STORM: A Standalone Romance (2 page)

He made an appearance the next morning. Cara knew him at once, the same way she had known that Melinda was not the owner of the estate.

              She had woken early and was sitting by the window, gazing out across acres and acres of land, when she saw him. He was a tall figure, with broad shoulders—his posture appeared slightly sunken beneath the camel cardigan he wore. The sky outside her window was light, and yesterday's rain had evidently retreated for the moment.

              Cara watched the figure disappear quietly up the hill. Then, she slid from the window seat and quit her borrowed bedroom.

              She was able to navigate the house easier than she’d thought. By the time she had rediscovered the landing, she already had a plan in mind: she would follow the stranger to satisfy her curiosity, perhaps to introduce herself and properly thank him if he seemed approachable—then she would return to her car and try to start it again. If all went well, she would be out of everyone's hair by the time Melinda and the other servants awoke.

              Cara borrowed a spare pair of galoshes from the vast hallway closet and pulled them on. They were much too large for her; she almost felt like a kid again, trying on her father's shoes for fun. She followed the man's own boot prints out onto the property and up toward the hill, confident in her plan to express her thanks and hit the road.

              She hadn't expected to end up in the arms of a stranger.

#

"I'm going to need you to climb onto my back," the Englishman was saying. Cara tightened her hold on his neck and pressed her lips firmly together; she could see him read her expression in a glance. "It's either that, or I throw you over my shoulder," he threatened. He spoke mildly, as he had before, but it only made his disregard for her own opinion on how they should proceed even more infuriating. She felt like he had already helped himself to touching every inch of her—the last thing she needed was for his hands to find the curve of her backside.

              "I don't even know you," Cara responded curtly, as if that were all that needed to be said. In the normal world, that was all that would have been required to end their conversation; unfortunately, she had never held a dialogue with someone who also happened to be holding
her.

              "If I told you my name, would that really make things more expedient?" Again, she felt the warm press of his hands; his fingers curled around her ribcage in a fan, remaining just shy of the seam of her bra. Cara didn't know how he managed it, but he really was a perfect gentleman in the way that he conducted himself—other than in how he spoke to her. The accent, and his intelligent way around words, might have fooled somebody else, but she had detected his condescension from the moment he first opened his mouth.

              "It would give me courage for the trials to come if I knew who I was dealing with," she replied.

              "That didn't stop you from putting on my shoes," he pointed out.

              "And it certainly didn't stop you from listening in on my phone conversation," she snapped. "But I'm not going to bring that up."

              "I can see that." The man had the good grace to look faintly sheepish, and Cara knew she had been right in her suspicion that he had been the one eavesdropping last night. The expression softened some of the natural arrogance of his face, making him appear almost shy, and she could clearly see the picture of a shut-in. She relaxed her own expression a little in response.

              "Please. I'd like to know your name. It's the whole reason I came out here."

              "Simon."

              The man slowly eased his hand out from underneath her until Cara found herself sliding vertically against him. She blushed at every bump and swell; she could feel every inch of him, and understood that he could probably feel the same. Their faces hovered, inches apart, as she maneuvered her slighter weight around to the side. She was too conscious of their position to wrap her legs around his waist fully, but she hiked one knee up over his hip. In a matter of seconds, Simon had managed to swing her around to his back—had she been ignorant of his strength before, there was no dismissing it now. The unassuming man appeared to be hiding a good deal of muscle beneath the frumpy sweater.

              Once she had settled on his back, Cara twined her legs around his waist; Simon's hands came up once more to hitch her into place. She dropped her burning face into his shoulder as he stepped out of his boots and continued through the mud in his socks. They were out of the mire within moments.

              Simon kept walking, ferrying her up the face of the hill he had been climbing originally. Cara wanted to protest, but she also didn't want to call any more attention to their position, so she remained silent. She could see the sun had risen almost fully over the horizon. It looked pale and fragile, as if last night's rain had extinguished some of its light.

              Simon carried her to a lone tree on the crest of the hill and deposited her on the ground. Cara took a step back, self-consciously tucking her blond hair behind one ear. He was looking at her despite the view. After a moment, she decided to return his scrutiny, narrowing her eyes against the sunrise that backlit him. Simon withdrew something from his pocket.

              "Cara Marie Langford. Born March 25th, 1995. Height: five feet, five inches. Weight: one hundred and ten pounds. About eight stone. That part doesn't sound exactly true, now, does it?"

              "Give me that!" Cara exclaimed, and all but dove at him for her driver's license. The man didn't withhold it from her, possibly to his credit—not that she was in a particular mood to give him any.

              "You left it on the mantle downstairs by the phone," he said. "I figured I couldn't let you leave without it."

