Chapter Three

Dorothy stood rigid with anger as Randolph draped her mink stole around her shoulders. The fact that Randolph had basically ditched her so that he could stay at the ball to weasel more business for his firm did not bother her as much as the fact that he was completely oblivious to her desire to have nothing to do with Quatre Winner. She had never realized that Randolph was deaf, dumb and blind.

He slipped his arm around her and drew her against him. "I will stop by later," he murmured before pressing his lips to hers.

Closing her eyes, she willed herself to enjoy the kiss, but when he stepped back, she found it difficult to hide her disappointment. She noticed that Quatre had arrived in the hotel lobby, his faithful friend Rashid a few feet behind. By the look his wife had given her on the terrace when they were introduced, Dorothy was surprised the woman hadn't insisted on accompanying them.

Randolph shook Quatre's hand. "Thank you again for taking Dorothy home for me."

"My pleasure," he responded in such a falsely smooth urbane voice that Dorothy almost made a sound of disgust. She noticed that Rashid slightly raised a brow. Randolph didn't seem to notice as he inclined his head to Dorothy, then left her standing with Quatre.

She turned around to stare out the glass doors of the hotel, but she was aware when he moved closer to her. She could smell his spicy cologne, the not unpleasant aroma from the cigar he had been smoking, and she shivered under her fur wrap. What had happened in Barbados she could dismiss as foolishness brought on by a fit of depression. Dorothy had been vulnerable and she had come to realize that Quatre had taken advantage of her. But here and now, when she had her life pulled together neatly, she should not be attracted to him.

"The limousine has arrived," he told her as he put his hand on the small of her back to lead her forward.

His touch was too intimate, too reminiscent of days and nights on an exotic island. "Get your hand off me," she hissed, quiet enough so that the doorman did not hear her.

Chuckling, he removed his hand and she walked ahead, and after stepping into the limousine, she tried to settle onto the plush seat so that not too much of her legs were revealed by the slit in her dress, but met with little success. Dorothy made a mental note never to buy a gown from that particular designer when she saw Quatre glance at her legs.

After the door closed and the car moved forward, Quatre said, "My driver will take you to the Dermail Mansion."

"I don't live there," she told him as she reached into her handbag, scribbled her address on the back of her business card, then handed it to Quatre. "The place is like a mausoleum."

"I remember it being quite ostentatious." Quatre picked up the car phone and relayed her address to the driver. "Does your cousin live there?"

Mariemeia Kushrenada was her only living relative, but Dorothy did not see her often. "No, she prefers her father's estate. The Dermail inheritance was left to me." She didn't add that the circumstances of Mariemeia's birth excluded her from the Dermail fortunes, but her cousin did not seem to mind.

An uneasy silence ensued during which Dorothy wondered what he was thinking. Quatre seemed content to keep his thoughts to himself in the dark limousine while Dorothy fought to control her own. There was much she wanted to say to him, but nothing she ever would. Dorothy had said things to him five years ago that he didn't seem to have any trouble forgetting.

"You are more beautiful than I remember," he finally remarked.

"You've become quite the connoisseur of beautiful women," she responded, unable to keep the acid from her voice.

Quatre chuckled again. "Are you carrying a weapon, Miss Dorothy?"

"I would have shot you by now if I were," she told him. She looked away to stare out the window, wishing she were anywhere but here. When the evening began she dreaded seeing or speaking to Quatre, but now she was trapped in a dark car alone with him.

After several moments of silence, Quatre spoke. "How long have you been involved with Mr. Morrison?"

"That is none of your business," she responded.

He sighed. "I was trying to make polite conversation."

"We cannot have a polite conversation," she informed him.

"I suppose that you are right."

Dorothy closed her eyes to the burning sensation she was feeling behind her lids. She wasn't going to cry. Although it had taken a long time, she had gotten over Quatre Winner.

Suddenly she felt his hand on her shoulder and realized that he had slid closer to her. When she opened her eyes and turned too quickly to look at him, she almost lost her balance and fell into his arms, but Quatre steadied her. "I want to talk to you, Dorothy, but not here, not tonight."

"I have nothing to say to you," she said as she brushed his hand from her shoulder. The contact with his flesh made heat flare up inside her.

"I have a lot to say to you, questions that need answers." He ran a hand through his hair. "And I owe you some answers."

