"Don't you ever knock?" Simon grumbled.
Quinn lit a thin cheroot and crossed to the fireplace. "There's no need for us to stand on ceremony, is there, Simon?" He leaned gracefully against the marble mantel and crossed one booted ankle over the other.
"So"-Simon regarded his tall, handsome son critically-"the prodigal son returns. Don't you think it was a bit extravagant to take private rooms for yourself when you could have stayed here?"
This was an old argument between them. Over the years Quinn had prudently invested his wages. He had long been financially independent of his father, a fact that galled Simon.
"It's my money, Simon, as you well know. Besides, don't you think that would be rather hypocritical, considering all of our differences?"
"Our differences, as you call them, are of your making, not mine," the older man barked angrily.
"Our differences, Simon, started before I was old enough to cause them."
Simon gripped the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white, and glared at his son. Their eyes locked in silent combat, punctuated only by the ticking of the gilded clock on the mantel. Abruptly Simon slumped back in his chair, impatiently running his fingers through his black hair.
"If I had known you were coming, I would have made arrangements for Constance to be here," he said gruffly. "I know how you enjoy her company."
At the thought of Constance, Quinn relaxed. He crossed to a leather chair angled near the walnut desk. "The fair Constance. Now, there's a woman!" He settled himself comfortably in the chair and looked significantly at his father. "She's bright, vibrant."
"Bright? How can you say that? She's the most featherbrained woman I've ever met, and she insists on meddling in company affairs."
Quinn regarded his father evenly. "She's half owner of Copeland and Peale now, as well as being an admirable woman. Don't be so quick to dismiss her opinions. She may be flighty, but she's not stupid."
"She's a meddler and knows nothing of the business!" Simon exclaimed, rising from his chair and stalking across the room.
"She was married to your partner for twenty-one years," Quinn reminded him.
"Yes, and Ben paid too much attention to her crazy ideas."
"Which crazy ideas?" Quinn asked coolly. "Building a totally new hull?" He walked to the fireplace and flicked the ash from his cheroot onto the grate. "You're a fool, Simon. You know the rumors about the work at Smith and Damon in New York."
"A fool, am I!" Simon shot back. "Damn it, Quinn, we've been through this a hundred times. A ship without her breadth well forward in the beam will founder. A shipbuilder doesn't go against the natural order of things, and you only have to look at nature to see the error of your concept. There's hardly a species of fish that isn't largest near the head, forward of its center."
"Fish are fish, Simon, and ships are ships. Fish exist in only one element, the sea. And at the depths they swim, the sea is calm. Ships must contend with two elements, wind and sea, and they're both unpredictable. You're so wrong, Simon," Quinn said, his eyes glittering harshly, "but then you always have believed in your own infallibility."
Simon looked at his son sadly, then walked over to the desk and settled himself again in the chair. He spoke softly. "Can't we stop this endless bickering?"
Quinn's smile was chilling; it never reached his eyes. "As a matter of fact, that's why I'm here. I've done something for you, something you've been asking me to do for a long time."
Simon stared at Quinn quizzically, not missing the grim line of his son's jaw. "Oh?"
"Yes, I've taken your advice. Wait here. I have a surprise for you."
Quinn left the room hastily and returned moments later with an apprehensive Noelle in tow. Simon gazed incredulously at the pitifully wasted creature decked out in scarlet rouge and a dirty gown. It was impossible! He had brought a vulgar trollop into his father's house.
Simon's voice was deadly. "What is the meaning of this?"
Eyes gleaming triumphantly, Quinn replied, "I'd like you to meet my wife. We were married last night."
The older man was speechless, his face a mask of astonishment as he took in the outrageous carrot thatch.
"The ceremony was unorthodox, but definitely legal." Quinn watched his father closely, savoring each moment of his revenge. "Tom Sully was the witness."
Outraged, Simon leaped from his chair, his jaw tightly clenched. "If this is your idea of a joke-"
"Oh, it's no joke," Quinn interrupted smoothly. "Remember, Simon, you were the one who wanted me to marry. You wanted me to settle down, become respectable… be just as conservative and stodgy as you are." His voice rose angrily. "Though why in hell you, of all people, have turned into a champion of marriage is more than I can fathom." He started to say more, to inflict another small jab of wound-opening memory, knowing even a light touch could make it fester, but he thought better of it, contenting himself with saying, "You were the one who wanted me to take a bride. Well, I did, and now you can have her. I hope you'll both be very happy."
He turned on his heels and walked to the door. As he reached out to grab the knob, he paused and turned back to face his father. "By the way, it took a great deal of persuasion to convince this lovely lady to marry me. She's accustomed to being paid for her services." Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a fat envelope and tossed it toward Simon. It flew through the air and landed with a slap on the desk top.
"Make sure she gets this."
Noelle could listen no longer. She went mad, leaping toward him with hands outstretched like claws and shrieking loudly, "You son of a bitch! I hate you! The fires of hell are too good for you, you friggin' bastard!"
Extricating himself from her flying fists, Quinn's face broke into a wide grin at her tirade. "Charming, isn't she?" The door slammed behind him.
Chapter Five
Without moving, Simon stared at the closed door. His face was gray and drawn, but he felt nothing-no anger or frustration or hurt or humiliation or any of the other myriad of emotions that would soon bombard him. He had been stricken a blow so unexpected, so devastating, that he was stunned; this was the tangible evidence of just how great his son's hatred was. Another man might have cried or prayed or screamed out, but Simon did none of these things because he did not know how. Too many years had passed since he had felt any deep sentiments.
Then the pain began.
Memories he had successfully blocked from his mind came rushing back: holding his son close, tossing him in the air, running with him. He remembered how the small child had haunted the Cape Crosse shipyard, sometimes sitting quietly and watching the carpenters as they worked but more frequently bombarding them with questions.
And then, the bitter years, watching the naked hatred in the same eyes that had smiled at him. He had been unable to confront his guilt because the boy was too great a reminder of the disaster Simon had made of his personal life, too great a reminder of the one other person they had both loved so deeply. For the first time in years Simon Copeland comprehended the depth of love he felt for his son.
Now he looked over at the woman who was the instrument of his son's revenge. She stood across the room from him, staring out the window. The glare from the late morning sun obscured her features, but she seemed quiet and calm. Her composure angered him. This slut was his son's wife! Could she really have been as reluctant as she had seemed?
He opened the envelope Quinn had tossed down so nonchalantly and pulled out a fat bundle of pound notes. She was certainly being well paid for her part in this charade. Had she somehow been responsible for what had happened? Simon thought of his strong-willed son and discarded the idea. No one could force Quinn into anything; Simon had firsthand knowledge of that. No, this girl was merely a catalyst, a pawn in Quinn's game of revenge.