              "You're right," Cara said. "I
am
leaving. Thank you
so
much for the hospitality, but I really can't intrude upon you any longer. Please give Melinda my regards." She turned to start back down the hill, when she felt a hand catch her elbow. It wasn't forceful—the pressure of his hand was gentle, almost beseeching. Her heart leapt unexpectedly at the contact.

              "I'm sorry, Miss Langford. Please stay a moment."

              Cara turned dubiously, and Simon released her. She allowed her gaze to climb him, taking in the full image of a man who had clearly spent a good deal of time alone. He reminded her most of his mansion: classically handsome, but in a transient state of disrepair. Then again, maybe what was going on with the man was more than transient. She had no way of knowing how long he had resided there alone, or how long it might be before someone else came along to knock on his gate.

              "I really meant it. I really meant to thank you," she mentioned after a moment. "I thought I was going to be stranded out in the storm all night. When I saw your gate…"

              "I first laid eyes on you through the security camera," Simon admitted. "I couldn't leave you out there."

             
That
was unfortunate.

              "Oh." Cara laughed, remembering her sad, bedraggled appearance in the monitor. "Sorry about that. I didn't mean to frighten anyone. I must have looked barely human."

              "I can assure you no one was frightened, Miss Langford," Simon said. "It was the opposite, really."

              Silence descended between them as Cara mulled this information over. What was the opposite of frightened? Simon looked embarrassed, and she thought she had her answer.

Now it was her turn to feel embarrassed.

              "Do you really live out here all by yourself?" she asked in an attempt to change the conversation. The man's hands eased back into the pockets of his slouching sweater. Cara tried not to remember the
other
places they had been that morning, but her body felt warm just thinking about them, in areas specific to where they had touched her.

              "Not by myself," he said. Cara gazed up at him a moment, before crossing her arms across her chest in disbelief. "The servants keep me company," he continued. "Melinda is a good woman. Very entertaining. Gerald, the butler, is more of an acquired taste. The others and I get along well enough."

              "Do you know their names?" Cara asked him. Simon scratched the back of his scalp and glanced off.

              "They're seasonal," he said.

              "I see."

              "As you have probably guessed by now, Miss Langford, you are the first outsider to have been allowed onto my estate for quite some time. I would be honored if you would join me for breakfast before you go." The invitation was formal, a bit stiff, but Cara thought she could see the faint sheen of desperation in his eyes. It was gone again in a moment, replaced by confidence in what he clearly thought was already a confirmed acceptance of his invitation.

              Cara assessed him for a long moment. She couldn't decide whether she found him pompous and annoying, or infinitely intriguing. There was a disparity to his character that she had never before encountered in another person—it was as if his naturally arrogant nature was vying for control over something hopelessly disassembled and insecure. He seemed even more mysterious to her now than he had been the night previous, when his presence was nothing more than the phantom click of a receiver on the other line.

              "I'll need to call my family," she mentioned.

              "Of course."

              "I'd prefer it if you didn't eavesdrop this time."

              "You have my word as a gentleman." Simon gazed at her expectantly, but Cara found she couldn't argue with his self-assessment—he really did seem faintly aristocratic. She believed that he wouldn't overstep the bounds of her privacy again.

              They walked back down the hill together; midway down, Cara pulled her socks off. She managed to avoid the mud this time.

The man who joined her for breakfast wasn't completely altered, but there was enough of a difference for Cara to sit up and take notice. Simon was completely clean-shaven, and his hair was freshly combed; he had traded his early morning attire for a port-colored sweater with a steeper neckline that might have hung carelessly off anyone else, but only managed to further pique her curiosity at what lay beneath. She could see the swell of his pectoral muscles beneath a clearly defined clavicle. She thought it very likely that Simon spent much of his time in solitude working out.

              Cara, who was an avid runner herself, found she couldn't blame him. She couldn't even begin to imagine what other diversions there might be around here—he was a man who owned everything, and there was absolutely nothing to do. It made her immeasurably grateful for her friends at school, and immeasurably sad for the man who appeared to have given up friends entirely.

              They sat at opposite ends of a long table and settled in to eat without a word. Simon took a long pull off a glass of orange juice as Cara occupied herself with her coffee; she tried not to notice the way his throat slid when he swallowed, or the way he watched her over the rim of his glass the entire time. She had also taken the ten minutes before they reunited for breakfast to polish up her appearance, warning herself the whole time that it was a wasted effort. The moment breakfast was over, she was gone. She wasn't going to wait around for the tow company to come and rescue her from the mud—she had already had enough of rescues for one morning.