The limousine pulled to a stop, but Dorothy didn't wait for the driver before throwing open the door and sliding out of the car faster than she thought possible given the weight of her gown. She heard Quatre say her name just before she slammed the door shut and walked to the wrought iron gate before her house. Her hands were shaking so badly that she keyed the security code wrong twice. She didn't look back at the car until she was safely on the other side of the closed gate, and she saw Quatre standing on the sidewalk silently watching her.

Spinning, she walked to her door, calmly opened it, and when it was closed behind her, she leaned against it, then slowly slid to the floor. Wrapping her arms around her legs, she pressed her face against the beaded fabric. She hoped that the abrasive texture would distract her from her tears, but it did not. Her gown would be ruined, but what did she care? She could afford hundreds of such gowns, and she knew she would never wear it again anyway because she would remember this night. She would remember Quatre standing so calmly a few feet away, his wife clinging to him. She had suspected some ulterior motive to his offer to escort her home, but when one of his first questions was about Randolph, she realized he pitied her because she had become involved with a man who cared more about his business than he did her.

As if Quatre were any different.

When Dorothy was calm enough, she went to her bedroom and removed the gown, tossing it in a heap in the corner of her room, just barely missing the wastebasket. The shoes she would have launched through an open window if she could. She had to be more careful with the jewels because they were family heirlooms. As she unclasped the diamond necklace and laid it in the velvet box that had passed through the hands of many generations of Dermail women, Dorothy wondered if she would have someone to pass them to.

She thought once that she would.

Dorothy refused to re-open that wound. She still had to work the following day and didn't want to bring on any kind of melancholy. But as she unclasped one of the weighty earrings, she did imagine the daughter she should have had. Blond, blue-eyed, inquisitive, she would be playing with her diamond necklace now, and Dorothy wouldn't scold her as her mother had done when she behaved 'like an ill-bred heathen.' But as Dorothy carefully lay one of the earrings in its place in the box, she acknowledged that however much she wanted that life, it was unlikely to happen if she stayed on her present course. Randolph didn't want children although he had brought up the subject of marriage, which Dorothy had steered him quickly away from. Her future wasn't with Randolph Morrison, yet he made her present comfortable.

Reaching up for the other earring, Dorothy realized it was gone. She looked around the floor first, and not finding it, she retraced her steps to the door, hoping that it had fallen off during her episode of self-pity. But she didn't see it anywhere in the house. Returning to her room, she pulled on the jeans and sweatshirt she wore when she worked in the garden behind her house, then flipped on a floodlight to light the sidewalk, and she searched carefully, then frantically for the earring. When she didn't find it, she was forced to realize that she had dropped it in Quatre's car. Of all the stupid things to do! She could have gone on forever without ever having to speak to Quatre again, but now she would have to call him. And she had no doubt he would be waiting for her to do so. She had played right into his hands.

As she was coming back into the house, she heard the phone ringing, but she didn't feel like speaking so she let the answering machine take it.

She heard Quatre's voice. "Did you lose something, Miss Dorothy? If you want it back, you can get it from me tomorrow. I saw a playground near your house. Meet me there around ten o'clock."

Dorothy stared at the phone for a moment, then let out a long sigh. Quatre wasn't going to give her a chance to gracefully forget that he ever existed. He would never take 'no' for an answer.

Although the hotel was air-conditioned, Dorothy could still feel the humidity and was glad that she would be returning home. At this time of the year, the Dermail Mansion would be cool and quiet, far different from the constant bustle and sweltering heat here. Thanks to her late night with Quatre Winner, Dorothy was still suffering from a nagging headache from drinking too much and an upset stomach from eating spicy food that shocked her system. Bicarbonate was slowly working its magic on her tortured insides, but her head was still aching. She wore sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat to avoid the bright light of the day, which hurt her eyes.

"I hope you enjoyed your stay, Miss Catalonia," said the desk clerk with a cheery smile that didn't brighten her mood at all.

Dorothy did not return his smile as she signed the bill. All she wanted now was the peace and quiet of a first-class plane trip back home, and to leave behind Barbados to be filed away in her memory as a stupid idea.

