“I'd better light the charcoal," Gennie said after a moment."I didn't ask before," Grant began as they started down the pier. "But do you know how to cook on one of those things?""My dear Mr. Campbell," Gennie said in a fluid drawl, "you appear to have several misconceptions about southern women.I can cook on a hot rock.""And wash shirts in a fast stream.""Every bit as well as you could," Gennie tossed back. "You might have some advantage on me in mechanical areas, but I'd say we're about even otherwise.""A strike for the women's movement."Gennie narrowed her eyes. "Are you about to say something snide and unintelligent?”

“What the hell are you tryng to do?"She gave him an innocent stare. "Why, have a conversation. I suppose you're out of practice."He glared,narrow-eyed, then turned away. "I'm going for a walk," he muttered."Lovely." Gennie slipped her arm through his. "I'll go with you.""I didn't ask you," Grant said flatly, stopping again."Oh." Gennie batted her eyes. "You're trying to charm me by being rude again. It's so difficult to resist.”

“I'm Gennie." She responded instinctively to the smile Shelby shot her before she untangled herself from her brother. "I'm glad to meet you.""Pushing seventy,hmmm?" Shelby said cryptically to Grant before she clasped Gennie's hand. "We'll have to get to know each other so you can tell me how you tolerate this jerk's company for more than give minutes at a time. Alan's in the throne room with the MacGregor," she continued before Grant could retort. "Has Grant given you a rundown on the inmates?""An abbreviated version," Gennie replied, instantly charmed."Typical." She hooked her arm through Gennie's. "Well, sometimes it's best to jump in feetfirst. The most important thing to remember is not to let Daniel intimidate you. What extraction are you?""French mostly.Why?""It'll come up.""How was your honeymoon?" Grant demanded, wanting to veer away from the subject that would,indeed, come up.Shelby beamed at him. "I'll let you know when it's over. How's your cliff?""Still standing.”

“Now where's this artist?" His eyes darted around the room, landed on Gennie and clung. She thought she saw surprise, quickly veiled, then amusement as quickly suppressed, tug at the corners of his mouth."Daniel MacGregor," Grant said with wry formality. "Genvieve Grandeau."A flicker of recognition ran across Daniel's face before he rose to his rather amazing height and held out his hand. "Welcome."Gennie's hand was clasped, then enveloped. She had simultaneous impressions of strength, compassion, and stubbornness."You have a magnificent home, Mr. MacGregor," she said, studying him candidly. "It suits you."He gave a great bellow of a laugh that might have shook the windows. "Aye.And three if your paintings hang in the west wing." His eyes slid briefly to Grant's before they came back to hers. "You carry your age well, lass."She gave him a puzzled look as Grant choked over his Scotch. "Thank you.""Get the artist a drink," he ordered, then gestured for her to sit in the chair next to his. "Now, tell me why you're wasting your time with a Campbell.""Gennie happens to be a cousin of mine," Justin said mildly as he sat on the sofa beside his son. "On the aristocratic French side.""A cousin." Daniel's eys sharpened, then an expression that could only be described as cunning pleasure spread over his face. "Aye,we like to keep things in the family. Grandeau-a good strong name.You've the look of a queen, with a bit of sorceress thrown in.""That was meant as a compliment," Serena told her as she handed Gennie a vermouth in crystal."So I've been told." Gennie sent Grant an easy look over the rim of her glass. "One of my ancestors had an-encounter with a gypsy resulting in twins.""Gennie has a pirate in her family tree as well," Justin put in.Daniel nooded in approval. "Strong blood. The Campbells need all the help they can get.""Watch it,MacGregor," Shelby warned as Grant gave him a brief, fulminating look.”

“Don't you know that the less you tell someone, the more they want to know? You're better off to make something up than to say nothing at all.""I'm the youngest of twelve children of two South African missionaries," he said with such ease,she very nearly believed him. "When I was six,I wandered into the jungle and was taken in by a pride of lions.I still have a pechant for zebra meat.Then when I was eightteen,I was captured by hunters and sold to a circus.For five years I was the star of the sideshow.""The Lion Boy," Gennie put in."Naturally.One night during a storm the tent caught fire.In the confusion I escaped.Living off the land, I wandered the country-stealing a few chickens now and again.Eventually an old hermit took me in after I'd saved him from a grizzly.""With your bare hands," Gennie added."I'm telling the story," he reminded her. "He taught me to read and write. On his deathbead he told me where he'd buried his life savings-a quarter million in gold bullion. After giving him the Viking funeral he'd requested, I had to decide whether to be a stockbroker or go back to the wilderness.""So you decided against Wall Street, came here, and began to collect stamps.""That's about it.""Well," Gennie said after a moment. "With a boring story like that, I can see why you keep it to yourself.""You asked," Grant pointed out."You might have made something up.""No imagination."She laughed then and leaned her head on his shoulder. "No,I can see you have a very literal mind.”

“You did study art there?" Gennie persisted.Grant watched the smoke rise and the haze of heat that rippled the air. "Why?""Because it's obvious from that wicked little caricature you drew of me that you have talent, and that you've had training. What are you doing with it?""With what?"Gennie drew her brows together in frustration. "The talent and the training. I'd have heard of you if you were painting.""I'm not," he said simply."Then what are you doing?""What I want. Weren't you going to make a salad?""Damn it, Grant-""All right, don't get testy.I'll make it.”