“I met him, a long time ago,” she answered softly, running her fingers along the folder as though it was a connection to the past.
Bea’s eyes narrowed. Her oldest daughter was perceptive, but Jacqueline hoped she’d keep her observations to herself. She wasn’t ready to divulge what Declan meant to her, in the past or to her future as a writer.
Bea must have sensed as much, because she pressed her lips together, obviously thinking better than saying whatever had been on her mind. Instead she simply smiled. “If you need anything, I’m always available.”
“Thank you, darling.” She kissed Bea’s proffered cheek, the folder still pressed to her heart. Waiting until her eldest left, she went to her bed and curled up against the pillows piled by the headboard.
On the outside, the file looked innocuous, as though it could be anything.
Jacqueline knew better. Taking a deep breath, she opened it.
Declan’s picture was clipped to the top page.
Her breath caught. She hadn’t expected a picture. She hadn’t seen him in almost forty years, beyond grainy photos printed in the papers. This was obviously recently taken, surreptitiously; Declan unaware of the photographer’s presence.
She stared at him, shocked, seeing the boy he was in the man he’d become. He stood at a counter, perhaps in a café, his gaze pinned on the young woman behind the counter as though she were telling him the secret of life.
Jacqueline remembered that gaze, the clear gray of his eyes and how they made a person feel as though no one else existed in that moment.
He was still thin, though he’d filled out around the shoulders and chest. He stood tall and proud, accentuated by his patrician nose and posture that belied a lifetime of writing. His hair had gone shock white, but it was still full and rumpled, probably by his own hand.
She smiled, remembering the violent way he’d comb his hand through his hair. She’d kidded him that he’d go bald that way, and that the only way to prevent him from doing it was to hold his hand.
That had never been a hardship.
In his face, she could see time. The wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. She wondered if he smiled more than he used to.
She wondered who made him smile.
She turned the page, finding a sheet with a list of facts about him. One line stood out:
Unmarried, no children.
Why? She frowned, remembering how he used to talk about having a family. Maybe he’d become engrossed in his career?
That could mean anything, she told herself. Surely he had to have a lover, at least. He’d been such a virile, physical young man.
Not that she was interested in him that way. Their time had past. She may be curious about him, but all she wanted was advice on her novel.
She turned the page. His phone number and address were noted there. On the next page, there was a list of his daily activities, by approximate time as observed over a few days.
She frowned. Bea had had him followed? She supposed she should have suspected. Bea was nothing if not thorough, and she took her role as protector of the family very seriously. That was Jacqueline’s fault. If she’d been more of a mother, Bea wouldn’t have had to fill the role.
Declan lived close to Regents Park, not far from where he’d grown up. It was a short tube ride away.
She should call him.
Jacqueline closed the folder and held it in front of her. He’d hang up on her the moment he heard her voice. If he were anything like he used to be, he’d be rather stubborn.
It was fortunate that she was starting to grow a backbone. She picked up the phone.
Jacqueline gazed into the window at the Hound’s Tooth. Through the dirty glass, she could see men standing around the bar. A woman bartender pulled a beer from a draft as she chatted with one of them. On the outside, the pub was dingy and worn, but she wasn’t there for the establishment. She was there to meet Declan, and this is where he’d asked her to meet him.
That he’d agreed to meet her was a surprise, and she wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Taking a deep breath, which only riled the butterflies in her stomach, she opened the door and stepped in.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust from the outdoor light to the dimness inside. She felt his gaze on her before she could see him. She turned her head, blinking to adjust her vision.
He sat slouched in a booth in the back, in the shadows. His hands rested on the table, framing a pint of light-colored beer. He may have looked casual, but she could feel his tension all the way across the room.
Just go talk to him, she urged herself. The past was so long ago, and the worst he could say to her request for help was no.
Not that she believed that. There were worse things he could say.
She straightened her back and strode toward him as if the soles of her feet weren’t tingling with fear. When she was close enough to see his expression, it was inscrutable.