Having called a limousine to take her to the airport over an hour ago, Dorothy was confident that it would be waiting for her outside the hotel. But when she left the building followed by a bellhop carrying her two suitcases, she was perplexed to see that it had not yet arrived. Just as she was considering asking the doorman to call her a taxi, a car pulled to a stop.

Quatre Winner stepped from the convertible red Porsche, pulling off his sunglasses as he walked around the car, pausing to pop the trunk and gesturing to the bellhop to put her bags in his car. In the light of day, she felt acutely embarrassed to have spent the evening swilling rum and rubbing her body against his in dances she would rather forget. Wearing a loose white shirt and khaki pants, he looked comfortable in the heat while she felt as if she were wilting in the linen jacket and skirt that she was wearing. Then again, Dorothy had planned to go from the air-conditioned hotel, to an air-conditioned limousine, to an air-conditioned plane. Standing around in the tropical heat and merciless sun was not part of the plan.

"What are you planning to do with my bags?" she asked with a raised brow. "I am waiting for my ride to the airport."

"You're not going to the airport."

"I have a plane to catch." She glanced at the watch on her wrist. "My flight leaves in thirty minutes."

Quatre was grinning as he opened the passenger side of his sportscar. "Get in. Don't worry about your flight."

Dorothy looked both ways down the street to see if her limousine would arrive to save her from accepting Quatre's offer of a ride, but seeing only small cars and bicycles on the street, she had no choice if she was going to catch her flight. So she descended the steps and slipped into the car, settling comfortably on the soft leather seats. Dorothy usually did not ride in such small cars, preferring the safety of large, luxury sedans. She wasn't surprised that someone reckless enough to pilot a gundam using the zero system would drive a car designed to flirt with death.

Quatre tipped the bellhop and the doorman enough money to make them grin openly, then joined her in the car. He spun away from the hotel so fast that she was thrown back against the seat. And for several minutes, she couldn't breathe as he weaved through the local traffic, and when he cleared the city limits, he shifted into a higher gear to race on the highway at speeds that made her heart pound.

After a few moments of driving in silence, the wind whipping around them, he glanced over at her. "How are you feeling, Miss Dorothy?"

"I have felt better."

"You must have a nasty hangover today. I thought I would have to carry you back to your room."

Dorothy stiffened. "I do not have a hangover."

"Never had one before?" He chuckled when she didn't qualify his question with a response. Dorothy looked away to watch the scenery speeding by. The airport was five minutes away, probably only thirty seconds at the speed he was driving. If the local authorities didn't stop him and ticket him, it would be a testament to his influence in Barbados.

"It will pass," he told her.

"What would you know about hangovers?" She looked from the road to him.

At least Quatre was concentrating on driving as he watched the road. "I'm not perfect, Miss Dorothy. I've strayed from the straight and narrow path a few times, but I've managed to get back on again."

The straight and narrow path. Dorothy wondered if such a thing existed. "I have a slight headache." Actually, now a raging headache and a desire to curl up in a ball in some dark, quiet place to sleep. She turned to look at the road in time to see the exit for the airport whiz past them.

Although it hurt her head to do so, she quickly turned back to him. "You missed the exit!"

"No I didn't," he said calmly.

Dorothy turned around to see the exit sign from the other side of the road. "You missed the exit to the airport! It was back there! You'll have to take the next exit and turn around to go back."

Quatre laughed. "We're not going to the airport."

She clenched her teeth to keep from shouting at him, then had to press her fingers to her temples to try to stop the throbbing pain. "I'm going to miss my flight."

"You are in no condition to fly back today anyway, Miss Dorothy. You don't really want the embarrassment of vomiting into one of those little bags on the plane, do you?"

"Where are you taking me?" she demanded, her voice tight with anger and pain.

"Up the coast to my place. You can get some rest there, and when you're feeling better, maybe you'd like to go for a swim. It's pretty hot today and I'm looking forward to getting out of these clothes and into the water."

Dorothy was glad she was wearing sunglasses or he might see how her eyes had widened at the thought of him getting out of his clothes. She had completely lost her mind if she was now imagining Quatre Winner without clothes.

"I don't have a swimsuit," she told him dully. Dorothy wouldn't admit that she couldn't swim. She had been protected from the necessity of having to learn, and her mother hadn't considered it proper.

