Jean Barrett - White Wedding

Her game had been neatly turned against her. Stuart grinned while his mother glared at him murderously. But Ronnie, left without a choice, found herself flanked by her sons.

Jack, however, wasn’t finished. “Allison, of course, has her cousin Dan to guard her from any stray dragons. But Lane here...well, I’m the closest to family she’s got. Right, sweetheart?”

Lane would have looked like a fool sputtering objections to what the others must regard as mere playfulness, though she knew better. In any case, he didn’t give her the opportunity. With the ease and swiftness of a military tactician, he installed himself beside her, his expressive mouth registering a smile of satisfaction. Lane felt her careful defenses already under assault. It was going to be a long meal.

Allison, amused by Jack’s strategy, was seated between Hale and Dan before she suddenly noticed the table setting. She glanced up at Dorothy, who was waiting to serve them. “There are only seven places. Why aren’t you and Nils and Chris joining us?”

“We’ve already eaten in the kitchen. Would anyone like freshly ground pepper for their salads?”

“Even if you were hired to help with the weekend,” Allison persisted, “you’re friends, not servants.”

“Chris wanted it this way.” Dorothy’s response was quiet, impassive.

“But I didn’t intend—”

“Allison, let it go,” Hale cautioned her.

The uncomfortable moment passed, but a tension remained in the room. They tried to ignore the ceaseless wind blasting around the lodge as they concentrated on the savory beef burgundy that the caterer had provided for the occasion.

Dan, an able diplomat, made an effort to distract them. He told them how his Norwegian grandmother was responsible for the style of the house. Even the chapel was her design. It was his side of the family who had once owned the island. Neither Whitney cousin offered to explain how the property had passed to Allison’s father.

Lane endeavored to enjoy both the food and the conversation but, thanks to Jack’s potent nearness, she found herself with an appetite for neither one. Maddening the way he had his chair positioned so unnecessarily close to hers. She could actually feel the sensual heat of his hard body.

It was no accident either when, rescuing the napkin slipping from his lap, his hand came brushing against her thigh. She caught her breath, feeling as though fire had stroked her.

“Something wrong?” he murmured, his strong-boned face all innocence.

“Not a thing,” she assured him, and silently damned him for tormenting her. He was deliberately testing her, of course, wanting to know if she was still susceptible. Because whatever else had been wrong with their marriage, the sex between them had always thrived. Then she damned herself for her own weakness. Where Jack Donovan was concerned, she was still volatile.

Struggling for self-control as the interminable meal progressed, Lane focused on the conversation.

“The taxes and upkeep have become horrendous,” Allison was telling them. “Properties like this one are just no longer practical. And that, dear hearts, is exactly why I insisted on this weekend. My wedding here will be the last Whitney house party on the island. A week from Monday I sign the papers that transfer Thunder Island over to the new owners.”

There were exclamations of surprise around the table, Ronnie’s the most vocal. “You’re actually selling the place?”

“With regret but, yes, I am. It was the state of Wisconsin that made the right offer. They’ll preserve the island as a wilderness park. I’m glad about that and pleased that Dan, who already knows, will receive all the proceeds of the sale. The island would have eventually gone back to his side of the family anyway, according to Dad’s instructions and my will, so why should he have to wait for the results?”

Dan saluted her approvingly with his water glass. “Bless you for your generous foresight, because, while I’m as sentimental as the next man, I would never have survived the expenses of the place.”

“Oh, but the surprises don’t stop there,” Allison informed them mysteriously. “The state has several solid reasons for wanting the island, but one of them is positively extraordinary. An exciting discovery that was made just last fall when I was having repairs done to get the property ready for sale. And if you’re all good little girls and boys and clean your plates, Auntie Allison will show you before coffee and dessert.”

Dan leaned toward her. “Allison, do you think you should? The state did caution against any disturbance until they can bring in their team of experts.”

“The state doesn’t own the place yet. Anyway, we’re only going to look, not touch.”

“But there’s Chris and Dorothy,” he reminded her softly. “You know how they feel about—”

“I don’t see why they should be offended,” she interrupted him, her voice brittle. “After all, the thing will go public after the sale.”

Lane could see that Allison, after her earlier frustrations, was in one of her contrary moods. Dan, too, recognized her defiance, perhaps even realized that Chris Beaver was responsible for it. In any case, he surrendered the argument.

“Well, I don’t know about the rest of you,” Ronnie declared, “but I can’t stand the suspense.”

“Let’s do it, then,” Allison said, throwing down her napkin and coming decisively to her feet.

Lane, as perplexed as the others, followed Allison, who led the group through the swing door and into the roomy kitchen. Chris and the Askers, drinking coffee at the table and not expecting an invasion, stared at them in surprise.

“Sorry for the intrusion,” Allison apologized with a single-minded liveliness. “We just need to help ourselves to a few of the oil lamps from the shelves here. Here, everyone, help me to light these.”

Lane noticed that Chris, who must have understood her intention, had a mutinous expression in his dark eyes. He and his sister exchanged a rapid dialogue in Menominee. He started to get to his feet then, but Nils laid a restraining hand on his arm and shook his head. Dorothy, too, looked as if she wanted to object, but she lapsed into a stolid silence.

Jack, close beside Lane, shared her puzzlement when he muttered, “Just what are we getting into?”

“This way, children,” Allison instructed them blithely, opening a door in the corner of the room. “And watch your heads. There’s a low beam at the bottom.”

Ronnie peered suspiciously through the opening at a stairway that angled steeply to a cellar beneath the service portion of the house. “Lovely,” she complained. “Spiders and cobwebs. This had better be good.”

“It’s worth it,” Allison promised. “Jack, you will positively drool when you see.”

“Must be a chained brontosaurus, then,” Stuart said gleefully.

Allison led the way. They filed after her down into the shadowy cavity of the cellar that had been hewn out of the solid rock of the bluff. Lane was immediately aware of a mustiness in the air. Her eyes, adjusting to the dimness, made out the shape of the furnace crouching under the rafters like a squat beast. From somewhere overhead came the soft ping of a heating duct emitting air.

Jack, still provocatively at her side, murmured an intimate aside. “Reminds me of those nights when we’d rent a fright movie and snuggle. Remember?”

She didn’t answer him. It was too risky.

“Over here,” Allison called, gathering them at one end of the cellar where a temporary plywood barrier had been erected against the rock wall.

“The stones were crumbling here,” she explained, “and when the masons started to dig away all the rubble to set up a new, deeper wall, they found...well, you’ll see.”