The Perfect Neighbor (16 page)

“I imagine it always shows well.”

“You’re right. You should see it in the winter. We always come up during Christmas. The snow and the wind turn it into something frozen out of time. And last year, just at the end of summer when the roses were tumbling and the sky was so hard and blue you waited for it to crack like an egg, my cousin Duncan got married here. But in the rain …” She smiled dreamily, leaning on the wheel. “It feels like Scotland.”

“Have you ever been?”

“Mmm. Twice. Have you?”

“No.”

“You should. It’s your roots. You’ll be surprised how much they tug at you when you breathe the air in the highlands or look out at a lowland loch.”

“Maybe I will. I might want a couple of weeks to decompress when the play’s finished.” He turned his head, lifted his eyebrows. “How’s the car handling for you?”

“Since you’ve only let me drive it for approximately forty-five seconds, it’s difficult to be sure. Now, if you let me take it out for a spin tomorrow …”

“Even your powers of persuasion aren’t going to get you behind the wheel longer than it takes to go up the drive.”

Cybil shrugged carelessly, thought, We’ll see about that, and drove decorously up the hill, parked. “Thank you very much.” She gave him a light kiss, and the keys.

“You’re welcome.”

“Let’s not worry about the bags now. We’ll make a dash for it and see how long it takes to have whiskey and scones by the fire.”

She pushed open the car door, ran like a bullet through the rain, then stopped on the covered porch to shake her head like a wet dog and laugh.

For ten full seconds, he couldn’t move. He could only stare at her, through the shimmering curtain of rain, her cap of hair sleek and soaked, her face alive with the delight of it. He wanted to think it was desire, straight and uncomplicated. But desire rarely struck so deeply or had fingers of fear clawing at the gut.

If he couldn’t ignore it, he’d deny it. He stepped into the rain, let the wind slap at his cheeks like a teasing woman as he walked to her. And while she laughed, he yanked her hard against him and took her mouth with a kind of violent possession.

For once her hands only fluttered helplessly as the sudden, almost brutal kiss staggered her. But she tasted the desperation on his mouth, felt the barely restrained fury in the body that pressed to hers. And her hands reached for him, stroked once, then held.

“Preston.”

He heard her murmur through the roaring in his brain that was like the rain and the sea battering against him. The soft sound of her voice had him gentling his hold, then the kiss, before he forced himself to draw back.

“With all your family around,” he managed, and skimmed her dripping hair behind her ear in an absent gesture that made her heart flutter foolishly, “I might not be able to do that for a while.”

“Well.” She breathed deep, hoping to settle herself. “That ought to hold me.” And smiling, she took his hand and pulled him inside.

There was warmth, immediate and welcoming.

Bright swords and shields glowed on the walls. It was, after all, the home of a warrior and one who had never forgotten it. There was the scent of flowers and wood, and of age that speaks of dignity rather than dust.

“Cybil!” Anna MacGregor came down the wide stairs, her soft face aglow with pleasure. Her sable hair was swept back, her deep-brown eyes clear and smiling as she held out her arms to take Cybil into them.

“Grandma.” She breathed deep, exhaled lavishly. “How can you always be so beautiful?”

With a laugh, Anna squeezed tighter. “At my age the best you can hope for is presentable.”

“Not you. You’re always beautiful. Isn’t she, Preston?”

“Very.”

“You’re never too old to appreciate a considerate lie from a handsome young man.” Anna shifted, keeping one arm around Cybil’s waist as she held out a hand. “Hello, Preston. I doubt you’ll remember me. You couldn’t have been more than sixteen the last I saw you.”

“About,” he agreed, taking her hand. “But I remember you very well, Mrs. MacGregor. It was at the Spring Ball in Newport, and you were very kind to a young boy who wanted to be anywhere else.”

“You remember. Now I am flattered. Come, let’s get you warmed up. Rain’s cold this time of year.”

“Where are Grandpa and Matthew?”