Lowering his sunglasses and raising his brows, Quatre looked at her over the upper edge. "No swimsuit?" One corner of his lips curved in a smile that sent butterflies to flutter wildly in her belly. "You don't really need one. My beach is private."

Her mouth dropped open, and Quatre reached out to put a hand under her chin to push up, closing it and brushing her lower lip with his thumb. A shiver shot down her spine.

"We'll stop at a shop on the way, and you can buy some comfortable clothing. In the meantime, why don't you relax and try to get a little sleep. We won't be there for another hour."

Dorothy wanted to shout at him for presuming to make decisions for her, but she was just too tired and the seat was invitingly relaxing. "I suppose I can get the next flight out," she said, then released a long sigh as she rested her head on headrest of the seat and closed her eyes.

"You won't regret it," she heard Quatre say. "I'll make sure of that."

The day was a little darker than Quatre would have liked, and he hoped the clouds obscuring the sun weren't going to open up and dump rain on him. Looking around the small park, he noted the position of his guards before looking at the sandbox where his daughter was getting filthy as she played with other children. They appeared to be working on some project that consisted of displacing piles of sand from one side of the huge box to another using old discarded plastic ice cream pails and empty cans. At first he thought about rescuing her from the squalid activity, but Quatre had never seen Jamila so happy as she was to be playing with the neighborhood ragamuffins. He was glad he had spirited her away while Sadirah was still sleeping and her nanny was taking a shower.

"What are you doing here?"

He turned his head toward the sound of the low-toned voice and was mildly surprised to see Heero Yuy. "I might ask the same of you. Do you frequent playgrounds?"

"Only when my superior orders me to keep an eye on the wealthiest target in the solar system."

"Target? Nice choice of words." Heero was standing a few feet away, his arms crossed over his chest as he looked at him, his gaze disapproving.

"You didn't answer my question."

Quatre gestured toward the pack of children. "I brought my daughter to the park."

Heero snorted derisively. "There is a play yard at your hotel. You didn't need to bring her out here." He looked around, then nodded. "At least you understand the necessity of bringing a little protection."

A dozen men armed to the teeth forming a ring around the park, each one devoted to the Winner family could hardly be called 'a little' protection. "I feel safe enough."

Heero came closer to him, frightening away a flock of pigeons that had gathered around the bench where Quatre sat. "I've spent some time on L4 recently. I think you should know that I have heard rumors of a planned attack on you and your family."

"You're not telling me anything I don't already know," Quatre told him. "But I trust my people to keep me safe."

"As long as you are here, you can count on the Earth Sphere United Nation to keep you safe as well." Heero looked at the children playing in the sand. "I'd hate to see that little girl crying at your funeral."

Before Quatre could respond, Heero moved away, and Quatre noticed Dorothy approaching. She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, her long hair pulled back in a braid that swayed with her purposeful gait. In her hands she was carrying a small bag and Quatre had the uncomfortable feeling that she was hiding a gun. When she passed Heero, she did not even acknowledge him. As she approached, he saw that her face expressionless, aristocratically cool. Quatre wondered if he should have just sent her earring back to her with a messenger, but he couldn't resist the chance to see her alone.

When she reached him, she held out her hand.

Quatre pulled out the earring from an inside pocket in his jacket and dropped it into her palm.

Dorothy closed her fingers over it, then turned to leave, but she paused for a moment and reached into the bag. Quatre flinched, his men moved restlessly, one even reaching into his jacket to withdraw a gun, but Dorothy pulled out a handful of birdseed that she scattered on the ground for the pigeons and doves that now descended on the bench en masse.

Quatre had to put up his hand to ward off the birds and he heard Dorothy laugh, then saw her turn on her heel to walk away.

"Papa! How did you get the birds to come to you?" Jamila left her new friends to dash to where he sat on the bench, fascinated by the urban fowl.

Quatre noticed that Dorothy had stopped, frozen in her tracks. When she turned back to them, he saw the stricken expression on her face first and wondered about it, but it softened when her gaze rested on his daughter. Not once had he ever seen Sadirah give Jamila anywhere near the affectionate look Dorothy was giving her now.

"Miss Dorothy brought the birds," he told Jamila, nodding toward the woman who was returning to them. He saw Dorothy carelessly tuck the precious diamond earring in her pocket as if it had no importance. Quatre pulled his daughter on his lap, heedless of the dirt, which covered her from head to toe. Her blond hair was caked with sand and was very tangled. But her cheeks were pink and her blue eyes were sparkling.