              "I wanted to get a walk in early," he began conversationally. "The weather report this morning called for—"

              He barely had time to complete the sentence before Cara heard the clatter of hail on the roof. She pushed off from the table in disbelief and went to the window; Simon met her there. The countryside that sprawled before them was a dull gray once more beneath the shadow of roiling storm clouds; she could even see a white mist starting to creep around the hillside from the woodland border. She sighed deeply in frustration, and tried not to feel too annoyed when she saw that Simon's reaction to her plight was one of consciously subdued cheerfulness.

              "—rain," he finished.

              "There's going to be flooding if this weather keeps up," Cara mentioned. Simon, orange juice in hand, looked thoughtful, but she could tell the weather wasn't as immediate a concern to him as his equally stormy guest. She resolved herself to try and be a little less on-edge around him. When the person you were forced to seek help from was
that
handsome, and
that
rich, it was…difficult. She felt at a constant disadvantage. She was an all-American girl with all-American student loans just trying to make her way in the world. She didn't want to owe anyone anything else.

              But Simon asked nothing of her. So long as she asked nothing of him other than what he was inclined to provide, she thought this might just stand a chance of working.

              Simon finished his orange juice and set the glass down on the windowsill. "Want to see the pool?" he inquired. "It's indoor."

              Of course it was.

#

The mansion's pool took up an entire underground level of the complex. Cara trailed behind Simon down the stairs slowly, eyes taking in the vast rectangle of water that stretched on and on before her. Threads of aquatic light danced across the tiled walls; the smell of chlorine stung her nose pleasantly, taking her back in time to memories of middle school swim lessons. She realized that she would have loved to have taken a dip in Simon's private pool—too bad it was out of the question.

              There was more orange juice down here, filling up an entire crystalline pitcher and sitting on a silver tray. Cara poured herself a glass and took a hearty sip; she nearly spat it out the next instant. The taste of alcohol raced like fire down her throat.

              "This is a mimosa!" she exclaimed. Simon extracted the pitcher from her hand and poured himself one as well, drinking it as he had the others during breakfast. Cara watched him, suspicious for any signs that his earlier orange juices had been less than innocent.

              "Of course," he said. "Shall we?"

              She followed him to a recliner set out by the poolside. There was only one, so they both took a seat on it, sitting a polite distance apart from one another. It was better than the alienation of the vast table at breakfast.

              "You have to understand how weird this all is for me," Cara said after she had taken another sip of her drink. Simon's eyes on her were patient. "You clearly have a lot of money."

              "Was that clear?" He feigned surprise. Cara flushed and crossed her arms, holding her glass aloft.

              "I don't get you. You could probably be doing anything, be
anywhere
—why are you in Connecticut? Why do you live out here by yourself with no neighbors?"

              "It's better this way. Believe me." The man's face sank into an expression Cara hadn’t yet seen him wear; it aged him significantly. He almost looked like a different person. "I've been out there in the world. I'm better off without it—rather,
it
is better off without me."

              "You seemed pretty excited to have company," Cara pointed out. Simon raised an eyebrow.

              "'Excited'?" he repeated flatly.

              "Well, no. Not excited.
Do
English people get excited?" Cara inquired.

              "It does happen on occasion." His gaze caught hers and held it significantly, and Cara's heart stuttered at the possibility of his meaning. Was this man actually flirting with her? He was so dry she couldn't tell. Half the time it seemed like he was borderline insulting her.

              Maybe it was the mimosa already starting to kick in, but she was feeling adventurous. She couldn't recall the last time she had actually gone swimming in a pool—much less a private one as nice as Simon's—but maybe that wasn't the only reason she stood suddenly and peeled her shirt off. Maybe she wanted an
occasion
for her mysterious host to get excited.

              Cara was a journalism major, which meant that a large portion of her time was spent hunched over behind a laptop or poring over her notes. She made up for the more sedentary aspects of student life by running and attending nightly yoga classes, and she was glad for her level of fitness now. She undulated a little as she pulled the shirt over her head, keeping her back to Simon so that he wouldn't get a full view; she thought she heard his startled intake of breath behind her, and smiled to herself. She dropped into a straight-legged bend and took her time wiggling out of her jeans, sashaying her hips from left to right. She had never taken such pleasure in undressing before, and wondered if it was because she had never held such a captive audience.

              "We have…" Simon trailed off.

              "What? A woman's bathing suit I can borrow?" she inquired nonchalantly.

              "Fortunately not," the Englishman muttered. Cara turned back to him and grinned, before bounding to the water's edge and diving gracefully into the pool. The water that washed over her felt temperate and refreshing, nothing like the freezing rains that had driven her to his doorstep only the night before. Cara wondered how often he found occasion to go swimming as she allowed herself to sink down to the bottom of the pool. How often did Simon find occasion to do
anything?
It had to be so boring living here by himself. Did he ever invite the servants down for a party by the poolside? Were any of them attractive women?

