Free Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_02 by Scandal in Fair Haven Page B

temptation. Are you saying David Forrest, Mr. Perfect, can be roused to
passion?”
Patty Kay’s eyes glittered with amusement. “Oh, dear. Now, that’s another deep question. But one perhaps we’d better not pursue.”
    “Why not?” Edith asked, her laughter trilling.
    Gina frowned, suddenly serious. Perhaps she had recognized the cruelty of their taunts. “Knock it off, you two.”
    Abruptly, Brooke shoved back her chair. “I’ve had enough. Sometimes you go too far, Patty Kay.” The door slammed. The sharp crack almost drowned out Patty Kay’s murmured “She’s never had enough.”
    That was the end of the film. I punched Rewind. As the tape whirred, I kept hearing Patty Kay’s final vibrant whoop of laughter.
    I returned the cassette to the cabinet and checked my watch. Just after four. Plenty of time. The library came next. It appeared to be the least lived-in room in the big house. The books were so evenly aligned, I knew they’d not been moved in a long time except perhaps to be dusted and reshelved. But it wasn’t the books, though many were beautifully bound, that attracted my interest.
    The focal point of the room was the portrait of Patty Kay.
    Portrait painters must despair of the unoriginal poses so often selected by their wealthy subjects. The most common, I suppose, are the demure hostess in a white organdy dress seated on a garden bench or the jodhpur-clad horsewoman standing next to an elegant Thoroughbred.
    Instead, Patty Kay was forever captured in sweat-dampened tennis whites, her forehand curving into an overhead smash, her tanned face flushed, her green eyes intent and arrogantly triumphant, her curly dark hair bunched beneath a worn headband, her lips parted in effort, her tennis shoes smudged with dust from red clay. The portrait wasn’t especially flattering. The tendons in her neck were distended, the muscles in her arm were bunched, the bones of her vivid face were predatory and implacable. But the artist without doubt captured her intensity, her vitality, her total and complete determination.
    Here was a victor, a champion, fiercely proud of her strength, of her body, of her will.
    Here was a woman who would never give up.
    Or in.
    I felt as though Patty Kay’s ghost walked with methrough the rest of her home. I imagined her grin as I surveyed the master bath.
    It was Italian Renaissance-inspired: a vaulted ceiling, painted mirrors framed by blond onyx, a deep, golden marble bath. The space was generous enough for a bevy of nymphs to cavort in. Patty Kay could have practiced her serve in this sumptuous chamber—or whatever other physical pleasures she enjoyed.
    The master bedroom, too, suggested physical delight as well as respite. A silk spread covered the king-size bed. The walls, too, were of silk, and the window hangings all in subtle shades of rich apricot. At the four corners of the massive bed hung delicate light golden muslin swaths that could be pulled shut. They and the spread were reflected in the mirrored ceiling.
    I had no difficulty determining Patty Kay’s closet from Craig’s.
    Hers contained rack after rack of designer dresses and suits with every possible matching accessory, all in vibrant, eye-catching primary colors. Gold. Emerald. Scarlet. There were dozens of equally brightly hued shoes and purses for every occasion and season. The drawers held elegant sports apparel for the seashore, the mountains, the courts, the riding trails.
    It was easy to imagine her fresh from her bath, lithe and eager, ruffling through the sachet-scented drawers, hurriedly pulling one dress from a hanger, discarding it, picking another.
    Craig’s sparsely filled closet and a monogrammed silver hairbrush on the dresser were the only evidence he’d shared in the life of this luxurious room. A dozen suits for winter and summer. Ten conservative dress shirts. More sports clothes, mostly khaki slacks and patterned sports shirts.Two pairs of black dress shoes. Three pairs of loafers.