The Backup Plan. Sherryl Woods

when he’d first taken over the presidency and was shocked to discover that many of her carefully selected furnishings had been replaced. The color scheme was bolder and, to her eye, far more modern and jarring than suited a sedate banking establishment. Nothing in the room spoke of the bank’s conservative tradition.

      She doubted the change had been Marshall’s idea. Her husband cared little for that sort of thing. He must have given carte blanche to someone to redecorate. She found that oddly disturbing. There had been a time when they discussed everything going on at the bank, when he relied on her opinion and taste. When had that stopped? Months ago? Years?

      Were the bright artworks and sleek leather and chrome furnishings symptomatic of the problems she’d been ignoring in their marriage? Had they grown so far apart, communicated so little, that something like this could happen without her even knowing about it? It was a minor thing, but it forced her to face the fact that she hardly knew what was going on in her husband’s life anymore.

      She looked at her husband with dismay and wondered where they’d gone wrong. They were only in their early fifties, too young to have drifted so completely apart.

      When Marshall finally hung up, he regarded her not with the delight he once would have shown, but with a trace of impatience.

      “I didn’t know you were coming by,” he said. “I have a meeting in less than ten minutes.”

      She swallowed the first bitter retort that came to mind and said briskly, “Then I’ll finish what I have to say in nine minutes. I want to talk to you about Dinah.”

      He looked startled by that. “What about her?”

      “Something’s wrong, Marshall. Haven’t you seen it?”

      He shook his head, his expression still blank. “She seems fine to me.”

      “You don’t find it odd that she’s barely left the house?”

      “What are you talking about, Dorothy? She’s left the house. She’s had lunch with me three or four times in the last week.”

      “Because you made the arrangements and told her where to go,” she said impatiently. “And she turns up for dinner because I tell her what time to be downstairs. But there’s no life in her, no spark. She stays in her room or sits in the garden and broods. It’s not like her.”

      He looked bemused. “She’s rarely home, so you can’t say if it’s like her or not these days. Hell, after all she’s been through, she’s entitled to some peace and quiet. All this commotion we’ve stirred up has probably been too much for her. After all, this entertaining we’ve been doing is a far cry from the kind of life she’s been used to the past few years. Maybe we’ve crammed in too much of it at once.”

      “That’s pretty much what she said,” Dorothy acknowledged.

      “Well, there you have it,” he said, clearly satisfied that the problem was solved. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get ready for this meeting.”

      His dismissal was annoying. Dorothy stood and started for the door, but then she turned back. “When did you redecorate in here?”

      Marshall looked up from his papers, clearly disconcerted by the question. “A few months ago. Why?”

      “I’m just surprised you didn’t ask for my help.”

      “You’ve been tied up with your own projects,” he replied. “I had my secretary hire a decorator.”

      “And you like what they did?” she asked, not sure why any of it mattered so much.

      He looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time. He shrugged. “It’s a change.”

      “It certainly is,” she said tartly. “And not for the better.”

      Feeling thoroughly disgruntled by the whole exchange, Dorothy stalked out of his office, her back rigid, her temper barely in check. She’d started the day with one worry on her mind—her daughter. Now she had two.

      Her marriage, which she’d always accepted as faintly staid, but solid, was anything but secure. She’d been around long enough to know that enough tiny little fissures could seriously undermine the foundation of the most fortified structure. Discovering that her marriage was riddled with such fissures was a shock.

      Unfortunately, for the moment Dinah had to be her priority. She simply had to hope that when she got around to focusing on her own life, it wouldn’t be too late.

      Cord Beaufort lazily swatted at the fly circling his bottle of now-lukewarm beer. It was the end of a steamy, grueling day, a day that had tested his patience and sent his nerves into more of an uproar than the last time he’d engaged in far more pleasurable, rambunctious sex.

      He’d met with the board of directors for Covington Plantation and to a man—and woman—they were the most impossible, exasperating group of self-important human beings he’d ever had the misfortune to work for. They wanted to micromanage everything and not one of them had the expertise for it.

      Worse, he’d had to wear a suit and tie, even though the temperature was pushing ninety. If there was one thing he hated more than placating a bunch of wealthy, egotistical bosses, it was wearing a suit and pretending not to be bored to tears while they yammered on and on. Things that should have been decided in less than an hour had taken the whole damn day.

      Stretched out in a well-used Pawleys Island hammock strung between two ancient live oaks, he now wore comfortable jeans and nothing else. He was trying his best not to move a muscle until a breeze stirred, which probably wouldn’t happen until November. He was not feeling especially optimistic at the moment.

      The sound of a car bouncing along the dirt lane leading to his house did nothing to improve his mood. He wasn’t feeling any more sociable than he was optimistic. He’d left all the ruts in the damn road as a way of discouraging visitors. Most people had long since gotten the message.

      When the car finally came into view, he tried to place it and couldn’t. The sight of a pair of long, shapely, bare legs emerging from the front seat, however, did improve his outlook marginally. Only one woman in all of South Carolina had legs like that. And she pretty much hated his guts. He couldn’t say he blamed her.

      If all the rumors he’d been hearing were right and Dinah Davis had decided to come home and appear on his doorstep it could only mean one thing. She was here to redeem the idiotic offer his brother Bobby had made to her years ago. Bobby, much as Cord loved him, was a damned fool. Who’d want a woman whenever she felt like it, even if that woman was as drop-dead gorgeous as Dinah Davis?

      Cord watched her as she exited her car, wondering if her uppity mama knew she was going around town in a pair of shorts that left little to the imagination, and a halter top that wasn’t exactly on the approved fashion list for a one-time Charleston debutante who never strayed from the straight and narrow. Right now she looked more like somebody he wouldn’t mind taking a tumble with, which would flat-out horrify her mama.

      Then again, maybe Dinah’s choice of attire explained why Mrs. Davis had been on such a royal tear at the board meeting today. A rebellious daughter, even one who was thirty-one or so and internationally famous, could unsettle an uptight woman.

      “Well, well,” he murmured as Dinah lifted her chin with a familiar touch of defiance and started in his direction. “Just look at what the cat dragged in.”

      Bright patches of color immediately flooded her cheeks and her devastating, dark blue eyes flashed with irritation, but her good breeding quickly kicked in. She was, after all, on his turf. An uninvited guest with manners, Cord thought with amusement as he awaited her response.

      “Good evening, Cordell,” she said, her voice as sweet as syrup, yet unmistakably insincere. “I see your manners haven’t improved with age.”

      “Not much,” he agreed, refusing to take offense. “Time’s been kind to you, though. You’re as pretty as Miss Scarlett and twice as tough, judging from what