Plunking her hands on her hips, she backed out of his reach. "That's enough for me," she laughed, trying to diffuse the tension. "You play too rough."
"We're not finished," he said, dusting grass off his shorts.
"Yes, we are. I'm worn out."
To Sloan's surprise, it was Noah Maitland who came to her rescue. "Carter, it's impolite to assault your guests on the second day of their visit."
"That's right," Sloan joked. "You're supposed to wait until the third day." She turned to reach for the tennis racquet lying at Noah Maitland's feet, but he picked it up instead and held it out to her.
"My father sends you his regards," he said, and the glamour of his lazy white smile was so unnerving that Sloan had difficulty concentrating on his words as she reached for the racquet.
"Pardon me?"
"My father told me he had a fascinating discussion with you this morning. He was very impressed."
"I had no idea that was your father," Sloan uttered, horrified.
"So I gathered." He looked over at Carter, and Sloan seized that as an opportunity to flee. "Carter," he said, "if you want to sit in on your Tuesday night poker game at the club, I'd like to take Sloan and Paul and Paris to dinner."
Sloan was already starting to the house with Paul, but she heard her father say, "That's a great idea! Sloan—" he called, "is that all right with you and Paul?"
It was not a "great idea" and it was not "all right." Sloan turned but kept walking backward in a silly compulsion to keep a maximum distance from Noah Maitland. "Sounds nice," she called. To Paul she said softly, "I wish we could find a way to get out of that."
He slanted her a sideways look. "I wish I knew about those documents Maitland needs to have signed."
"Is Noah Maitland a suspect in some way?"
"Everyone is a suspect, except you and I. And," he joked, "I'm not completely sure about you." Sobering, he said, "I wonder what sort of documents would require Edith Reynolds's signature. If we knew, it might point us in a direction we haven't thought to look."
Sloan had a feeling he wasn't telling her the whole truth, but she knew it was pointless to question him further.
"How did you happen to meet Maitland's father this morning?"
"On my way back from running this morning, I saw a man digging in a garden and when he stood up, he was obviously in pain. I stopped to help and stayed there to talk to him for a few minutes. I thought he was the gardener at first."
"You didn't tell him anything, did you?"
"Nothing that would harm us and no more than was necessary. In fact, I only told him my first name, but I couldn't avoid telling him where I was staying. Have I created some sort of problem?"
He considered that for a moment. "Absolutely not," he said with an inexplicable smile. "Maitland's father isn't the only one you've impressed today. I think you've impressed the son as well. I think he's a little intrigued."
"By me? No way!"
"I saw the way he was looking at you. You noticed it, too. It made you jumpy."
Sloan chuckled at the absurdity of his conclusion. "Men like Noah Maitland generate enough sexual electricity to light up New York City, and they know it. It's a power they have and they use it on whoever happens to be nearby. I happened to be nearby. I felt a little shock, and it made me 'jumpy.' "
"Is that how it works? How many 'men like Noah Maitland' have you known?"
"I have an inherited understanding of his 'type,' " Sloan said firmly, "and therefore a genetic immunity to it."
"What are you talking about?"
"My mother. Based on what she's told me and on what I can see with my own eyes, my father must have been just like Noah Maitland. Did you know Paris is in love with him? They're practically engaged."
They were near the patio steps, and he lowered his voice. "Paris isn't in love with him. Your father is pushing her to marry Maitland. She doesn't want to do it. Unfortunately," he added philosophically, "that doesn't necessarily mean she won't cave in and do it anyway. Both men completely dominate and intimidate her."
"How do you know all this?"
"She confided the first part to me at breakfast this morning. I figured the second part out myself."
"She told you that?" Sloan repeated in shock. "It's hard to imagine her opening up that much with anyone. And why you?"
"Because I don't dominate her. On the other hand, I'm male, and she's intimidated by males, so when I gently asked her a blunt question, she felt compelled to answer."
"That is so sad," Sloan said softly as they stopped near the back door to the house. "I didn't expect to like her. I don't want to like her."
He chuckled at that. "But you do, and you will. And you will also try to shield her from both men while you're here."
There were times when Paul Richardson's all-knowing attitude got under her skin. "What makes you so sure of yourself? What makes you think I'll do anything of the kind?"
Her ire didn't faze him in the least. "You won't be able to help it," he stated implacably, but not unkindly, "because you have a compulsion to help people who need you."
"You are not a psychiatrist."
"True," he said with a grin as he reached out to open the back door for her, "but I recognize a soft heart, and yours is as soft as a freshly toasted marshmallow."
"That sounds disgusting."
"Actually, it was a compliment," he replied blandly. "I'm crazy about toasted marshmallows. Just don't let your soft heart interfere with your judgment or your job here."
Gary Dishler intercepted them in the kitchen, so Sloan was deprived of the opportunity to reply to that last gibe. "It's been a fun morning," she lied. "I'm going upstairs to take a shower—"
"Excuse me, Miss Reynolds," Dishler said. "Mrs. Reynolds wants to see you in the solarium."
"Oh." Sloan looked down at her grass-stained shorts and smudged arms. "I have to take a shower and change clothes first. Would you tell her I'll be there as soon as I can?"
"Mrs. Reynolds said she wants to see you immediately," he informed her.
The summons sounded dire, and Paul noticed it, too. "I'll go with you," he said.
Gary shook his head and very firmly informed Sloan, "Mrs. Reynolds said she wants to see you alone."