Dorothy reached the bench, and she held out the bag she was carrying. "I usually feed the birds after work." Dorothy's cheeks were now a little pink too and Quatre wondered if she was embarrassed by her silly trick. "The children call me the 'bird lady.'"

Quatre suppressed laughter at the thought, but Jamila giggled as she reached in to take a handful of seed to scatter for the birds. "You don't look like a bird lady. You don't have wings."

Dorothy looked at Quatre. "Where are your manners, Mr. Winner? You haven't properly introduced us."

Jamila jumped from his lap and held out her hand to Dorothy. "My name is Jamila bint Quatre Al-Winner. I am pleased to meet you."

Dorothy took her hand to shake. "I am Dorothy Alicia Veronique Catalonia, Duchess Dermail. I am very pleased to meet you, Jamila. " When Dorothy released her hand, she sat on the bench, and Jamila hopped up to sit between her and Quatre.

Watching silently as Dorothy pointed out the different birds to Jamila, even calling some by a given name, Quatre wondered if he was having a strange hallucination. Jamila looked like a ratty street urchin, and when she wriggled her way onto Dorothy's lap, they looked so much like mother and daughter that Quatre felt an acute pain in his chest.

Quatre rose from the bench and held out his hand. "We must go now, Jamila."

Jamila turned to look at him. "Miss Dorothy isn't finished tell me the story of..."

"Your mother will be worried about you," Quatre told her, hating to bring up Sadirah to pull Jamila from Dorothy. But his daughter had formed too quick a rapport with Dorothy, and he worried that she might mention the meeting to her mother. Quatre hadn't come to the park for any reason other than the chance of talking to Dorothy, and realizing that she wouldn't give him the opportunity, he certainly wasn't about to get Jamila involved.

Jamila slid off Dorothy's lap and she started toward Quatre, dragging her feet. Looking back over her shoulder, she said, "I enjoyed your company, Miss Dorothy."

Dorothy smiled warmly at her. "Anytime you wish to feed the birds, you may give me a call."

Jamila reached out to take Quatre's hand, but suddenly she jerked it back and began to swipe it on her pants. "My hand is dirty!" She looked at her hand again to see if she had cleaned it, then cried out, "Oh no! I have dirt under my fingernails! Mama will be very angry!" His daughter suddenly seemed to realize the state she was in, and Quatre stood by helplessly watching as she tried to brush the dirt from her pants and her shirt.

"You can take a bath when we return to the hotel," Quatre finally said as he reached out to her.

But Jamila stepped back, shaking her head vigorously. When she looked up at him, huge tears glistened, then spilled over her lashes to make tracks down her filthy cheeks. "Mama will be very angry! She will hate me!"

Before Quatre could form some response, Dorothy knelt down before her and held out her hands to Jamila. "Look, I have dirt under my fingernails too. I was working in my garden, and I didn't wear gloves. But I know how you feel. My mama used to be very angry with me, too, when I got dirty. My house is close by. If you wish, you can take a bath there, and I can wash your clothing, then you can go back spotless. She'll never know."

Jamila looked from her to Quatre. "Can we go to Miss Dorothy's house? I do not want Mama to hate me."

Quatre looked around the park to see that his men were waiting restlessly.

"Don't worry," Dorothy said wryly, "they can come too. If you want, I can give them some milk and cookies."

Jamila giggled. "They like cookies."

Quatre managed to chuckle although he was feeling embarrassed by his daughter's outburst. "If you are sure we are not imposing..."

"You are imposing, Mr. Winner, but your daughter and your men are welcome." Dorothy took Jamila's hand, and as they walked away, Quatre signaled to his men and to follow them. He could easily fantasize that Dorothy was Jamila's mother and that they were returning to their own home after a pleasant morning at the park. And while Jamila splashed in the tub, he would spend some quality time with Dorothy.

Sighing, he acknowledged to himself the futility of such thoughts. He wasn't destined to have domestic tranquillity. The reality of his life was the men guarding him, the nanny that would take care of Jamila, the bitch whose purpose in life was to never forgive him or Jamila for one mistake.