Нора Робертс - Megan’s Mate

How much worse, she thought, if Bianca had loved him.

As she often did in the quiet hours before sleep, Megan flipped through the pages to the series of numbers. She had time now to regret that she'd never made it to the library.

Or perhaps Amanda was a better bet. Amanda might know whether Fergus had had foreign bank accounts, safe-deposit boxes.

Peering down, she wondered whether that was the answer. The man had had homes in Maine and in New York. These could be the numbers of various safe-deposit boxes. Even combinations to safes he'd kept in his homes.

That idea appealed to her, a straightforward answer to a small but nagging puzzle. A man as obsessed with his wealth and the making of money as Fergus Calhoun had been would very likely have kept a few secret stores.

Wouldn't it be fantastic, she thought, if there was some dusty deposit box in an old bank vault? Unopened all these years, she imagined. The key lost or discarded. The contents? Oh...priceless rubies or fat, negotiable bonds. A single faded photograph. A lock of hair wound with a gold ribbon.

She rolled her eyes and laughed at herself. “Imagination's in gear, Megan,” she murmured. “Too bad it's so farfetched.”

“What is?”

She jumped like a rabbit, her glasses sliding down to her chin. “Damn. Nathaniel.”

He was grinning as he closed and locked the terrace doors at his back. “I thought you'd be happy to see me.”

“I am. But you didn't have to sneak up on me that way.”

“When a man comes through a woman's window at night, he's supposed to sneak.”

She shoved her glasses back in place. “They're doors.”

“And you're too literal.” He leaned over the back of the chair where she sat and kissed her like a starving man. “I'm glad you talk to yourself.”

“I do not.”

“You were, just now. That's why I decided to stop watching you and come in.” He strolled to the hallway door, locked it. “You looked incredibly sexy sitting there at your neat little desk, your hair scooped up, your glasses sliding down your nose. In that cute, no-nonsense robe.”

She wished heartily that the practical terry cloth could transform into silk and lace. But she had nothing seductive to adorn herself in, and had settled for the robe and Coco's perfume.

“I didn't think you were coming after all. It's getting late.”

“I figured there'd be some hoopla over yesterday, and that you'd need to settle Kevin for the night. He didn't get wind of it, did he?”

“No.” It touched her that he would ask, that it would matter to him. “None of the children know. Everyone else has been wonderful. It's like thinking you're alone in a battle and then finding yourself surrounded by a circle of shields.” She smiled, tilted her head. “Are you holding something behind your back?”

His brows rose, as if in surprise. “Apparently I am.” He drew out a peony, a twin to the one he'd given her before. “'A rose,'“ he said, “'without a thorn.'“

He crossed to her as he spoke, and all she could think for one awed moment was that this man, this fascinating man, wanted her. He started to take its faded twin from the bud vase on her desk.

“Don't.” She felt foolish, but stayed his hand. “Don't throw it out.”

“Sentimental, Meg?” Moved that she had kept his token, he slipped the new bud in with the old. “Did you sit here, working late, looking at the flower and thinking of me?”

“I might have.” She couldn't fight the smile in his eyes. “Yes, I thought of you. Not always kindly.”

“Thinking's enough.” He lifted her hand, kissed her palm. “Nearly.” To her surprise, he plucked her from the chair, sat himself down and nestled her in his lap. “But this is a whole lot better.”

It seemed foolish to disagree, so she rested her head on his shoulder.

“Everyone's getting prepped for the big Fourth of July celebration,” she told him idly. “Coco and Dutch are arguing about recipes for barbecue sauce and the kids are bitterly disappointed we won't let them have small, colorful bombs to set off.”

“They'll end up making two kinds of sauce and asking everyone to take sides.” It was nice sitting like this, he thought, alone and quiet at the end of the day. “And the kids won't be disappointed after they see the fireworks display Trent organized.”

Kevin had talked of nothing else all evening, she remembered. “I've heard it's going to be quite a show.”

“Count on it. This bunch won't do anything halfway. Like fireworks, do you, sugar?”

