he could be otherwise.
It would take him, a man with that much sensitivity, that much heart, a long time to trust again. A long time to allow himself to feel again.
She could wait.
But it hurt. She couldn't stop it from hurting when he turned away from her just a little too quickly, or barricaded himself against her with his work, his music or the long, solitary walks he'd begun to take at odd hours.
Walks where he made it clear he wanted to be alone, that he didn't want to share with her.
She told herself his work was giving him troublethough he never talked about his play with her any
longer. She imagined he didn't think she could understand the pain, the joy, the frustration of his work or what parts of himself it could swallow. That stung, but she told herself she accepted it.
She'd always been able to lie to herself more easily than she had to others.
Her own work had taken a new turn and was involving more of her time and energy. The meeting she'd had just before leaving for Hyannis had been a vital one. But she'd told no one. Not family, not friends, not her lover.
Superstitious, she supposed, as she climbed out of a cab in front of her building. She'd been afraid to say it out loud and jinx it before it was real.
Now it was.
She pressed a hand to her heart, felt it thud in hard, excited beats. Heard herself giggle. Now it was very real, and she couldn't wait to tell everyone.
Maybe she'd have a party to celebrate. A loud, silly, joyful bash of a party.
Champagne and balloons. Pizza and caviar.
As if preparing for it, she danced up the steps. She had to call her parents, her family, to grab Jody so they could squeal at each other.
But first, she had to tell Preston.
She used the knuckles of both fists, rapping a cheerful tattoo on his door. He'd be working, she thought, but this couldn't wait. He'd understand.
They had to celebrate. Glug champagne in the middle of the afternoon, get a little drunk and stupid and make crazy love.
When he opened the door she was shining like a sunbeam.
"Hi! I just got back. You won't believe it."
He was rumpled, unshaven, and resented the fact that one look at her could yank his mind right out of his play. Just one look. "I'm working, Cybil."
"I know. I'm sorry. But I'm going to burst if I don't tell somebody." She lifted her hands to his face, rubbed them over the stubble. "You look like you could use a quick break anyway."
"I'm in the middle of things," he began, but she was already breezing in.
"I bet you haven't eaten lunch. I just had the most incredible lunch at this new hot spot uptown. Why don't I fix you a sandwich and we'll"
"I don't want a sandwich." He heard the edgy snap to his voice, didn't bother to soften it as he stalked to the stove to pour coffee that had been ripening for hours. "And I don't have time for one. I want to work."
"You have to eat." She had her head inside his fridge, then brought it out again when she heard him go upstairs. "Oh, for heaven's sake." She blew out a breath, rolled her eyes and started up after him.
"Okay, forget the sandwich. I just have to tell you how I spent my day. God, McQuinn, it's dark as a tomb in here." Instinctively, she marched to the window, started to throw open the drapes.
"Leave them alone. Damn it, Cybil."
Her hand froze, then dropped away, as slowly, as completely, as her mood. He was already at the keyboard, she noted, already closed off from her, just as he closed himself off from the life that surged and pulsed outside his curtained window.
He worked with lamplight and stale coffee. And with his back to her.
Nothing that was inside her, that had been bubbling like a geyser, mattered to him.
"It's so easy for you to ignore me," she murmured. "To dismiss me."
There was no mistaking the hurt in her voice. He braced himself against it, refused to feel guilty. "It's not easy, but right now it's necessary."
"Yes, you're working, and I've got some nerve, don't I, interrupting genius, interfering with such a grand enterprise. One I couldn't possibly understand."
Irritated, he flicked a glance at her. "You can work with people hovering. I can't."
"Then again," she continued, "it's easy for you to ignore and dismiss me at other times, too, when work has nothing to do with it."
He pushed away from the keyboard, shifted toward her. "I'm not in the mood to argue with you."
"And, of course, it always comes down to your moods. If you're in the mood to be with me or be alone.
To talk to me or be quiet. To touch me or turn away."
There was a hint of finality in her tone that had panic skating up his spine. "If that didn't suit you, you should have said so."
"You're right. Absolutely. Exactly right. And just now it doesn't suit me, Preston, to be treated like a mild annoyance easily swatted aside, then picked up again when you have a moment. It doesn't suit me to have what matters to me shrugged off as unimportant."
"You want me to stop work and listen to how you spent the day shopping and having lunch?"
She opened her mouth, closed it again, but not before one small sound of hurt had escaped.
"I'm sorry." Furious with himself, he got to his feet. She looked as if he'd slapped her. "I'm streaming toward the end of this, and I'm distracted, nasty." He dragged his hands through his hair because she hadn't moved, hadn't stopped staring at him with those wide, wounded eyes. "Let's go downstairs."
"No, I have to go." Because she could feel ridiculous tears stirring in her throat, burning there. "I have some calls to make, and I have a headache," she said, lifting a hand to rub at her throbbing temple. "It
makes me irritable. I think I need some aspirin and a nap."
She started out, stopping when he laid a hand on her arm. He felt her tremble and absorbed a hard wash of shame. "Cybil"
"I don't feel well, Preston. I'm going home to lie down."
She broke free, rushed out. He winced as he heard the slam of the door. "You stupid son of a bitch," he muttered, rubbing his fingers against his eyes. "Why didn't you just kick her a couple of times while you were at it?"
Disgusted with himself, he paced the room, shoving his hands in his pocket, then pulling them out again to yank at the drapes.
The sun was brilliant, streaming through the glass, making him narrow his eyes in defense. Maybe he did close himself off from what was on the other side, he thought. He worked better that way. And he didn't have to justify or explain his work habits to anyone.
He didn't have to hurt her that way.
But damn it, she'd burst in on him at the worst possible time. He was entitled to his privacy, to his space when the work and the words were racing through him.
He didn't dismiss her. He didn't ignore her. How the hell did you ignore someone who wouldn't get out of your mind no matter what else was sharing the space with her?
But he'd been trying to, hadn't he? Very deliberately trying to do both, ever since the little session with Daniel MacGregor in his tower office in Hyannis Port.
Because the clever, canny, meddling old man was right.
He was already in love with her.
If he ignored it, dismissed it, kept pushing it just a little further out of reach, it might go away before it got a good, firm grip on him.
He wasn't risking love again, not when he knew exactly what it could do to twist heart and soul, to wring every drop of blood out of them. He wasn't going to allow himself to become that vulnerable to her.
He'd get over it, he told himself, and pulled the curtains shut again. He'd put things back on balance and they'd both be happier.
And as far as his insufferable behavior of the last few days, he'd make it up to her. She hadn't done anything to deserve it, except exist. She'd done nothing but give, he thought. He'd done nothing but take.
Knowing work was out of the question, he went downstairs. He considered going across the hall, knocking, leading in with the apology he owed her. But she was entitled to her privacy, as well, he decided. He'd give it to her and take a walk.
He didn't think about buying her flowers until he saw them, bright and sunny in an outdoor cart. Not roses, he mused. Too formal. Not the daisiesthey were cheerful but ordinary. He settled on tulips in