What on earth? She injected her voice with sarcasm. "Well, who wouldn't want that?"

Arch drew back his chin, his gaze like a razor ripping her new dress to shreds.

Gordon had tried to control her wardrobe too. "Are you going to tell me what I can wear? Do I need your approval before each purchase? Or am I even allowed to buy clothes?"

"I thought you were different." His eyes shut, and his head slumped forward. "But now you want me to work for my father. Now you want me to keep the estate and the yacht. I thought you didn't care about money. I thought-I thought you loved me."

Just like Gordon. How dare he? How dare he play to her sympathy in order to bend her to his will? Why hadn't she seen it? Why had she opened up to him? He wanted to force her into weakness so he could control her, own her, hurt her.

Not if she could hurt him first.

What a horrible thought. She refused to be that girl anymore, the girl who could make Lucy cry with one pointed sentence. She drew in a steadying breath. "I thought you loved me too. But you don't even know me. How cold do you think I am?"

His harsh laugh answered her question, and he glanced to the side, stuffing his hands into his pockets. But not in time.

The tremor.

He was scared. Scared to be trapped with a gold digger.

Well, she was scared too. Scared to be trapped with a controlling cad.

That frosty coil in her chest snapped into a solid immovable ma.s.s. Oh yes, she could hurt him, and she would before he destroyed her.

35.

Inside his pockets, Arch pressed his hands flat against his thighs to stop the trembling. How cold did he think she was? Cold enough to scheme to trap him. Cold enough to conceal her true nature until after she'd stolen his heart.

"You think I'm a gold digger." Lillian thrust up her chin, her eyes glinting like diamonds. "What if I am? What if I do want to be rich? I saw your estate. I saw the yacht and the stables and the tennis courts and the gigantic house like something in the movies. Who wouldn't want that?"

Like a knife slitting him from throat to belly. "Who wouldn't want that?"-the precise words Pauline Grayson had transcribed from their conversation in Connecticut. All along, Lillian had been scheming, playing hard to get, making him fall in love with her.

She'd betrayed his trust. A rusty taste filled his mouth-he'd bitten his cheek-and he swallowed hard. "You admit it. You only want me for my money."

Lillian's chin worked from side to side. "Why else would I want you? You're gloomy half the time, and you . . . you have weak nerves."

Acid in the wound, burning and bubbling. He'd confided in her, and she was using it against him. The ultimate betrayal. But she must never know how much she'd hurt him.

He gave her a polite nod. "I'll not be seeing you again, Miss Avery. But a gentleman never abandons his date. I'll escort you back to the restaurant so your brother can see you home."

"Is-is that why Jim and Mary are here?" Her voice rose, so unseemly. "You knew you were going to break up with me?"

"I had a strong suspicion it would be necessary. I'm only sorry I was right."

"You . . . you . . ." Her face reddened and contorted, and she clawed at the bracelet. "Take it. Take it. I don't want it."

The quaver in her voice almost sounded authentic, but he strolled past her toward the dining room. "Keep it. I refuse to take it back. A small price to pay for the truth."

Her footsteps sounded behind him. "You know what? I will. I will keep it. To remind me never to trust a man again."

Perhaps he'd spared another man a similar fate of deception and betrayal. He stopped at the matre d'htel's station. "I'll take care of the bill for the Vandenberg table now."

"Yes, sir." The man crossed the room to the kitchen.

Lillian breezed past Arch and faced him. "Not one step farther. I won't let you take me to Jim as if I were a naughty child." She marched away.

"Very well. I only wanted to do my duty as a gentleman."

"A gentleman?" She spun to him, and her eyes shot icy green darts. "Oh yes. You showed impeccable manners as you broke my heart."

Then she lifted that chin and flounced away, a slight hitch in her step.

Just like the night they met.

The night he'd offended her by staring. Except tonight the offense had been earned.

As he watched her leave, an ache filled his chest. What had gone wrong? Why couldn't she resist the temptation of wealth? Why did she have to change?

Arch asked the cab driver to drop him off at Boston Common. For two hours, Arch wandered in the dark, avoiding the rowdy sailors, steering past the amorous couples.

What signs had he missed? Memories pummeled him of dinners and walks and ice-skating, of Lillian watching him with guarded eyes as if he were a predatory wolf. Yet all along she was the predator. He'd been too blind to see.

He stared at the sky, devoid of the moon's light. Conversations played in his mind, but no clues surfaced. Until he'd taken her to Connecticut. Until she'd seen the grandeur of the estate.

Arch strode down a path that sliced diagonally across the gra.s.sy slope. For the first time, Dan Avery made sense. The oldest Avery brother had sworn off women as a distraction from his naval career. Arch had an even better reason to do likewise.

He'd lost. How many times had he fought this battle in vain? Women only loved his looks and charm, his money and position. No one would ever love the real man inside.

Who could? "You're gloomy, and you have weak nerves."

His empty stomach churned. Usually two hours of mulling cleared his mind after he broke up with a woman, but not tonight. For Arch, his relationship with Lillian had moved past an amusing dalliance into genuine open love. He'd told her everything.

"You have weak nerves." Would she use that against him one more time? Would she tell Jim? Jim had never been vindictive, but blood ran thicker than water.

As an only child, Arch only had water. He had no champion to stand beside him come what may. Not only had he lost the woman he loved, but he would lose his best friend.

