Spring Blossom by Jill Metcalf Page A

Hunter chuckle.
    Taking her hand and holding it for a moment,
Hunter gazed down at her fondly. “You were practically a baby when
last I saw you,” he said warmly. “But you are quite the young lady
now, Jennifer.” He bowed over her hand while the girl smiled up at
her father with something close to triumph in her laughing
eyes.
    Turning to join his host as Alastair led the
way around the low table between the two sofas, Hunter said softly,
“Beauty seems to run in this family, my friend.”
    The older man waved the comment away with a
casual yet decidedly nervous gesture. “Obviously inherited from
their mother,” he muttered.
    But that was not necessarily true. Alastair
was still a fine figure of a man. He had thickened around the
middle a little since their last meeting, but he had not developed
a disfiguring paunch, as did so many men who lived in the lap of
luxury. Then, too, Hunter recalled from his youth that the senior
Downings, Alastair’s parents, had been a strikingly handsome
couple.
    As the men approached the other sofa, Hunter
noticed that his vision in blue had moved to stand behind her
sister and, although she was presented mainly in profile, he could
see she was frowning.
    Surely she could not resent the attention he
was lavishing on her sisters? She couldn’t have become so petty; he
refused to believe that of her. With her beauty, she had no need to
resent anyone. Still, some of the most beautiful women he had met
could be insanely jealous on some occasions. God, he hoped she had
not turned out to be one of those vein, waspish females. What a
disappointment that would be.
    “And this is Denise, my second daughter, if
you will recall,” Alastair announced with a note of pride. “She is
to be married before the year is out,” he added.
    The young woman stood and dipped into a
graceful curtsy. Hunter smiled before bending over her hand.
“Denise,” he said warmly, “a pleasure to meet you once again.”
    Denise smiled. She obviously accepted
herself for what she was; a reasonably attractive young woman
approaching seventeen who had inherited her father’s auburn hair
and gray-green eyes. Her most notable feature was her mother’s
ivory complexion, which glowed with a natural blush of
pleasure.
    As Denise resumed her seat, Hunter felt
heightened anticipation as he stepped to his right to follow
Alastair around the end of the sofa. As he came to stand behind
her, his vision in blue turned slowly, and with great dramatic
effect, to face him.
    He knew, even though he had been warned,
that he had not been able to repress a fleeting look of shock, and
in those first few seconds of seeing her, Hunter realized that was
exactly what she had wanted. Maggie had set the stage in such a
fashion that anyone would be forced to display surprise. He
wondered if this was a game she played often, or had she acted
simply for his benefit? Did the awkwardness of the moment give her
a perverse satisfaction? No awkwardness on her part, he noticed.
She stood regally before him, a cool, disdainful smile on her
beautiful lips. And Hunter felt his anger overcoming his initial
shock and sadness.
    “And, of course, you remember, Margaret,”
Alastair announced, not so much with pride this time as with
wariness.
    Margaret did not curtsy as her sisters had
but held out her hand to him, an almost triumphant smile on her
face.
    He dutifully kissed her hand briefly before
she snatched it away. He did not smile when he straightened but
crossed his powerful arms over his chest as he stared at her;
waiting.
    “I believe you made some comment about our
beauty, Mr. Maguire?” she challenged stiffly.
    “Margaret!” Alastair cried, aghast.
    The combatants ignored him.
    “Indeed, you are exceptionally beautiful,
Miss Downing,” Hunter returned softly, “but would you have believed
me if I had told you so?”
    Margaret’s eyes flashed as she stated
evenly, “As I do not believe you now!”
    “As you wish,” he returned,