An Act of Love Read online

  An Act of Love

  By

  Brooke Hastings

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  "Look," He Said, "Last Night Was Just One of Those Things."

  "We both wanted it, hut both of us know it's over. I enjoyed it and so did you, so what are you so upset about?"

  What could she say? Because I'm disappointed in myself? Because you don't give a damn about me? "I could ask you the same thing," Randy murmured.

  Luke shrugged. "Maybe it comes down to the fact that I'm not interested in a purely physical affair."

  "Are you saying that's all it could ever be? That I'm not the type of woman you want to associate with?"

  "Yes," he said bluntly, and walked away.

  BROOKE HASTINGS is that rare individual who can combine many careers and excel in all of them. In addition to her writing, she is active in California politics and community affairs and maintains a home for her husband of many years and their two children.

  Dear Reader,

  Silhouette Special Editions are an exciting new line of contemporary romances from Silhouette Books. Special Editions are written specifically for our readers who want a story with greater romantic detail.

  Special Editions have all the elements you've enjoyed in Silhouette Romances and more. These stories concentrate on romance in a longer, more realistic and sophisticated way, and they feature greater sensual detail.

  I hope you enjoy this book and all the wonderful romances from Silhouette. We welcome any suggestions or comments and invite you to write to us at the address below.

  Jane Nicholls

  Silhouette Books

  PO Box 177

  Dunton Green

  Sevenoaks

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  Copyright© 1983 by Deborah Gordon

  Map by Ray Lundgren

  First printing 1983

  ISBN 0 340 34379 6

  For my father-in-law, Jules Gordon

  Chapter One

  Miranda Dunne's stomach emitted a low, insistent growl. She had known her father's secretary, Pat O'Donnell, for far too many years to feel any embarrassment; on the contrary, the knowledge that she was actually hungry brought nothing but surprise and then relief. For the past six months her once-healthy appetite had hidden out in parts unknown, and the fact that it had rejoined her on her visit to New York made her think that leaving California permanently might not be a bad idea.

  Pat smiled, looking up and down Randy's slender body but making no comment on the twenty-five pounds that had disappeared since her last visit to the office at Christmastime. "Didn't you eat anything this morning?" she asked.

  Randy shook her head. "Not really, even though they plied me with food on the plane. There I was, trying to get some sleep, and the flight attendant kept coming around with one meal after another."

  She mimicked the motherly first-class stewardess with a piquant accuracy which was too good-natured to be truly cutting. " 'Would you like some cheese and crackers, dear? It's imported brie. No? How about some fresh fruit then'?"

  Pat lazed back in her chair, enjoying the performance, and Randy went on, "An hour later it was cold cuts. 'Corned beef, roast beef or pastrami, dear. You're so thin. Are you sure you don't want me to fix you a sandwich?' And an hour before we got into New York I woke up to the smell of omelets and sausage. I settled for toast and coffee. I figured Dad would take me to his favorite French restaurant for lunch, and I didn't want to spoil my appetite." Or what's left of it, she thought to herself.

  She glanced at her watch. "My stomach says it's five after ten even though the time in New York is five after one, so why am I dying for cream sauces and French pastry?"

  "Because you love to eat." Pat hesitated, a look of concern on her face. "At least, you used to love to eat. What have you been doing to yourself in Los Angeles? Trying some crazy new diet?"

  Randy didn't tell the truth because the truth was much too painful to discuss. "I was up for a part in a movie and I had to lose a lot of weight," she said. Her breezy smile was totally convincing. "I didn't get the part, so I can't wait to gain back at least fifteen of the twenty-five pounds I lost. I was a little too heavy, Pat—over one twenty-five."

  "You're five-seven. One hundred and twenty-five pounds isn't too heavy except in Hollywood." Pat glanced back over her shoulder at the closed door to her boss' office, then added, "Bill told you to meet him at twelve-thirty?"

  Randy nodded. "Right. He's usually prompt to the point of neurosis. What on earth is going on in there?"

  "That," Pat answered, "is the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question." She tossed a report she'd been editing into a file folder and put it to one side of her desk. From her bottom drawer she produced a box of breadsticks, holding it out for Randy's inspection. "Want one?"

  "If he's going to be out soon, I probably should wait." Randy eyed the breadsticks covetously. "On the other hand… Do you think it would be all right if I knocked on the door and asked him how much longer…"

  "I wouldn't," Pat answered firmly. "Take a bread-stick, Randy. As you've just pointed out, your father never keeps people waiting, so if he's taking this long, there's a good reason for it."

  Her curiosity aroused, Randy tried a different tack. Bill Dunne had a device on his telephone that permitted Pat to listen in on his private conversations. It was powerful enough to pick up anything in his office above a whisper, and Bill left it switched on for all but the most confidential of meetings. He'd installed it so that Pat could take notes without being physically present or, if a meeting was running overlong, listen in and decide whether or not to rescue him. After nineteen years as his secretary she was almost an alter-ego.

  Randy winked at her and reached for the phone, but Pat promptly pushed her hand away from the receiver. "It's personal, not business, Randy," she explained. "I couldn't violate your father's privacy." She held up the box of breadsticks again.

