Sail Away

“And soon,” he said, spying Kent Simms, face flushed, plunging through the crowd and heading straight for Marnie. The glare in Kent’s eyes was unmistakable—the territorial pride of the spurned male.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Kent demanded in a voice so low it was hard to hear over the crowd.

Adam finished his drink. “I was hoping to talk to Victor, but I guess you’ll have to do.”

“Forget it. Come on, Marnie, let’s go,” Kent ordered, grabbing her arm and propelling her toward a banquet room near the back of the lobby.

“Let go of me,” she whispered furiously, half running to keep up with his longer strides. She considered making a scene, but thought better of it. No reason to call undue attention to Adam—he’d do enough of that for himself.

In the banquet room, she whirled around and yanked her arm free of Kent’s possessive grasp. “What is it you want?”

His expression changed from anger to sadness. “You already know what I want,” he said quietly. “I just want you, Marnie.”

She couldn’t believe her ears. What did it take to make the man understand? “I already told you it’s over! I don’t need to be manhandled or made a spectacle of! Where do you get off, hauling me in here like some caveman claiming his woman?”

“Caveman?” he repeated. “Weren’t you just talking to Drake? Now there’s someone who’s primitive.” He shook his head, as if sorry that she was so dense. “You know, Marnie, sometimes you can be impossible.”

“Good!”

“You enjoy being perverse?”

“I just want you to leave me alone. I thought you understood that. If you don’t, let me make myself clear,” she said, drawing up to her full height and sending him an icy glare. “I’m sorry I ever got involved with you and I never want to see you again.”

He glanced to one of the chandeliers high overhead. “I made a mistake with Dolores.”

She didn’t respond. She’d learned that his affair with Dolores had been going on for over six months. All the time that she and Kent had been picking out china, planning a wedding, looking for a house, sailing in the boat Victor had bought them as an engagement present, Kent had been sleeping with his secretary.

“You know I still love you,” he said, and his expression was so sincere, she almost believed him. But she wasn’t a fool. Not any more. “Give me another chance,” he pleaded. “It’ll never happen again. I swear it.”

Marnie shook her head. “You can do what you damn well please, Kent. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“I really did a number on you, didn’t I?”

“I prefer to think that you did me a favor.”

A light of challenge sparked in his hazel eyes. He leaned down as if to kiss her, and she ducked away. “Stop it!” she commanded, her tone frigid.

He ignored her and grabbed her quickly, yanking her hard against him. “Don’t tell me ‘no,’” he whispered, his face so close that his breath, smelling of liquor, fanned her face.

“Don’t pull this macho stuff on me!”

“You love it.” His grip tightened, and his eyes glittered in a way that frightened and sickened her. He enjoyed this fight.

Squirming, unable to wrench away, she stomped on his foot in frustration. The heel of her shoe snapped with the force. “Let go!”

Kent let out a yowl and backed up a step. “What the hell’s gotten into you?” he cried, reaching down to rub the top of his shoe, as if he could massage his wounded foot. Wincing, he turned furious eyes on her. “I thought we could work things out, you know? I thought tonight would be the perfect time. Did you see me with your father and Senator Mann? The man knew my name! God, what a rush! And I come back to share it with you—the woman I love—and what do I get?”

“Maybe you’re getting what you deserve,” Adam drawled, coming up behind Kent.

A wave of heat washed up Marnie’s neck. Oh, Lord! How much of their argument had he overheard?

Kent straightened, resting his foot gingerly on the floor as he eyed Adam. Adam was slightly taller, with harsher features, his hair a little longer, his whole demeanor laid-back and secure. Kent, on the other hand, looked military spit-and-polished, his tuxedo crisp, his hair clipped, his spine ramrod-stiff.

“I thought you were leaving,” Kent said, glowering at Adam.

“Not yet.”

Kent straightened his tie and smoothed his hair. “Does Victor know you’re here?”

Adam lifted a shoulder nonchalantly, but his features were set in stone. “I hope so.”

Instinctively, Marnie stepped closer to Adam, and Kent shot her an irritated glance, his eyes slitting. “Just what is it you want, Drake?” he demanded, stuffing his hands into the back pockets of his pants and angling his face upward to meet Adam’s hard glare. “Why don’t you just leave?”

“Not until I ask Victor if he knows who Gerald Henderson is?”

“Henderson?” Kent repeated, his expression so bland it had to be false. “Didn’t he work for us?”

“In accounting,” Adam clarified.

“I remember him,” Marnie interjected, refusing to be left out of the conversation. “He left because he had health problems—asthma, I think. He had to leave the damp Northwest. And he got a better job with a hotel in San Diego.”

“Still lives in Seattle,” Adam replied. “Spends a lot of time fishing. If I’m not wrong, I think he’s drawing some sort of disability or retirement.”

Marnie glanced from one stern face to the other. “Didn’t the job in California work out?”

“Who cares?” Kent replied. “Henderson’s history.”

“Maybe,” Adam said, and the undercurrents in his voice jarred her. She was missing something in this conversation, something important.

Kent swallowed. “I don’t think Victor would be interested,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction.

“Not even if Gerald had an idea about the missing funds?”

“What?” Marnie demanded, shocked.

“It’s nothing,” Kent snapped. “Henderson couldn’t possibly know—”

“Adam Drake?” Judith Marx, a reporter for the Seattle Observer who had obviously seen some of the hubbub, walked briskly into the banquet room. “I’m surprised to see you here,” she said, her eyes taking in the scene in one quick glance.

The understatement of the year, Marnie thought.

“I wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” Adam drawled.

“Can I quote you?” she asked.

“No!” Kent cut in, his face flushed, a vein throbbing near his temple. “Mr. Drake is an uninvited guest, and if you print that I’ll march over to the Observer and talk to John Forrester myself!”

“Mr. Forrester would never suppress news,” the woman replied smartly.