Stopping in front of him, she waited for some sort of expression to register on his face—recognition or even a hint of derision. There was only blankness in his expression.
Her smile faltered, but she lifted her head and said, “Hello, Declan.”
He said nothing, staring at her with those turbulent gray eyes she used to love. She couldn’t read a single emotion in them, and that scared her more than rejection.
Reminding herself that at one time she’d known him better than anyone, she set her purse on the table and slid into the booth. The bench sagged with the weight of years of disappointment, worn and frayed by life.
She masked how uncomfortable she was with a polite smile. She’d been masking her disappointment and anger since her wedding night—hiding it now seemed hardly a challenge.
His lips curved in a humorless smile, as if he could read all her thoughts.
She cleared her throat. “The years have been good to you, Declan.”
His brow quirked. “Small talk, Jacqueline?”
“It seemed the best way to dip my toes in.” She gave him an arched look that was pure Countess of Amberlin. “You aren’t making it easy for me.”
“Why should I make it easy?” He crossed his arms. “You’re the one who left me.”
She did, and over the years she’d tried so hard not to regret that decision. “After all this time, you’re going to hold on to that? That’s how you want to remember us?”
“There was no ‘us.’ At least not for you.” His glare told her everything, particularly that there wasn’t any forgiveness in his heart.
Or any help for her.
She lifted her chin, anger heating her from the inside. “I made the best choice I could at the time. We were barely nineteen. What did I know about life?”
“And how did life turn out for you?” he asked with a grim smile.
He meant it as a slap, and that was how it felt. Of course he’d read about Reginald dying in the car crash, his mistress by his side.
Jacqueline pressed her lips together. She wouldn’t crumple under his taunts. Declan had always had the ability to be mean if he wanted; it’d just never been directed at her.
Instead she said, “I know how life’s turned out for you. Awards for your writing. You’re a bestseller, and one of your novels is being made into a Hollywood movie. My daughter Imogen has been talking to the studio about the role of the heroine.”
“I have no desire to talk about your daughters, Jacqueline.”
Sadness spread through her chest, like a shot of frost. “Do we have to be this way?”
“No. But you contacted me and this is the way it is. Did you think I was going to be happy? That we could reminisce about days gone by and sigh with pleasure over shared memories?”
“I—”
“My memories are awful.” His gaze was cold and blazing at the same time. “I remember wanting you for the rest of my life and having my heart shattered when you chose someone from your own class instead of me, who you were supposed to have loved.”
She voiced the realization that haunted her silently for so many years. “It was the worst decision of my life.”
He leaned in. “I hope you suffered for it.”
“I have,” she whispered.
“Good.” He sat back.
The bartender came then, tossing a drink coaster on the table and staring at her impatiently.
Jacqueline swallowed her regret so she could speak. “The same as what he has.”
Declan arched his brow as the bartender left to fill the order. “Since when do you drink beer?”
“You don’t know who I’ve become,” she replied tartly, fed up with his derision. Out of her bag, she pulled out her journal. “Since you don’t want to see me, we might as well get this over with. I need help.”
“You have nerve coming to ask for my help.”
“It means a lot to me, and I trust you,” she said, ignoring him. “I’m writing a book, and I need help with the end. I thought maybe you could—”
“No.” He stood up, dropping a large bill on the table.
He had on red suede loafers.
She blinked at the shoes, shocked by them. The Declan she’d known would never have worn red shoes. She couldn’t think of a bigger sign that he’d changed.
Standing up to face him, she tried not to feel discouraged. “I haven’t finished saying what I have to say.”
“Yes, but I’ve finished listening.”
She moved to block his path as he turned to go. “I’m not going to let you go.”
He smirked, a cruel twist of his lips. “If only you’d said that forty years ago.”
“I’m saying it now.” She looked up into his eyes. “It’s never too late, not until death.”
Declan stepped closer. “Suddenly it’s not too late? Now that Reginald is dead and you’re free, you come back to me? I don’t take sloppy seconds.”
