Authors: Kate Perry
“Would you do it differently, if you had the chance?” Rosalind asked, because she’d been wondering what she’d do differently with Nick—and Summer—if she’d known.
“I can’t do it differently, so it’s pointless to think about it. But I can change the road I walk on going forward.” Her mother looked at her steadily. “I intend to be more”—she paused, as if searching for the right word—”present, Rosalind. In your life and your sisters’.”
“I’d like that.” She swallowed. “I’m thinking of leaving.”
Her mother stilled, but Fran exclaimed, “Leaving where?”
“Leaving here, to go home. To San Francisco.” She played with the handle of the teacup, her head lowered. “It’s time, I think.”
Silence lay thick over the kitchen.
Fran flanked her other side. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with that young man, does it?”
“Yes, it does.” She firmed her lips, not going to say anything more. She wasn’t going to be the one to tell her mother her husband had another child.
Her mother touched Rosalind’s hair, tucking a piece back from her face. “I wish I had motherly wisdom to give you, but we both know what utter bollocks that’d be. But let me just say most men aren’t like your father.”
“Nick might be,” she said, feeling miserable.
“No, he isn’t.” Fran shook her head, lips pursed with conviction. “I saw the way he looked at you, lamb. He’s nothing like Reginald Summerhill.”
She couldn’t stop herself from asking, “How did he look at me?”
“Like you were his sun.”
“‘No sooner met, but they looked; no sooner looked, but they loved.’“At their questioning looks, her mother smiled sadly. “Rosalind said it in
As You Like It
.”
“You were the one who told me that life didn’t turn out like Shakespearean comedies.” She pushed back from the chair.
“That’s not the moral of
your
story, Rosalind.” Her mother took her hand. “And your ending hasn’t been written yet.”
“Think about it, lamb,” Fran added, squeezing her other hand.
“I can’t believe you two are tag teaming me.” Rosalind shook her head, trying to look stern, but their caring thawed some of the iciness that had settled in her chest. She kissed the back of Fran’s hand, and then her mother’s, before letting go.
She was halfway out of the kitchen when she stopped. Then she went back and took two shortbread cookies, smiling at the women, before going to her room to think things through.
Chapter Twenty-nine
“I have an idea for how to win her back,” Luca declared, smacking the bar with his hand.
Nick lifted his pint to take a sip.
His manager, Jon, nudged him. “Listen to Fiorelli. Italians know women.”
“Yes, but I will only tell him if he agrees to race in Monte Carlo.”
“Fair enough.” Jon nudged him again. “Say you’re going to race, Nick.”
“I’m giving up racing.”
“If this crazy way is how you’ve been speaking to her, no wonder she left you.” Luca pointed a finger at him. “Women want a real man who drives fast and hard, not one who sits in an empty house.”
“My house is empty
because
I’ve been too busy driving fast. Rosalind left me because I was dishonest.”
“Forget women.” Jon lifted a finger to Niamh, silently asking for another beer. “They take fifty percent. Not even my take is that big.”
He faced his manager. “I want to talk to you about that.”
“I knew you were going to go there.” Jon winced, tossing another bill on the bar top as Niamh set a glass in front of him. “Fine, I’ll cut my percentage. What do you want? Seven percent? Five percent? I’ll throw my firstborn in, too. The kid’s giving me ulcers.”
“I want to go into business with you.” Saying it made some of the weight that had been on his shoulders ease. “I’m going to manage endorsements.”
“What? You’re joking.” Jon turned and studied him. “You aren’t joking. That’s your I’m-taking-no-prisoners look.”
“I’m being very serious. You’re an excellent manager, Jon, but we both know that I’m better negotiating the endorsements than you are.”
“I need to think about this.”
“Think about it this way”—Nick picked up his beer and drank some, trying to project the detachment he wasn’t feeling—”I can go into business with you, or start a rival shop.”
“After all these years? You wound me, Long.” Jon put a hand over his heart. “You’re leaving me no choice, you know. I wouldn’t want you to be guilt-ridden over this.”
Nick grinned wryly, clapping him on the back. “You’re a true friend.”
“Cheers to that.” His new partner raised his glass in a toast.
