Who was she kidding? She was only taunting one pair of eyes.
And she was succeeding. She could feel Declan’s angry censure the moment she stepped into the café. Perhaps today, when she planned to give him her story, wasn’t the best day to tease him with Luca.
What was done was done. She lifted her head, ordered her cappuccino, and joined him at their table.
“Good morning,” she said with a vague smile as she sat down. The chair wobbled back and forth, uneven. It tipped as she set her bag on the floor, and for a second in the pit of her stomach she felt like she was falling.
“Who was that?” Declan asked, his voice a surly growl.
“Luca?” She set her journal on the table. “He’s a friend.”
“A friend,” he repeated with a scowl. “You have interesting friends these days.”
“Don’t I though?” She arched her brow at him.
His eyes narrowed. “You still want to do this?”
“Yes,” she said, firm, knowing instinctively that he was talking about writing.
“If you stay, gloves are off, Jacqueline.”
She shivered at the way her name sounded on his lips. “I hope so.”
“Give it to me.”
She reached for her bag, where she’d tucked the manuscript. What was he going to think of the subject and all the sex?
Except that was why she was giving it to him—for his opinion. Pushing aside her insecurities, she pulled the manuscript out and gave a reassuring pat before handing it over.
He grunted, tossing it aside.
What if he didn’t like it? She wanted him to think it was the most perfect thing ever written. She smiled, wry. That wasn’t going to happen. If he didn’t cut it to shreds, she’d be shocked.
She
wanted
him to cut it to shreds. For the first time, something mattered to her more than her pride, more than duty, more than what other’s thought. She knew better this time—she couldn’t just give birth to it and give it to chance. She wanted to be involved with this book in every way she could be.
In the ways she hadn’t been with her daughters.
That was passion, wasn’t it? If it wasn’t, he was right and she really didn’t know.
He took out his laptop. “Get your writing things,” he ordered as he stood and went to the counter.
The sound of his laptop mocked her as she opened her journal to a fresh page.
“Write about figs,” he commanded when he returned with another coffee.
She blinked. “Figs?”
“The fruit.” He stared at her as he settled in his seat. “Have you gone deaf? Wasn’t it your favorite fruit?”
She gaped at him. He remembered that while she’d forgotten that she’d gone through a summer where she couldn’t get enough figs. She’d lost her taste for them when she’d given him up.
She stared at the blank page. How did she write about something that she couldn’t remember, about a love lost?
Without thought, she just began writing.
He bought me a fig each day. He’d have one in his hand when he arrived to pick me up. One time, I watched him pick it, and he took the greatest care, as though he was picking something precious, and then presented it to me as though it was his heart.
Figs gave way to her daughters, which gave way to regrets, which gave way to Declan, which gave way to her book, which gave way to the future.
Suddenly the words stopped. She sat back and stared at the page, stuck again.
“Write about your first kiss and the boy,” Declan said without stopping his rapid-fire typing.
His voice startled her. She looked up. How had he known she needed help?
She shrugged. She supposed this was why he was so successful.
Because she needed to regain some control, she asked, “What if my first kiss wasn’t with a boy?” as she turned a page.
His fingers stopped and he looked up. “What?”
“You’re assuming it was a boy.” She arched her brow. “I went to an all-girls’ school.”
His gaze intensified. She could see his imagination flowing, filling in the gaps of the picture she’d started to paint. She liked that she’d startled him. He should see what it was like to be off balance.
Feigning nonchalance, she began to write. Through the first page, there was silence from his side of the table. No tapping at the keyboard, no creaking of the chair as he shifted to get comfortable as he worked. She felt his gaze on her but tried to ignore it best as she could.
“Did you?” he finally asked.
“Did I what?” she said, her handwriting still flowing. Not that her words strung together in coherent sentences.
“Kiss a girl.” He watched her, his brow furrowed, as if he’d just received a piece of a puzzle that he couldn’t make fit. “You never mentioned it before.”
“I was a kid, and it was taboo. It was only one kiss.”