  With the charming shrug of a con artist who's been caught in the act, Randy accepted the box and rapidly disposed of a pair of breadsticks. Then she cocked an inquiring eyebrow at Pat.

  "Well?" Her tone was as teasing as it was eager. "Who's Dad talking to?"

  A discreet silence greeted this query. Randy thought privately that Pat O'Donnell would have made a wonderful secret agent. In the intensely competitive world of department store retailing neither the bribes of competitors nor the machinations of the press could induce her to confide even the most minor detail of the company's business. Amused, Randy tried again.

  "Remember, Pat," she murmured conspiratorially, "you're talking to the heiress apparent. Come clean. Is the fate of millions being decided behind that closed door? Is Dad buying stolen Paris designs or hatching schemes to take over Neiman-Marcus?"

  Randy's melodramatic questions were of less interest to Pat O'Donnell than her mocking reference to herself as "the heiress apparent". Although amused by Randy's cloak-and-dagger tone of voice, she had no intention of satisfying her curiosity. Instead she began to pepper her with questions.

  "Heiress apparent? Are you leaving California? Resigning from the repertory company? Does your father know? Or are you going to tell him at lunch today?"

  Randy was spared the necessity of answering by the sound of a door being flung open so forcefully that the intricate silver doorknob smashed into the hand-painted wallpaper on the adjacent wall. A tall, powerfully-built man charged out of her father's office like an enraged bull, his head down, so that only h
is wavy brown hair was visible. Randy wondered if his face matched his beautifully proportioned body, which was as perfect as any professional actor's. He stalked across the oriental carpet, repeated his ungentle ministrations on the outer door and disappeared from view.

  Randy had winced with each violent slam. "Who," she asked incredulously, "was that?" Not only had the man treated her father's beautifully furnished outer office with careless disdain, never in her life had she witnessed such a display of temper from one of the company's employees. Given Bill Dunne's low-key approach it was surely unnecessary, and given his commanding personality, it was definitely foolhardy.

  "That," Pat said, mimicking Randy's tone, "is our newest vice president, Luke Griffin. He supervises the fifteen branch stores. Incidentally, he's also your competition—at least, my money's on him to succeed your father as president of this humble little empire. Although after the scene we just witnessed…"

  Pat's voice trailed off as her boss emerged from his office. The usually suave William Dunne was looking distinctly harried, his customarily perfect appearance marred by a loosened, off-center tie. His graying blond hair was in disarray, as though an anxious or exasperated hand had recently been run through it.

  His expression changed to one of apology when he noticed Randy, who was standing stock-still, clutching the box of breadsticks. He promptly walked over and enfolded her in a lingering hug. Upon her release, she straightened his tie and smoothed his hair, then submitted a bit nervously to his inspection of her appearance.

  His eyes traveled from her long blond hair, which fell several inches below her shoulders, to the dark blue eyes that matched his own, down the length of her body. Her silk-blend, printed shirtwaist dress was appraised with a professional eye. "First," he informed her, "I want to know how you manage to look so glamorous when you've been flying half the night. And second"—he looked mildly sheepish—"tell me who designed the dress. It isn't anyone we carry, but we should."

  "Always business," Randy teased. "I'll make you a deal, Dad. Take me to lunch before I pass out from starvation and I'll tell you where I bought the dress."

  "Agreed." Bill smiled. He reeled off a short list of instructions to Pat and then took Randy's arm. "Your mother called to warn me about how much weight you'd lost," he said as they walked out of the office, "but she didn't mention that you were even skinnier than your sister. What kind of role were you up for? A prisoner of war?"

  "A model." They stepped inside a private elevator. "You know how heavy I photograph, Dad. I looked like a blimp in that diaper commercial I did last year."

  "You looked like a contented new mother, which was exactly how you were supposed to look," Bill retorted. He added that he'd never understood why Randy was always so worried about her weight, and that he never should have allowed her to leave New York in the first place.

  Randy didn't bother to remind him that he'd had no choice in the matter. At twenty-two she'd wanted nothing more than to flee the nest, so after finishing college in New York City she'd enrolled in a master's degree program in theatre arts in Los Angeles. Her father grudgingly paid her way, but if he hadn't she would have used the money she'd inherited on her twenty-first birthday. After the first year of graduate school, however, she was bored with studying and eager to live in the "real world". Her goal was to support herself as an actress without spending any of her inheritance. That she'd succeeded was due more to the diaper commercial than to her job at the Westwood Theatre Company, where she earned a meager salary for doing everything from painting scenery to acting in plays.

  Sometimes Randy had wondered if the financial security of having the inheritance money had detracted from the drive and ambition that an actress needed to succeed, but over the last few months she'd come to believe that she was too gentle to reach the top. She couldn't stomach the idea of clawing past the people ahead of her and stepping on the ones beneath. It was part of the reason she'd come to New York.

