The Pact Read Online Free Page B

have a conversation with an attractive man simultaneously. Now I had a huge splotch all over the front of my dress and had provided him with a choice demonstration of just what a clumsy oaf I was.
    Peter led us through another swinging door into the pantry, a small room lined with counters and cabinets. “Alone at last,” he said with a smile that acknowledged the cheesiness of his words. “But that looked like it hurt.” His eyes were filled with concern.
    “Which part?” I asked, trying to put up a valiant front. “The puncture wound to my foot or the destruction of a perfectly good Armani? Do you think I should get a tetanus shot? Matthew probably has his doctor’s bag around here somewhere.”
    Peter put his arms around my waist and set me on one of the counters. This simple gesture was almost enough to make me forget the pain I was in. He knelt to examine my foot, while I studied the top of his head. I gripped the edge of the counter tightly to prevent myself from running my hands through his hair, which was full and sun-streaked, with a couple of adorable cowlicks shooting off in unlikely directions. “Okay, there’s no blood. And I don’t think anything’s broken.” He rose to his feet and looked at my dress. “I wish that I could say the same thing about the Armani.”
    I quickly inspected the Scotch-and-soda-colored stain spreading across the creamy silk. “It’s not looking good, is it?”
    “Well, if the seltzer doesn’t work, maybe we could just get a bottle of whisky and dye the entire thing?”
    “I’m sure Giorgio would applaud your creativity,” I answered gamely.
    Peter began rummaging through the cabinets. “Peanut butter, Ritz crackers, Miracle Whip—wow, we are deep in WASP country, aren’t we?” He held up the jar for me to see, an eyebrow arched with amusement. “Here we go.” He replaced the mayonnaise and lifted out a plastic bottle of club soda. “It’s not imported, but it will probably work, won’t it?”
    He found a clean dishrag and doused it liberally with the bubbling water. I knew it was too much to hope for that he’d swab me down himself; still, I was disappointed when he handed me the towel. I began dabbing gingerly at the stain, more shocked by the unexpected impact this man was having on my usually tightly guarded emotions than the damage to my dress.
    Peter was standing gallantly by, proffering more seltzer and tactical advice, when I heard tense words pouring in from the porch adjacent to the pantry. I froze, surprised, when I realized that one of the speakers was Emma. She was so soft-spoken—it was rare to hear her voice raised, much less laced with the bitterness that now infused her tone.
    “You have no right,” she was saying. “God knows, you seem to hold the world record in screwing up, so why should I listen to you? It’s the only way to fix everything, and you know that.”
    “Emma, honey. You don’t have to do this. It’s not worth it. We’ll call it off, we’ll figure something out.” When I looked out the window over the sink, I could see Jacob Furlong’s hawklike profile illuminated by a single porch light. Only the top of his daughter’s head was visible.
    She let out a laugh that sounded tinged with hysteria. “There is no choice. You know Mother wouldn’t be able to deal. She’s shaky enough as is.”
    “Your mother—” began Jacob, then stopped. He sighed. “Look, Emma, it’s time for us all to live our own lives.”
    “Like you ever stopped?” she retorted. “Don’t you think it’s a little too late to start playing concerned father?”
    Jacob looked like he’d been slapped. His craggy features seemed suddenly old and weary. He passed a hand slowly across his brow.
    I looked at Peter and he looked at me. Silently, he helped me down from the counter, and we tiptoed back into the kitchen.
    At least, Peter tiptoed.
    I limped.

CHAPTER 3
    T he dining room was emptying out, and only a few swinging diehards remained on