Hurt pierced her heart, but she didn’t let it show, instead channeling the Countess of Amberlin, who was a superb actress. There was no question where Imogen got her talent. “I’m not asking for sex. I’m asking for your help.”
“Are you sure, Jacqueline?” He crowded her, following her until her back was pressed against the side of the booth. He loomed over her. “I think you’re asking me for more than help for your book.”
He was so close, big and radiating heat. Hands braced on the worn leather behind her, she inhaled, which was a mistake because her head filled with his masculine scent. Her body and senses remembered him—remembered the way he used to touch her, engulfing and with enthusiasm, the drugging kisses that left marks all over her body—and she felt herself go soft and warm at her core.
“You still want me.” He smirked. “It may be forty years later, but I can still read your body. It’s like a manual, telling me exactly what you want.”
“I only want your help with my story,” she lied.
“Is that so?”
She licked her lips, trying not to sway toward him. How long had it been since someone had kissed her on the lips, even a soft peck? So long it brought tears to her eyes. She kept them lowered, not wanting him to see what he was doing to her. No man was ever going to cause her heartache ever again.
But—good Lord—she wanted Declan to kiss her. One kiss wouldn’t break her.
She hoped.
He lowered his head so his mouth hovered a breath away from hers. “The answer is no to both questions, Countess,” he said softly, his voice harsh with bitterness. He stepped back and strode out of the bar, back rigid with anger.
She wilted, with relief and regret. Heart pounding, she pressed a hand over it in an effort to calm it and eased herself back into the booth as the bartender deposited the pint Jacqueline had forgotten she’d ordered on the table.
“Well, that went better than expected,” she murmured. Her hand shook as she lifted the pint for a sip of the bitter brew.
Chapter Seven
The sound of the camera shutter was driving Summer mad.
She gritted her teeth as Titania whirled around her like a determined dervish. Not that she’d ever tell Titania, not when Titania cared enough to photograph her.
Her logical side knew it was silly to feel tenuous about her bond with her youngest sister. Titania has been nothing but sweet to her—well, as sweet as Titania could be. Only the sisterhood was still so new, so precious, that Summer didn’t want to do anything to disrupt the loveliness of it.
“Tawny, maybe you could give us a little space,” Gigi suggested as she ran a fat brush over Summer’s cheeks.
“Maybe I could.” Titania stepped in and took a close up of Gigi. “But you know I’m not going to.”
Shaking her head, Gigi set the brush down and picked up another one. “I wonder on a daily basis how none of us threw you off a bridge in a bag full of rocks when you were a baby.”
“That’s because I’m irresistible,” Titania said with a smirk.
Viola breezed into Summer’s room carrying a plate and a bag. “Did I hear someone say irresistible?”
Titania lowered her camera. “Do you have food?”
“Thank heaven for small favors,” Gigi murmured so only Summer could hear it.
Summer smiled for the first time since the primping started an hour ago. “She means well.”
“And you’ll have excellent documentation of this event.” Gigi set the brushes down and smiled at Viola. “What sort of treat did you bring for us?”
“Macarons,” Viola said, her voice triumphant. “I made them myself.”
Summer blinked. “Do you bake?”
“Not at all, but I figured it was time to start. I’m considering opening a bakery.” She set the bag on the dresser and unwrapped the plate.
“A bakery?” Gigi repeated with a frown. “I didn’t know you aspired to being a baker.”
“I didn’t, but it seems like what a divorcée without any skills would do,” she said blithely.
Summer glanced at her two other sisters and then got up from the vanity, where Gigi had installed her for the transformation, and followed them to inspect Viola’s macarons.
Titania broke the long moment of silence. “Are you opening an X-rated bakery?”
“No. Why?”
Titania picked up a fleshy pink-colored macaron and held it up. “It’s rather lurid, isn’t it?”
“It does have a distinct labial look,” Gigi added.
“Does it?” Viola looked at Summer.
“Um”—she bit her lip—“it’s definitely different than any macaron I’ve ever seen. That’s likely good for marketing.”