  She and her father took the elevator down to the main floor of Conover-Dunne's flagship store in Manhattan, walking out past a special promotion of merchandise from the People's Republic of China that tied in with the scheduled visit of the Chinese premier later that month. Walking south along Lexington Avenue, Randy paused to admire a competitor's window display, remarking to her father that C & D should try to steal away the person who'd designed them.

  They turned east, enjoying the early June sunshine and warm breeze. As they walked, Bill told Randy that her grandparents had called from Paris the day before and sent her their love. Jonathan Conover, who had founded the company forty-four years before and now held the title of chairman, was spending the summer in Europe, on a buying trip with Randy's grandmother.

  As soon as they stepped inside the French restaurant an obsequious maitre d' greeted them with a broad smile and an accent that Randy decided was either a total fabrication or, at the very least, a considerable exaggeration. Although they were forty-five minutes late it seemed there would be no question of keeping Monsieur Dunne waiting. They were seated immediately at a quiet table to one side of the crowded room; Randy admired the fluid grace with which the maitre d' slid the reserved sign from the table with one hand while smoothly relieving William Dunne of a ten-dollar bill with the other.

  The sommelier hurried over in response to Bill's subtle beckoning, returning as requested with a bottle of French wine. The ritual of opening and tasting correctly performed and the wine duly approved, the waiter materialized to take their order. Finally, the preliminaries having been attended to, Bill raised his glass and smiled at Randy.

  "To my beautiful daughter Miranda, who in twenty-four and a half years has never once precipitated an ulcer attack."

  Only because I don't tell you the things that would upset you, Randy thought, then listened with growing amusement as he continued, "May she take into account her father's precarious health, abandon her no-doubt dazzling career in Tinseltown and come back to New York where she belongs, to the bosom of the family that loves and misses her."

  Randy shook her head, laughing, and sipped her wine. After accusing her father of emotional blackmail, she reminded him that his health was perfect and that he'd never had an ulcer attack in his life. Then she added coyly, "You forgot the part about coming into the family business, Dad. Although I'll never understand why Linda doesn't get equal nagging time. She's just as smart as I am, with fabulous taste and twice my energy, and—"

  "And she's totally incorrigible," Bill interrupted. To Randy's amazement, he proceeded to empty half his glass in a single draught.

  "Business must be terrific if you can afford to swill down expensive wine like it cost three seventy-nine and came out of a jug," Randy said. "Or else something's actually flapped the unflappable William Dunne. It wouldn't have anything to do with the reason why you were half an hour late, would it?"

  "I think you've figured out that it has everything to do with the reason I was half an hour late. And with your older sister Linda." Bill had no sooner reached for his glass again than a waiter darted over to refill it. He made no attempt to hide his irritation from Randy, but instead met her thoughtful look, his mouth curved into a frown.

  Although math had never been Randy's strongest subject in school she had learned to add one and one with reasonable proficiency. "Linda—and the man who came storming out of your office. Pat said he was a new vice president. Is something going on between them?" she asked.

  Her arithmetic was accurate, but she'd inserted the wrong man into her equation. Bill was quick to correct the error. "Linda and Luke's brother-in-law. His younger sister's husband. Or so he says." He shook his head impatiently. "I shouldn't be discussing this with you—it's not your problem."

  Randy knew exactly why he thought he shouldn't be discussing it with her—the details were presumably too sordid for her innocent ears—and reacted with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. "I've been hearing about Linda's transgressions from the time I was twelve and she spent the night
with that pimply rock musician boyfriend of hers," she reminded her father. "It didn't corrupt me then and it won't corrupt me now. After twelve more years of her escapades I thought you'd stopped being upset about what she does."

  "I try to stay out of her life. I understand that it's a waste of time to try to talk any sense into her when she's determined to make a mistake. But that doesn't mean I don't love her, Randy, or feel a sense of responsibility toward her." Bill's explanation reeked of parental tolerance. "Luke's been unusually moody since last Thursday, and that's not like him. He has a temper, but usually he either keeps it under control or says what's on his mind and then puts it behind him. It was obvious to me that something was wrong, so I decided to have it out with him. I called him into the office and forced him to tell me what was eating him. I almost wish I hadn't. He told me that Linda had met his brother-in-law at the company picnic on Memorial Day. Luke wasn't there—he had to work—but his sister and her husband were visiting from Poughkeepsie and he thought they'd enjoy spending the day at the country club. He sent them along. His sister called him the following Wednesday night, hysterical because she suspected her husband had spent the weekend with another woman—Linda."

  "So?" Randy didn't find the situation particularly palatable, but it was hardly the stuff of major confrontations either. "Married men have been having affairs ever since marriage was invented, although I admit I'm disappointed in Lin. I thought she stuck to the single ones."

  Bill seemed a little startled by his daughter's matter-of-fact response, but agreed with a sigh. "You and me both. The problem is that Luke is incredibly protective of his sister. And he's been with C & D almost a year, which is long enough to hear the gossip about Linda's marriages. Once I got him going he was like one of those Fourth of July firecrackers that won't stop exploding. What was I supposed to do when he called my daughter a tramp and asked me why I couldn't control her? Agree with him and apologize? I told him to come back when he'd raised the perfect daughter and threw him out of my office."