Illegal Possession Read Online Free PDF Page B

heard him, she gave no sign.
             
    The house on Oak Street was nestled in among the towering trees that had given the street its name. It was a tall and stately house, a generation older than Troy, and it boasted some thirty rooms. The mansion—a well-cared-for Colonial—was beautiful.
    When Troy briskly entered the house through the front door, Bryce was there to take her jacket, as always just a moment too late to open the door for her as he thought proper. Troy hid a grin at the slight crack in his butlerly composure, silently admonishing herself, as always, that she really should stop bolting into the house and upsetting the poor man.
    “Three messages, Miss Troy,” he announced in his clipped British accent, holding the much used and despised (by him) sheepskin jacket as though it were a mink coat. “The French gentleman called again and asked that you return his call at your convenience.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Mr. Elliot called to inform you that he is bringing the ingredients for his—punch—to the gathering tomorrow night.”
    Bryce said
punch
as if it were a blow from a fist rather than a drink, Troy thought in amusement. She smothered a yawn behind one hand, the exhaustion of too many hours without sleep beginning to catch up with her. “Fine. And the third message?”
    “A gentleman,” Bryce said, his emphasis proclaiming that he had his doubts about the noun,
    “called and asked if Troy lived here. Then he demanded to know your last name.”
    “You hung up on him, of course?” Troy murmured, thinking that Dallas had worked fast to get her unlisted number. How on earth had he managed?
    “Of course.” The butler unbent enough to say somewhat sternly, “Mrs. Miller is preparing something light for your dinner, Miss Troy. I would suggest that you lie down for a few hours before the meal.”
    Amused, Troy said, “I’m way ahead of you, Bryce.”
    Ten minutes later Troy had stripped and slid between cool sheets in her French Provincial bedroom. Just as she was relaxing into sleep, a sudden thought made her sit up and reach for the phone on her nightstand. She placed a call, asked one brief question, listened to the answer, then expressed her thanks and hung up.
    Lying back on the pillows, she thought with drowsy irritation,
Damn, I do own stock in his company!

THREE
    T HE ALCOVE AT the top of the stairs was a perfect place from which to observe comings and goings, and Troy used it for just that. None of her guests would expect her until they saw her: it was neither lack of punctuality nor any desire for theatrics that made her invariably late for even her own parties, but merely a life filled to overflowing with things to be done. As it was, she’d only finished getting ready five minutes before, and the party had been in full swing for almost an hour.
    So she paused in the alcove, shielded by shadows from the eyes of her guests below as she took a moment to catch her breath and gaze down on the cream of several different crops of Washington society. The military was represented in all of its branches and most of its ranks; the occasional wafting upward of foreign words and phrases indicated the presence of members of the diplomatic corps: strident “discussions” of the economy hinted at government representatives; glittering jewels and evening dresses announced fashionable society.
    It was a sight to gladden the heart of any hostess, but Troy merely noted the guests with cursory interest. Familiar faces all, and though she was always glad to see friends, she was looking for a particular face at the moment.
    And there he was.
    Troy felt her heart leap, and fiercely steadied it. Of course, he’d come; the man was determined if nothing else. Shatteringly handsome in a black dinner jacket, he strode through the huge sitting room, clearly visible to her through the archway across from the stairs.
    He moved like a cat, she thought vaguely, like a slightly aloof and innately arrogant