"It was just a precaution. Your father is known to be an extremely cautious man."
"Not that cautious or we wouldn't be here," Sloan joked.
"And speaking of why we're here," she added with a pleased smile, "I just had an enlightening conversation with my great-grandmother. Did you know she controls the major portion of the family money?"
"You're referring to the Hanover Trust?"
A little deflated, Sloan nodded.
"What did she tell you?"
Sloan repeated the pertinent parts of her conversation with her great-grandmother almost verbatim.
"Nothing new there," he said. "At least nothing significant You were down there quite a while, what else did she talk about?"
Sloan told him the rest, and he seemed far more pleased by it than by the information she'd thought was important. "If she wants you to spend quality time with Paris, do it. I'll hang around here and see what I can find out."
"About what?" Sloan demanded, throwing up her hand in frustration. "What do you suspect him of doing? I think I'm entitled to some sort of a minimal explanation."
"You're on a need-to-know basis. When I think you need to know, I'll tell you."
Striving to match his blasé tone, Sloan said, "And, when I have something I think you need to know, I guess we'll have to negotiate."
She expected him to react to her threat with either amusement or annoyance, but he did neither.
"There are two men in Palm Beach you never want to try to negotiate with, Sloan. I'm one of them."
"Who is the other one?" Sloan asked, taken aback by the veiled threat she heard in his voice.
"Noah Maitland. Thanks for letting me use your balcony," he said for effect as he stepped into the hall.
The door closed behind him, and Sloan slowly headed into the bathroom to take her shower.
He was completely unreadable, unpredictable, and single-minded, but there were times when he'd also seemed charming and rather kind.
Now she had an uneasy feeling that this last might be a facade.
19
Paris was waiting in the foyer when Sloan came downstairs. "I brought the car around in front," she said, and Sloan followed her outside.
A pale gold Jaguar convertible with the top down was parked in the driveway, and as they drove past the main gates, Sloan watched the sunlight gleaming on Paris's chestnut hair. She was thinking how perfectly her sleek sister suited her sleek car when Paris glanced sideways and caught Sloan looking at her. "Did you forget something?" Paris asked.
"No, why?"
"You had an odd look on your face."
After what she'd seen and heard of Paris today, Sloan wanted desperately to breach Paris's barrier of formality and get to know her sister. She seized on Paris's question as an opportunity. "I was thinking that this car is very beautiful and that it suits you."
Paris almost lost control of the steering wheel as she turned and looked at Sloan. "I don't know what to say."
"You could say whatever you're thinking."
"Well, then, I guess I was thinking that that was the last thing I expected you to say."
Sloan had given up on any further voluntary conversation when Paris blurted, "And I was thinking that it was such a nice thing for you to say." She infused the word with so much warmth that Sloan knew Paris meant it as a very great compliment.
They turned left onto a large boulevard, and Paris hesitatingly said, "Does it feel odd to you to be here in the car and know that we're… we're sisters?"
Sloan nodded. "I was just thinking that very thing."
"You're not at all what I expected."
"I know."
"You do?"
"Yes. Your great-grandmother told me what you'd been told."
Paris slanted her a shy look. "She's your great-grandmother, too."
Some demon of mischief made Sloan say, "Somehow I find it much easier to believe you're my sister than she is my great-grandmother."
"She's a little hard to get to know. She intimidates people."
Including you, Sloan thought.
"Does she intimidate you?"
"Not really. Well, maybe just a little," Sloan admitted.
"Most people are terrified of her."
"She's not exactly a typical great-grandmother, at least not my impression of one."
"What is your grandmother like?"
"You mean our mother's mother?" Sloan said gently.
"Yes."
"She died when I was seven, but I remember she was very—cuddly. She smelled like cookies."
"Cookies?"
Sloan nodded. "She loved to bake. She was plump, which is why I guess I said 'cuddly.' She always had cookies for Sara and me."
"Sara?"
"A childhood friend, who is still my best friend."
An awkward silence ensued, the silence of two people who want to move forward but who are so relieved by where they are that they're afraid to take the next steps. Sloan drew a long breath and prayed that she was saying the right thing. "Would you like to know what your mother is like?"
"If you want to tell me. It's up to you."
Lifting her face to the wind, Sloan tipped her head back and contemplated Paris's evasive answer. "If we aren't honest and frank," she said with quiet sincerity, "we don't have a chance of really getting to know each other, and I don't want to miss out on that. Do you think we could make a pact to tell each other the truth and say what we really feel? That's going to take blind trust, but I'm willing to try it. Will you?"
Paris's hands tightened on the steering wheel as she considered Sloan's pact. "Yes," she whispered finally. "Yes," she declared again with a shy smile and a firm nod.
Sloan put the new pact to its first test. "In that case, would you like to know what your mother is really like?"
"Yes, I would."
"That's easy," Sloan said happily. "She's very much like my impression of you so far. She's kind. She doesn't like to hurt anyone's feelings. She adores beautiful clothes, and she works in the most fashionable dress shop in Bell Harbor. Everyone who knows her, loves her, except Lydia, the owner of the shop. Lydia bullies and browbeats her terribly and takes constant advantage of her, but Mother makes excuses for her bad disposition." Sloan broke off as the country club entrance came into view. "Paris, let's not play golf. Let's do something else, instead."
"But Father wanted you to have a lesson."
"I know, but suppose I tell you I absolutely refuse to do it. In that event what will he do?" Sloan wondered if he ranted and raged or worse. He had the temperament of a bully. "Will he shout at you?"