Holding the Dream Page 0,91

fumbled for the receiver before she remembered she wasn't home. "Yes, hello."

"Oh. I'm sorry. I must have the wrong number. I'm calling Byron De Witt's residence."

Dazed, Kate stared around the room. The antique oak chest of drawers, the warm green walls and white curtains, the clever watercolor seascapes. A thriving ornamental lemon tree in a glazed pot in front of the window. And the lulling, ceaseless sound of the sea.

Byron's bedroom.

"Ah..." She sat up, rubbing a hand over her face. Cool ivory sheets slipped down to her waist. "This is Mr. De Witt's residence."

"Oh, I didn't realize he'd gotten a housekeeper already. I expect he's at work. I was just going to leave a message on the machine for him. Tell him Lottie called, won't you, honey? He can reach me anytime this evening. He's got the number. 'Bye now."

Before Kate was fully awake, she was staring at the receiver and listening to the rude buzz of a dial tone.

Housekeeper? Lottie? He's got the number? Well, fuck.

She slammed down the phone and scrambled up. The scent of him was still on her skin, and he was getting calls from some bimbo named Lottie. Typical, she decided, and looked around for her clothes. Which were, she recalled, downstairs where he'd left them when he carried her up to bed. Ordered her to take a nap. And she'd been so softened by lovemaking that she meekly obeyed.

Hadn't she told herself from the start that men like him were all the same? The better-looking they were, the more charming they were, the bigger scum they were. Men who looked like Byron had women crawling all over them every day of the week.

And he'd said he thought he loved her. What a crock. Energized with righteous fury, she marched downstairs and snatched up her clothes. Scum. Swine. Slime. Ignoring her hose, she struggled into skirt and blouse, fumbling with her buttons as he came through the deck door with the dogs at his heels.

"Thought you'd still be sleeping."

She eyed him narrowly. "I bet you did."

"I took the dogs for a run on the beach. We should go down later. The storm's brought some nice shells in." He walked into the kitchen as he spoke. Swaggering like a gunslinger, she followed. "Want a beer?" He twisted the cap off one, guzzled. As he lowered the bottle, he caught the glint of steel in her eyes. "Problem?"

"Problem? No, no problem at all." Before she could stop herself she'd bunched up her fist and plowed it into his belly. It was like hitting rock. "Be sure when you see Lottie you tell her I'm not your goddamn housekeeper."

He rubbed his belly more in surprise than discomfort. "Huh?"

"Oh, brilliant. You always have such a sharp riposte, De Witt How dare you? How dare you say the things you said to me, do the things you did, and have some... some tramp named Lottie on the side?"

It wasn't quite clear, but he thought he was starting to catch up. "Lottie called?" he ventured.

She made the same sound in her throat that he'd heard once or twice before. As much for her sake as his own, he held up a hand and backed off. "You're going to hurt yourself if you hit me again."

Her gaze shifted, lingered on the kitchen block filled with black-handled knives. He didn't believe it, not for an instant. But he stepped between her and the sharp implements.

"Now, I'm going to guess that the phone woke you up, and it was Lottie. And Lottie, by the way, is not a tramp."

"I say she is, and either way, you're still a lying, two-timing scum. How long did you expect to get away with telling her I was your housekeeper? And just what were you going to tell me she was?"

He studied his beer for a moment, tried to keep the gleam out of his eyes when they met hers. "My sister."

"Oh, very original. I'm out of here."

"Not so fast." It wasn't much of a challenge to grab her one-armed around the waist and haul her to a chair. She was kicking, swinging, but he managed it easily. "Lottie," he said as he shoved her in place again, "is my sister."

"You don't have a sister named Lottie," she fired back. "You idiot, you told me your sisters' names just a few hours ago. Suellen, Meg, and - "

"Charlotte," he finished, and didn't bother to conceal the smugness. "Lottie. She's a pediatrician, married, three kids. And she has just