Luca sighed dramatically. “I am in mourning. Now I’ll never be able to say I beat you at Monte Carlo.”
“I hope you’ll be able to go on,” Nick replied unsympathetically.
“But I will show you what a good friend I am and help you with your lady Rosalind,” his friend announced.
It was a testament to his desperation that he was willing to listen to the womanizing Italian. “How are you going to do that?”
“We will kidnap her.”
He stared at Luca for a full minute before he decided the man was being serious. “We aren’t kidnapping her.”
The Italian nodded determinedly. “It is the way. All women like to be swept away.”
“He’s right,” Jon interjected.
“Rosalind wouldn’t like that.”
“Then what would she like, Nico?”
His balls, on a platter. But more than that, she’d want to know that their time together wasn’t a lie. He had to show her that she knew him, the same way he knew her. “I think I know just the thing.”
Nick pressed the buzzer for the house on South Street, his heart beating like a hammer. He gripped the bag in his arms and hoped Rosalind would open the door for him.
But her sister, the cat burglar, was the one who answered, minus the odd fedora today.
She leaned in the doorjamb, arms crossed. “If it isn’t the lying bastard. This is a surprise.”
“So you’re the appointed gatekeeper?” he said, shifting the bag to hold out his hand. “Where are the boots?”
She held out a foot encased in a killer heel. “These’ll do, trust me.”
“I hope I don’t find out.”
Peering around him, she said, “No Luca?”
“Sorry.”
“A shame, but just as well. All he wanted to talk about was Bea.” She shrugged. “He was too flashy for my tastes anyway.”
“So do you think I can come in?”
“Is Rosalind expecting you?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.”
Nick slowed at her tone. “What does that mean?”
“It means she was talking about castrating you last night.” She stepped aside and held the door wide open. “Come in, but I’d suggest protecting your assets, especially since you’re the face of Calvin Klein.”
“Well, really the ass.” He pointed down the hall in the direction Rosalind had taken him last time. “The study is that way?”
“Third door on the right.” She smirked. “I’d wish you luck, but you need a miracle.”
He frowned at her. “You’re a sweet girl, you know that?”
“Compared to my other sisters, I really am.” Her gaze narrowed dangerously. “So you better tread cautiously.”
“Duly warned.” He saluted her and walked down the hall. He went to the third door that Portia had pointed out and walked in.
“Who was that?” Rosalind asked from the floor. She sat in the middle of a pile of books, her hair casually piled on top of her head, jeans rolled up and wearing a sweatshirt that dipped off one shoulder.
He stopped in his tracks, overwhelmed by the urge to kiss the nape of her neck, to push her down on the rug and take her right there. To hold her and tell her he loved her and would make it up to her.
“Well?” She looked up and froze when she saw him.
He waited for anger to fill her eyes, for her expression to turn hard, but she just stared at him.
Setting the bag on a table, he exhaled. “I should have known better than get involved with Summerhill women.”
Her gaze narrowed, much like Portia’s had. “That’s how you’re going to start grovelling?”
“It’s the truth. I grew up with Summer, who never gave up until she got what she wanted. One time, when she was around six, she decided she wanted cake for dinner. Tabitha told her if she didn’t eat her dinner, she couldn’t have any dessert, so she didn’t eat for twenty-four hours, until Tabitha finally gave in the next night.”
Rosalind looked away. “You’re still not winning any points.”
“I get the sense Portia is the same way, as are your other older sisters.” He kneeled in front of her. “You’re just as wilful, Rosalind.”
“I’m not being wilful.”
“Yes, you are, because you love me, and you know you have to forgive me.”
She lifted her adorable chin. “I have to do no such thing.”
“You wouldn’t let your stubbornness get in the way of true love.” He held up his hand as she began to protest. “It’s true, and deep down you know it. But even still, I’m going to prove it to you.”
“Really.” She lifted her eyebrow caustically.
He leaned in. “You know me. You knew I like to drive fast and that I have a soft spot in my heart for English cars. You knew I wasn’t happy at work and wanted to make a career shift. You knew I loved Summer, enough to do anything for her.”
Rosalind said nothing.
