Read Dance with the Devil for Free Online Page A

blessing” having been born when his mother was forty.
        Lydia Boland was a tall-a good five inches taller than Katherine-regal-looking woman. She wore her hair off her forehead and then suddenly swept down at each temple, covering her ears. Her complexion was milky and flawless, her eyes dark and bright, quickly taking in everything about her new employee whom she had only met on the telephone and by letter prior to this. She was wearing a lounging pajama set of dark blue with a conservative white trim on the cuffs and collar. She stood up from her plush black vinyl lounge chair and crossed to Katherine, unexpectedly embraced her and-holding her shoulders and standing at arm's length-looked at her in unashamed evaluation.
        “You're even lovelier in person than in the photograph,” she said.
        Katherine blushed, felt her face redden, probably to a scarlet. She hoped they didn't notice. She said, “Thank you.”
        “I think we'll get along famously. I know it.”
        “I hope so, Mrs. Boland.”
        “Lydia,” the woman corrected her.
        When Katherine felt that the woman was waiting for her to repeat it, like a child learning a hard lesson, she said, “Lydia.”
        “That's better!” Lydia said. “I hate being addressed formally, because it makes me feel old.”
        “You aren't old, mother,” the young man said, crossing to them. “Just-gracious.”
        Lydia laughed and put her arm around his shoulder. “He has his father's way with words. He's a liar, but I don't mind those kind of lies.”
        “Do you prefer being called Katherine or Kathy?” he asked.
        He was as handsome as Michael Harrison had been, but in an altogether different manner. He was as tall as Harrison, with the same erect carriage and a sense of power-though he was somewhat slimmer. He was not fair-complexioned like Michael, but dark, perpetually tanned as if he might contain a drop of gypsy blood or less romantically and probably more accurately, some Latin ancestry. His eyes were dark, darker than his mother's eyes, almost black. When he looked at Katherine, she had the feeling that he was staring directly through her at some alien landscape beyond. His lips were thin, almost ascetic, his chin firm but not so much like carved granite as Michael Harrison's chin was. His voice was smooth, like oil, the words rolling forth seemingly without effort. He could have been, Katherine decided, a matinee idol anytime from 1920 to the present, with but a few minor changes in dress and hairstyle to conform with the dictates of each decade.
        “I prefer Katherine,” she said, “though everyone thinks I must be a snob or something when I say that.”
        “Not at all,” Alex said. “I think Katherine is a lovely name.”
        “I do too,” Lydia said. “And I can see at a glance that you're certainly not a 'snob,' my dear.”
        “Thank you,” she said.
        Lydia clapped her hands together now and said, “But you must be starved by now!”
        “The drive in used up a lot of energy,” Katherine admitted. “I was on the edge of my car seat the whole way-not to mention the tension in the Land Rover with Mr. Harrison.”
        “He didn't show-off too badly, did he?” Alex asked.
        She detected a distinct note of disdain in Alex's voice when he spoke of Harrison, though he presented the same outward appearance of mild curiosity and friendly interest.
        “The waitress at the cafe in town rounded him up for me,” she said. “She warned him to be on his best behavior.”
        “Sometimes,” Alex said, “he drives that thing like a child on a toy of some sort. He can be downright dangerous.”
        “Don't exaggerate, Alex,” Lydia said. “I think Mike is a fine young man.”
        “You think everyone's fine,” Alex said without rancor.
        “Well,” Lydia said, “the nearest bath is straight down the corridor the way you came, under the grand staircase,