              Cara shook her head once, expelling a stream of bubbles that raced each other back up to the surface. She pushed off from the bottom of the pool and rose back above the water with a gasp of pleasure; she looked expectantly over to the pool chair, but realized too late that Simon wasn't there. Only when a shadow passed over her did the girl realize the danger.

              In the next instant a body crashed down beside her, and she found herself plunged back beneath the water. She struggled back to the surface, grabbing for anything within reach to keep her afloat. Her arms found something solid, and she immediately wended herself around it.

              When she opened her eyes, she was staring into Simon's dripping, grinning face. The thing she had wrapped her arms around was
his
neck,
his
shoulders. It was almost déjà vu from their encounter earlier, only this time felt a lot more intimate.

              "…You're not wearing anything," she noticed after a moment.

              "I could say the same for you," he pointed out. Cara blushed hotly.

             
"I'm
in my underwear. You're completely
naked!
I can feel it!" she exclaimed.

              "What can you feel?" Simon asked interestedly. As if he didn't already
know.
As her body drifted closer, Cara felt herself brush against his stomach, and against what nestled just south of it. She could feel the bushel of coarse hair through the all-too-thin fabric of her underwear, and Simon's length… She didn't know if he was half-aroused by their proximity, or if that was how Simon came naturally, but she struggled to keep her astonishment in check. By the amused expression on his face, she was failing utterly.

              "I can feel that I'm a sheltered American girl unused to your foreigner's ways," she said, though her breath was starting to come short. It was just that she had been submerged in water twice within the past ten seconds, she tried to argue with herself. It had nothing to do with the gorgeous Englishman in her arms.

Simon leaned his head in then to whisper wet words into her ear; Cara could feel each drop of water that arced off his angular chin and fell on her bare shoulder like a hammer strike. She could smell the alcohol on his breath—almost taste it, if she was being honest. She knew that it would taste divine. Was Simon drunk, or was he just taking their flirting to the next level? How could she have possibly prepared herself for this?

              "Do you find them barbaric?" he asked in a quiet voice. Cara shivered

"That remains to be seen, Mister…?"

              "Banning. But I prefer that you continue to call me Simon, Cara." His lips dropped away, but his forehead found hers, and she breathed in quickly at the surprise contact. "Don't try and put up a worthless barrier now."

              "Barriers aren't worthless," she argued. "Especially when you're a—what are you, anyway, a millionaire?
Especially
when you're a hermit trying to hide out in the New England countryside."

              "I certainly believed that once," Simon mused. He reached up with one finger to tuck a wet piece of hair behind her ear, and it was all she could do to resist leaning into the caress. His strong arms churned the water around them, and he ferried them over to the side of the pool. The sensation of floating together was gently intimate; Cara felt like she was being carried off in a dream. She couldn't let this rich stranger sweep her off her feet, but she knew it was already too late—their current situation spoke to that. When they reached the shallows, Simon—who had evidently thought ahead, and set their drinks down on the edge of the pool—passed her a newly refreshed mimosa. Cara held up her hand to protest further drinking, and Simon looked confused.

              "Sorry, am I coming on too strong?" He sounded genuinely concerned, and Cara's lips tugged in a rueful smile.

              "No, I… This is nice," she admitted. "I'm just… I'm not of legal drinking age, you know. I'm only twenty."

              Simon looked stunned by this admission, long enough for Cara to start to earnestly wish she had never opened her mouth on the subject, before his astonishment dissolved into laughter.

              "Of course! You must forgive me, Cara. The legal drinking age back in England is eighteen."

              "I'll be twenty-one this year," Cara said quickly. "And it's not as if I haven't before. I just thought… I didn't want you to get in trouble, or… Oh, I don't know what I was thinking." She sounded like an idiot, and she snatched the drink out of Simon's hand just to take some of the edge off the immediate memory of her rambling. She thought the Englishman would be amused by her, but was startled when she saw a very different expression on his face. It was so fleeting that she almost thought she might have imagined it, but Simon looked touched by her concern. Her stupid, ill-placed concern. They were on his private property drinking
his
alcohol in the midst of a rainstorm; of course there was no chance of them getting into trouble.

              "I could play a drinking game," Cara allowed. Simon raised an eyebrow.

              "What sort of game were you thinking, cheeky girl?"

              Cara tried not to let herself thrill at the very English endearment, and failed miserably. "How about…" She pointed to the far shore. "The last one to make it the length of the pool has to drink?" It sounded lame, but she couldn't think of anything else under the circumstances.