Wild Heart Read Online Free PDF Page A

his mind, have an opinion, do something, while deep down each of them knew that he would never do anything. Sydney knew, too, that Philip stayed out smoking, drinking, and God knew what else for the express purpose of getting a rise out of his father, even though the impossibility of that happening ought to have been clear to him by now. She'd done something like it herself once—eloped with Spencer instead of waiting five more weeks for their elaborate formal wedding. But she had only succeeded in horrifying Aunt Estelle. Which was gratifying in its own way, but not really what she'd been looking for at the time.
    "Well?" Her aunt was determined to play out this charade to the end. "What disciplinary measures do you suggest, Harley, for your son's sake?"
    "Hm? Well, now. Hm. Let's see." Clueless, he tapped his pen on his ink blotter. "Disciplinary measures. Hmm." More pen tapping. "Any suggestions?"
    The magic words; once spoken, the fiction that Dr. Winter was the head of his own household was allowed to die, a mercy killing, and the true commander-in-chief stepped forward.
    "You should revoke his allowance for the month of June," Aunt Estelle declared without hesitation.
    Sydney drew in her breath. What a harsh penalty! A glance at Philip reassured her, though. He was trying to look stricken, but she saw a twinkle in his eye and guessed the reason for it. Whatever he'd gotten up to last night, it must've included gambling. Successful gambling.
    "Hm. Yes, that's the ticket. No money for you next month, eh? Well, Philip? Learned your lesson, have you?"
    Over Aunt Estelle's scornful snort, Philip straightened from his negligent pose by the window and made his father an exaggeratedly respectful bow. "Yes, sir, I have. Thank you, sir. I'll try not to displease you again."
    Even Papa smiled at that—and a warm bubble of love for him burst unexpectedly in Sydney's chest. He had a sense of humor, oh, yes, he did, drier than desert sand, lying dormant for ages, and then blowing up in your face when you least expected it.
    The only person it didn't enchant was Aunt Estelle, who considered it just one more eccentricity in a man already riddled with enough of them. Duty done, she squared her shoulders, pivoted, and marched out of the room.
    "Are you really flunking all your subjects, Flip?" asked Sam, patting wet sand to the ankles around his brother's bare feet.
    "No, Sam, only half of 'em. Just the ones that have numbers."
    "You mean like arithmetic?"
    "Right. Like arithmetic."
    "I can help you if you want," Sam said. "I'm really good at numbers. Want me to help you, Flip?" He still called his big brother the old nickname, the closest he'd been able to come to "Philip" when he was a baby.
    Philip leaned back on his elbows and wriggled his toes, uncovering his feet. "Thanks, sport, but I think I'm past help."
    Sydney brushed loose sand from the corner of the blanket, keeping quiet. Later she would ask Philip if he was failing on purpose, so that Dartmouth would throw him out and he could do what he'd always wanted to do: write novels.
    Not now, though. It was a perfect afternoon, the last day of May, with cottonball clouds bouncing high over the dark blue of the lake, and puffs of bracing wind blowing in often enough to make the hot sun bearable. Sydney beamed at her brothers, content just to be with them again. Three months! It had felt like three years.
    "This is the exact color my hair used to turn in the summer," she told Sam, pushing the whitish blond bangs back from his forehead. "Maybe you'll grow up to be a redhead like me. Would you like that?"
    He considered it, wrinkling his freckled nose. Sydney had freckles too, but she lightened hers with powder. "I don't know," he answered thoughtfully, peering at Philip. "I think I'd rather have dark hair. Dark brown."
    She couldn't blame him—Philip was gorgeous. He might hate Dartmouth, but two years there had turned him into a very distinguished-looking undergraduate. More and