“So you don’t remember it?”
“Of course I do. It was my first kiss. Her name was Helen, and we were in the same class. She had a crush on a boy at the boys’ academy in the next town, and they’d arranged to have a rendezvous. She was so worried about kissing him and what to do, she begged me to practice with her.”
“So you did?”
“She was my friend, and we were curious. It wasn’t a sordid thing.”
“And?”
“Helen came back from her date and said I kissed better than he did.” Jacqueline smiled at the sweet memory. “At the time I didn’t realize how soft she felt, or how different her lips were. It wasn’t until—”
She broke off. The next person she’d kissed had been Declan, and it wasn’t until then that she’d realized how different men and women felt. Or how much more important kissing was when you loved the person on the other end.
Not that she was going to tell him that.
“Write that down,” he said finally. “The texture of it, the details. Any thoughts that you have.”
She nodded, already doing it.
After a while, he closed his laptop. “I have an appointment,” he explained when she glanced up.
She closed her journal, feeling good about the day. “I’ll walk you out.”
“Isn’t your boy coming to fetch you?”
“Why? Would you want a ride, too?” At his glare, she shook her head. “Really, Declan, I can’t decide if I’m insulted or flattered that you think I’d date a man that young.”
“You aren’t dating him?” he asked as though he couldn’t help himself.
“Of course not. He’s in love with my eldest daughter.”
Declan stared at her, looking for something. She had no idea if he found it—he just started to walk.
Men. She hid her smile and caught up to him, walking by his side, not touching, not talking. He seemed to be lost in his thoughts. She wondered if he was still disturbed by Luca.
Suddenly he took her arm and tugged her after him into a narrow street.
“What are you doing?” she asked, trying to keep up. She thought she should probably pry her arm free, but she liked the feel of his hand on her. Silly girl. She shook her head. “Declan?”
He stopped just as suddenly and faced her. “Is it true?”
She blinked. “Is what true? About Luca?”
“Forget Luca. Did you really kiss that girl?” he asked, crowding her until her back hit the stone wall of the building behind her.
A feminine sort of satisfaction unfurled in her belly, but she knew better than to give him any indication of it. “Does it matter? It was ages ago.”
He lifted her chin and searched her face. “I feel like I don’t know you.”
“You don’t want to know me,” she reminded him.
“That’s where all the conflicts lies.” He lowered his mouth to hers.
It was everything she remembered from the day before and forty years ago, and her body curled into it eagerly. This time, she wrapped her arm around his neck, pressing herself to him, feeling him against her. It felt so foreign and so perfect all at once.
His rough hand clutched her hip, then moved behind to haul her against him. He groaned into her mouth. Then, the fabric of her dress fisted in his hand, he tugged it up.
She stilled, her lips still against his, her eyes opening. She felt a whisper of air on her thighs as he slowly dragged the hem of her dress higher and higher.
She met his gaze. He watched her intently, waiting for her to stop him. They were in public, after all, on a side street that seemed to have no traffic. Still—this wasn’t proper. She knew she should tell him to stop.
But it’d been
so long
.
Her body quivered for his touch. Just once—just once more she wanted to feel pleasure. If she could have one more time, one more glorious night of love with Declan, she could hold on to that for the rest of her life, happy. Or, if not happy, at least it’d be a memory to pull out and cherish on the cold nights.
She met his gaze and dared him to touch her. Begged him.
She knew the moment he reached her garter by the way his eyes widened and he glanced down. She knew how much he appreciated her underwear by the way his hardness surged against her hip.
She tried not to think that she wasn’t nearly as firm as she’d been the last time he’d touched her. Forty years and six children—time had marked her. He had to notice. She closed her eyes, dying, wanting him to touch her.
He bent his knees and reached between her legs, over her silk underwear, pausing, one finger pressing lightly into her.
She knew what he felt: the heat of her, her soaked panties, the pant of her breath. She waited, afraid to move, afraid to ask for anything because she knew he’d deny her. But—she couldn’t help it—her hips arched back, a silent plea.