“Almost as much as the kids.” She laughed and snuggled against him. “I can't believe it's July already. All I have to do is get about two dozen things out of the way so I can compete in the great barbecue showdown, keep the kids from setting themselves on fire and enjoy the show.”

“Business first,” he murmured. “Working on Fergus's book?”

“Mmm-hmm... I had no idea how much of a fortune he'd amassed, or how little he considered people. Look here.” She tapped her finger to the page. “Whenever he made a note about Bianca, it's as if she were a servant or, worse, a possession. He checked over the household accounts every day, to the penny. There's a notation about how he docked the cook thirty-three cents for a kitchen discrepancy.”

“A lot of people think more of money than soul.” He flipped idly through the book. “I can be sure you're not sitting on my lap because of my bank balance—since you know it down to the last nickel.”

“You're in the black.” “Barely.”

“Cash flow is usually thin the first few years in any business—and when you add in the outlay in equipment you've purchased, the down payment for the cottage, insurance premiums and licensing fees—”

“God, I love it when you talk profit and loss.” Letting the book close, he nipped playfully at her ear. “Talk to me about checks and balances, or quarterly returns. Quarterly returns make me crazy.”

“Then you'll be happy to know you and Holt underestimated your federal payments.”

“Mmm...” He stopped, narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“You owe the government another two hundred and thirty dollars, which can be added to your next quarter due, or, more wisely, I can file an amended return.”

He swore halfheartedly. “How come we have to pay them in advance, anyway?”

She gave him a light kiss in sympathy. “Because, Nathaniel, if you don't, the IRS will make your life a living hell. I'm here to save you from them. I'm also, if your system can take the excitement, going to suggest you open a Keogh—a retirement account for the self-employed.”

“Retirement? Hell, Meg, I'm thirty-three.”

“And not getting a day younger. Do you know what the cost-of-living projections are for your golden years, Mr. Fury?”

“I changed my mind. I don't like it when you talk accountant to me.”

“It's also good tax sense,” she persisted. “The money you put in won't be taxable until you're of retirement age. When, usually, your bracket is lower. Besides, planning for the future might not be romantic, but it is rewarding.”

He slid a hand under the terry cloth. “I'd rather have instant gratification.” Her pulse scrambled. “I have the necessary form.”

“Damn right you do.”

“For the Keogh. All you need to— Oh.” The terry cloth parted like water under his clever hands. She gasped, shuddered, melted. “How did you do that?”

“Come to bed.” He lifted her. “I'll show you.”

Just past dawn, Nathaniel strolled down the curve of the terrace steps, his hands in his pockets and a whistle on his lips. Dutch, in a similar pose, descended the opposite curve, both men stopped dead when they met in the center.

They stared, swore.

“What are you doing here at this hour?” Dutch demanded. “I could ask you the same question.”

“I live here, remember?”

Nathaniel inclined his head. “You live down there.” He pointed toward the kitchen level.

“I'm taking the air,” Dutch said, after a fumble for inspiration.

“Me too.”

Dutch flicked a glance toward Megan's terrace. Nathaniel gave Coco's a studying look. Each decided to leave well enough alone.

“Well, then. Suppose you want some breakfast.”

Nathaniel ran his tongue around his teeth. “I could do with some.” “Come on, can't dawdle out here all morning.”

Relieved with the solution, they walked down together in perfect agreement.

She overslept. It was a breach in character that had her racing out of her room, still buttoning her blouse. She stopped to peek into Kevin's bedroom, spotted the haphazardly made bed and sighed.

Everyone was up and about, it seemed, but her.

She made a dash toward her office, crossing breakfast with her son off her list of small pleasures for the day.

“Oh, dear.” Coco fluttered her hands when Megan nearly mowed her down in the lobby. “Is something wrong?”

“No, I'm sorry. I'm just late.” “Did you have an appointment?”

“No.” Megan caught her breath. “I meant I was late for work.”

“Oh, my, I thought there was a problem. I just this minute left a memo on your desk. Go ahead in, dear, I don't want to hold you up.”

“But—” Megan found herself addressing Coco's retreating back, so she turned into her office to read the message.

Coco's idea of an interoffice memo was something less than professional.