brilliant ones?”
Jane shook her head. “Sally went the other route. When she saw how things were she decided to be stupid. She was always in the lowest classes in school, got rotten report cards, and simply refused to try. The funny thing about it, though, is that in certain ways she’s much smarter than my parents or Richard ever were. She just hides it.”
“So we’ve got the brilliant Dexters, the slow one, and ordinary old plain Jane. Is that it?” His voice was just slightly taunting, and she turned from her perusal of the old house to stare at him in outrage.
“How dare you...?” she began.
“Isn’t that what you’ve been calling yourself? All your life, even now, when you should be years removed from the slights of childhood, you go around dressing like plain Jane, thinking like plain Jane, acting like plain Jane. Maybe you should learn to lighten up.”
“Maybe you should learn to—” she stopped the obscene sentiment before she uttered it, replacing it with something safer “—should learn to mind your own business. I’ll be whoever I want to be.”
“Exactly. And you’ve chosen to be plain Jane.”
Outrage and hurt had vanished long ago, to be replaced by a simmering, bristling anger. “Well, honey, you’re a fine one to talk. You’ve decided to be Jimmy the Stoolie, Sandor Whatsisname, among other names. How many aliases do you have?”
He blinked for a moment, like a lizard facing bright sunlight. “At least I have a little variety in my life.”
“I like constancy.”
“Do you ever find it?”
“Not in someone like you,” she snapped.
“Were you looking for it?”
That silenced her. He was sitting very still in the passenger seat of the stripped-down Ford, his thick blond hair rumpled over his high forehead, his tanned, beautiful face composed and no more than slightly curious. He was wearing a suit that was far too conservative and far too expensive for either a conservation fund-raiser or a felon, but she had to admit he was absolutely gorgeous. And completely out of reach.
“No,” she said. “I wasn’t.” But even though she knew better, she would have liked to have found constancy of any sort in the man beside her.
“Are you sure?” His voice was soft, beguiling, teasing at her senses.
He
’
s a con man,
she reminded herself.
He knows how to use people.
“This conversation is going nowhere,” she said abruptly. “Are we going to talk to Annabel Tremaine or aren’t we?”
He smiled at her, that brilliant, heart-stopping smile that she knew would haunt her. “We are. Actually, I am. You’re going to stand by and look serious and concerned while I pitch her. Think you can handle that?”
“I can handle anything you dish out.”
The golden smile broadened to a grin. “I’ll hold you to it.”
It took a while for someone to answer the door. Jane could hear the melodious chimes echo through the house, but there was no sound of life, or scurrying footsteps. “No one’s home,” she hissed. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Tremaine went alone, and someone kissed him goodbye,” Sandy said, pressing the doorbell again. “And that BMW was in the driveway this morning and it hasn’t been moved. She’s home.”
“You’re wasting your time.”
“You can always wait in the car, Jane,” he said, not bothering to look at her.
“The hell I...”
The door swung open, and a slender, willowy figure stood in the darkness of the hallway, peering out into the bright autumn sunlight. Jane watched in utter fascination as Sandy smiled at the shadowy figure. He knew just the right level of wattage to turn on. Not too overwhelming—the shy creature hiding from them would have probably run. Not too subdued, just enough to coax Annabel Tremaine out of hiding.
“Hi,” he said, his voice warm and soothing and just faintly tinged with a Southern accent. “I’m Ashley Wilkes and this is my wife Melanie. We’re representing the Northeast Conservation
Jane shook her head. “Sally went the other route. When she saw how things were she decided to be stupid. She was always in the lowest classes in school, got rotten report cards, and simply refused to try. The funny thing about it, though, is that in certain ways she’s much smarter than my parents or Richard ever were. She just hides it.”
“So we’ve got the brilliant Dexters, the slow one, and ordinary old plain Jane. Is that it?” His voice was just slightly taunting, and she turned from her perusal of the old house to stare at him in outrage.
“How dare you...?” she began.
“Isn’t that what you’ve been calling yourself? All your life, even now, when you should be years removed from the slights of childhood, you go around dressing like plain Jane, thinking like plain Jane, acting like plain Jane. Maybe you should learn to lighten up.”
“Maybe you should learn to—” she stopped the obscene sentiment before she uttered it, replacing it with something safer “—should learn to mind your own business. I’ll be whoever I want to be.”
“Exactly. And you’ve chosen to be plain Jane.”
Outrage and hurt had vanished long ago, to be replaced by a simmering, bristling anger. “Well, honey, you’re a fine one to talk. You’ve decided to be Jimmy the Stoolie, Sandor Whatsisname, among other names. How many aliases do you have?”
He blinked for a moment, like a lizard facing bright sunlight. “At least I have a little variety in my life.”
“I like constancy.”
“Do you ever find it?”
“Not in someone like you,” she snapped.
“Were you looking for it?”
That silenced her. He was sitting very still in the passenger seat of the stripped-down Ford, his thick blond hair rumpled over his high forehead, his tanned, beautiful face composed and no more than slightly curious. He was wearing a suit that was far too conservative and far too expensive for either a conservation fund-raiser or a felon, but she had to admit he was absolutely gorgeous. And completely out of reach.
“No,” she said. “I wasn’t.” But even though she knew better, she would have liked to have found constancy of any sort in the man beside her.
“Are you sure?” His voice was soft, beguiling, teasing at her senses.
He
’
s a con man,
she reminded herself.
He knows how to use people.
“This conversation is going nowhere,” she said abruptly. “Are we going to talk to Annabel Tremaine or aren’t we?”
He smiled at her, that brilliant, heart-stopping smile that she knew would haunt her. “We are. Actually, I am. You’re going to stand by and look serious and concerned while I pitch her. Think you can handle that?”
“I can handle anything you dish out.”
The golden smile broadened to a grin. “I’ll hold you to it.”
It took a while for someone to answer the door. Jane could hear the melodious chimes echo through the house, but there was no sound of life, or scurrying footsteps. “No one’s home,” she hissed. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Tremaine went alone, and someone kissed him goodbye,” Sandy said, pressing the doorbell again. “And that BMW was in the driveway this morning and it hasn’t been moved. She’s home.”
“You’re wasting your time.”
“You can always wait in the car, Jane,” he said, not bothering to look at her.
“The hell I...”
The door swung open, and a slender, willowy figure stood in the darkness of the hallway, peering out into the bright autumn sunlight. Jane watched in utter fascination as Sandy smiled at the shadowy figure. He knew just the right level of wattage to turn on. Not too overwhelming—the shy creature hiding from them would have probably run. Not too subdued, just enough to coax Annabel Tremaine out of hiding.
“Hi,” he said, his voice warm and soothing and just faintly tinged with a Southern accent. “I’m Ashley Wilkes and this is my wife Melanie. We’re representing the Northeast Conservation
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