“Tomorrow,” he said.
She opened her eyes. “Tomorrow?” she repeated dazedly.
Slowly, torturously, he withdrew his hand from her and lowered her dress back down. “I’ll see you at the café tomorrow. Same time.”
She gaped at him. “That’s it? You work me into a frenzy and then leave me like this? Is this retribution?”
He stepped away from her. “You wanted me to teach you passion.”
“I thought that was in writing.”
“Writing and life are the same thing.” He turned and walked away before she could do anything.
Was every session going to end this way?
She smoothed her clothes over her hips and then ran a hand over her hair. Did she mind?
She didn’t think she did.
Chapter Sixteen
After the first morning, it was apparent that no one woke up early, so Summer set her alarm to wake up even earlier than the time that she’d run into Jon. For the first time in a while, she was grateful for her black wardrobe.
She left her room, closing the door gently, just in case Jon was a light sleeper. Tiptoeing, she snuck downstairs to the study Ryan’s girlfriend had pointed out to her the day before as part of her tour of the residence.
The door was open, and she peeked in. No one. Checking to make sure she was alone in the hall, she slipped inside quickly and closed the door.
She faced the room. If she had nefarious dealings, where would she keep the evidence?
She shook her head. That was the thing: She knew better than to have nefarious dealings. She would especially not steal money from anyone. When her father had died, she’d pretended to be someone she wasn’t to get information about his will, afraid the Summerhills were going to cheat her out of what was rightfully hers, and even that had settled uneasily with her.
But she knew one person who wouldn’t be afraid to do whatever she had to. Pulling out her mobile, she called her sister Portia.
“Do you know what time it is?” Portia asked as soon as she answered the phone.
“Sorry.” Summer glanced at the old clock ticking on the wall and winced. “But I need your help.”
“Hold on.” To the side, Portia said, “It’s Summer. She needs something…. Okay.” Back into the receiver, she said, “Jackson says he needs something, too, now that he’s awake. Oh. I wasn’t supposed to tell you that, apparently.”
Summer shook her head. Portia and Jackson baffled her. How the most proper Summerhill could have mated with a Texan was beyond her. “I’ll be quick. If you were to hide something in an old country manor, where would you hide it?”
“In plain sight. Or else in a hidden passageway.”
She looked around the room. “Hidden passageways actually exist?”
“Of course they do, especially in places that were close to ports. The British have a long history of smuggling goods.”
“How does one go about finding a hidden passageway?”
“Jackson, what are you doing?” Portia said away from the receiver again. There was the rumble of Jackson’s voice, muffled, and then Portia laughed. Into the phone, she said, “Jackson’s trying to turn me off so I’ll be quiet. Except, darling,” she said to Jackson, “that’s my ‘on’ button.”
Summer shook her head. “Maybe you should go.”
“Okay.” Portia giggled more, and then said, “There was a hidden passage at the old manor, and I can tell you playing hide and seek with Jackson is much more fun than running through those cobwebbed halls. You should find someone to play with.”
She only had Jon, unfortunately. She frowned as she put her mobile away and strolled about the room. It was like any countryside study. Not that she’d been in many, but she’d seen movies. Wood and thick fabrics everywhere, dark colors and lots of books. At one end there was a massive desk.
Not even an idiot would hide evidence in his desk, and Ryan wasn’t an idiot.
Nor was he a thief, she reminded herself. She was here—she might as well start at the desk. It was as good as anywhere and in plain sight, as Portia had said.
She was on the last drawer when she heard the doorknob creak.
Gasping, she shut the drawer, but she knew she wouldn’t have time to make it across the room to pretend she was looking for something to read. Not sure what to do, she ducked under the desk.
The door opened and shut. She held her breath, hoping her heart wasn’t as loud as it sounded to her. She watched a male pairs of legs in pants and loafers walk toward the desk.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Oh please don’t sit behind it.
After a moment she realized she didn’t hear footfall any longer. She peeked open one eye. The legs had stopped three feet away, directly in front of her.