But she hadn’t turned away, and she wasn’t protesting. Figuring he was doing as well as could be expected, he dared to take her hand. She stiffened, but didn’t draw away, so he continued. “You know I haven’t had time to furnish my house and that I want someone to fill it with me. You know I want a family. You know I want you, that I crave you, because even in your anger you can’t deny that I showed you this every time I touched you.
“You know I love you,” he said, squeezing her hand. “You can argue that I was a bloody idiot by lying, and I was. You would probably even be justified by making me pay for this for the rest of our lives. But you can’t say I don’t love you.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know, Nick.”
“I do.” Letting go of her hand, he reached for the bag and gave it to her. “I know you as well as you know me.”
She glanced at him in question before peeking into the bag. She reached in and one by one, pulled each item out, lining them up in front of her.
“I know who you are, and you know me. In your heart, you know exactly who I am.” He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, her cheek, and then placed a soft kiss on her inert lips. “I love you, Rosalind.”
He paused a moment, but he knew she wouldn’t say anything. He nodded and stood up. “You’ll want to think about this and explore all the angles before coming to a conclusion.”
“Will I?” she murmured, looking at the things piled in front of her.
“For all your creativity, you aren’t impulsive. You mull things over.” He smiled, sticking his hands in his pockets. “It’s okay. Good things are worth waiting for.”
It was the hardest thing he’d ever done, to turn and walk away. For a moment, he almost went back to toss her over his shoulder and carry her off, like Luca thought he should do.
But he had to give her space. He had to trust that she’d forgive him and come back to him.
Chapter Thirty
A pink-ribboned box of macarons. Salted caramel.
A bottle of rye.
A pickle bottle—just brine, no gherkins.
A colorful vintage scarf, frayed at the edges.
A brand new camisole and matching knickers, frilly at the edges.
Rosalind stared at the things Nick had brought her. Flavors. Textures. New and old.
“It looks like Christmas in here,” Portia said, popping her head into the study. She looked around. “Is he gone already?”
“Yes.”
“And you aren’t naked.” Her sister entered the room. “It must not have gone well for him.”
“I can honestly say I’m not sure who lost out most.” She unwrapped the foil around the top of the rye, uncorked it, and took a swig. It went down smooth, warming the pit of her stomach.
Portia sat down on the floor next to her awkwardly. She took a moment to figure out how to arrange her legs before she held her hand out. “May I?”
Shrugging, she handed it over.
Portia daintily tipped the bottle to her lips. She winced as it hit her palate, and then coughed twice. Passing it back, she said hoarsely, “Good.”
The corner of her mouth quirked, which was saying something because she’d never felt less amused in her life.
“Knock, knock.” Bea breezed in, her heels clacking with authority on the marble floors. She arched her brows at them as she set her bag down on a side table and unwrapped her scarf from her neck. She took in the scene in one quick sweep. “Did I forget someone’s birthday?”
“Rosalind’s beau is courting her.”
“The lying bastard?” Bea joined them on the rug, frowning as she reached for one of the gifts. “He’s courting you with pickles?”
“Pickle juice,” she corrected. “To go with the rye.”
Bea’s patrician nose wrinkled. “That’s disgusting, Ros.”
She shrugged. Nick got her, but just thinking that made her sad.
“At least he has excellent taste in knickers.” Bea grabbed the satin and lace bottoms and inspected them. “These are Agent Provocateur.”
“I like that style.”
“And he knows it.” Her sisters exchanged looks.
She frowned at them. “What did that mean?”
“What do you think it meant?” Smiling like a cat at the cream, Bea opened the macarons and popped one in her mouth.
Viola hurried into the room. “Portia said it was urgent to get here, and I arrive to find you having a picnic. How is that an emergency?”
“The picnic is courtesy of Rosalind’s cheating lover.”
“He’s not cheating,” Rosalind said, to clarify. “He’s lying.”
“At least he has good taste.” Vi sat on the rug as she shimmied out of her coat. “I love macarons.”
Summer did, too, Rosalind remembered suddenly. Then what Viola said struck her. “Portia told you to come?”
Portia reached for the alcohol. “Nick showed up at the door, and I thought we should have reinforcements, just in case.”
Rosalind gaped at her sisters. “You all came here to protect me?”