Another two hours wouldn't bring peace, so Arch headed for the subway station across from Park Street Church.

No blood. No water. He had no one.

In the darkness, two men stood on the pier by the Ettinger's gangway. One had Jim Avery's familiar posture, and Arch steeled himself for the confrontation.

The other man jogged toward him. "Mr. Vandenberg? Mr. Vandenberg, sir?"

"Palonsky?"

The seaman didn't answer but gestured for Arch to walk in the other direction. "I have that report for you, sir."

Arch groaned. "That only makes sense on board."

"Yeah, I know." Palonsky led him across railroad tracks and between two workshops. The Boston Navy Yard buzzed with activity now that three shifts worked round the clock, but this location was secluded.

"I met him, not even an hour ago." The sailor faced Arch, close in the darkness, his voice low. "Scar, the big man we saw in the bar."

"Did you get a good look at him?"

"As good as I could in the dark." Palonsky spoke with a thick Boston accent, slow and grainy. "Big man, about six foot, two hundred pounds. Blond hair, what I could see under his cap. Doughy face, tries to hide his scar by not looking you straight in the eye. But it's there, the scar, covers most of the right side of his face, shiny and ugly."

"That's a new accent for you."

"It's his. He's from Boston. Charlestown, if I had to bet. Doesn't say much. I asked a lot of questions-"

Arch winced.

"Don't worry, boss. Not too many. Just being a curious, friendly sort of fellow." His grin flashed white in the dim light.

"No name?"

Palonsky waved his hand as if cleaning a blackboard. "Knew better than to ask. But I'll find out Monday night."

"Monday?"

"Scar said he likes me, hears good things about me. He invited me to join him and the boys at the Rusty Barnacle. Told me not to tell anyone, especially Kramer."

"Why not?"

Palonsky leaned his hand on the brick wall. "He ain't happy with Kramer, says he wants someone friendlier to drum up more business."

Arch rubbed his mouth. "I don't like it."

"I don't either. I'm not going to drum up new customers, and it won't take long for them to find out I'm an imposter."

"Very well. I'll talk to Buckner right away and get you transferred-"

"Not till Tuesday. On Monday I'll get names. You know me. You know I can get those fellows to chat, especially if I buy some beers. If I can get full names for Hank or Shorty or Scar, we're finished. Tuesday morning, you and me and Miss Avery go to the police, and it's over."

As if a swinging boom struck his chest. Lillian was no longer his partner, his Watson, his Holmes, his anything.

What could he do? He needed the information Lillian had gathered. Somehow he'd get word to her. Surely she had enough personal investment in the case to follow through.

"What do you say, boss?" Palonsky asked in his Scar accent.

Arch clapped him on the back. "Tuesday morning-no matter what-I'll get you out."

They headed back to the Ettinger. Now Arch had to deal with Jim.

His former best friend stood at the base of the gangway. Arch motioned for him to follow, and he led Jim toward the same secluded location. He didn't want a scene in front of the crew.

Jim stomped behind him. "I told you not to hurt her."

Arch turned the corner between the workshop buildings. "In retrospect, I should have asked for an exemption in case she hurt me first."

"Lillian? She couldn't hurt-"

"Out of curiosity, what did she tell you happened tonight?" Arch faced him and crossed his arms.

Jim spread his hands wide. "Nothing. She closed up. That's what she does when she's hurt. She said you'd broken up, and all she'd say was, 'Archer Vandenberg isn't the man I thought he was.' The same words she used when she broke up with her boyfriend in college."

Clever ploy for sympathy, linking Arch to that Gordon. "So from that single statement, you conclude I'm to blame."

"I saw the bracelet. You tested her."

"And she failed."

The fist came from nowhere. Pain cracked through his left cheekbone, and stars shot in his vision.

Arch slammed into the brick wall, righted himself, and struck the fighting stance. How many times had he and Jim squared off in the boxing ring at the Academy? Evenly matched. Never once had they exchanged blows in anger.

Jim huffed, hunched over like a bull.

With fists ready, Arch forced a calm tone. "If you care to keep your commission, I'd suggest you don't throw another punch."

Jim wheeled away and paced across the walkway, arms swinging loose and wild. "She failed? Failed?"

Arch tracked his opponent, prepared for the charge, his cheek throbbing.

"Let me guess." Jim flung his hand toward the sea. "You took her to your fancy house, and she had the nerve to like it. You took her to one of Boston's finest restaurants and-shame on her-she liked it. Then you gave her a ridiculously expensive bracelet and-heaven forbid!-she liked it. What is wrong with you? Huh? How can you honestly expect her to share your . . . your neurotic hatred for wealth?"

A grumble sc.r.a.ped Arch's throat. "More than that. She admitted she was a gold digger."

A scoffing laugh. "Lillian? You're crazy. Flat-out crazy."

His fingernails bit into his palms. "She said those very words. She said she wants it all-the house, the stables, the yacht. She told me outright she only wanted me for my money."

"That doesn't even sound like her. What is wrong with you? Why couldn't you listen to me? I warned you. I told you to stay away from her."

"Believe me. I wish I had. I wish I realized the warning was for my own protection."

Jim lunged, but Arch brandished his fists. This time he'd get in some solid blows of his own.

With a snort, Jim stopped, and he thrust one finger at Arch. "I never want to see you again. Tomorrow morning, I'll apply for a transfer."