“Oh.” Anna laughed lightly as she led them down the hall into what the family called the Throne Room. “Daniel’s got poor Matthew hammering on the pump for the pool. He says it’s acting up, and you know how your grandfather is about his daily swim. Claims it keeps him young.”

“Everything keeps him young.”

The term for the room was apt, with Daniel’s regal high-back chair dominating a great space carpeted in scarlet. The furnishings were old and massive, the carvings deep. Lamps were already lit against the gloom, and a fire blazed boldly in the big hearth.

“We’ll have tea. I imagine Daniel will insist we add whiskey to that and use company as an excuse for it. Sit, be comfortable,” she invited. “If I don’t let him know you’re here, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“You sit,” Cybil insisted. “I’ll go. I’ll have the tea sent along on the way.”

“You’re a good girl.” Anna patted Cybil’s hand as she sat by the fire. “You always were.” Anna gestured to the chair beside hers. “Preston, Daniel and I saw your play in Boston some months ago. It was powerful, and wrenching. Your family must be so proud of what you’ve accomplished.”

“Actually, I think they were more surprised.”

“Sometimes that amounts to the same thing. We never really expect our children or our siblings, no matter how we admire them, to exhibit real genius. It brings us a jolt, and we think—how could I have missed that all those years?”

“You know my family,” he said quietly. “So you’d know the play cut very close to home.”

“Yes, I know. Sometimes a wound needs to be lanced or it festers. Is your sister well?”

“Yes, she has the children. They center her.”

“And you, Preston? Is it your work that centers you?”

“Apparently.”

“I’m sorry.” Annoyed with herself, Anna lifted her hands. “I’m prying—and I usually leave that to my husband. I’m interested because I remember that young boy at the Spring Ball and the way he looked after his sister. It reminded me of the way Alan and Caine always looked after Serena—and how it irritated her as it appeared to irritate … it’s Jenna, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” He smiled now. “It used to drive her crazy.” But the smile soon faded. “If I’d done a better job of it years later, she’d never have been hurt.”

“Preston, you didn’t hurt her,” Anna reminded him. “And, truly, I didn’t mean to take you back there. Will you tell me about what you’re working on now, or do you keep such matters secret?”

“It’s a love story, set in New York. At least, that’s the way it’s turning out.”

His gaze flicked past her shoulder when he heard laughter rolling down the hall. Yes, Anna thought, that seemed to be the way it was turning out.

“Haven’t you given the man a whiskey yet, Anna?”

Daniel stepped into the room and simply dominated it. Size, presence and that great booming voice that refused to thin with age. His eyes glittered blue as the lochs of his homeland; his hair and rich full beard were stunningly white.

“Is that any way to welcome a man after he’s come in out of the rain and brought up my favorite grandchild from the city?”

“Oh, fine,” Matthew muttered, trailing in behind him. “When you wanted your pool fixed
I
was your favorite grandchild.”

“Well, it’s fixed now, isn’t it?” Daniel said, and with a bark of laughter slapped Matthew on the back with the affection a father grizzly might show to his cub.

“It’s good to see you, Mr. MacGregor.” Preston crossed the room, hand extended to shake. But for Daniel this was rarely sufficient when he’d taken an interest in a man. He clapped Preston into a hug with the force of a steel trap biting closed.

“You’re looking fit, McQuinn, and a good drink of whiskey always makes a Scotsman fitter.”

“You’ll have a drop in your tea, Daniel,” Anna warned him as she rose to fetch the decanter.

“A drop.” For a big man, he could still manage to sulk like a child. “Anna.”

“Two drops,” she conceded with a smile tugging at her mouth. “Tell me, Preston, do you smoke cigars?”

“Not as a rule, no.”

Anna turned, angled her head in warning at Daniel. “Then if I come across you with one in your hand, I’ll know who stuck it there before he dashed out of the room.”

“The woman’ll nag you to death,” Daniel muttered. “Well, sit down, boy, and tell me how you and Cybil are getting on.”

Little alarm bells sounded in Preston’s head. “Getting on?”

“Neighbors, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.” Relieved, Preston sat. “Across-the-hall neighbors.”

“Pretty as a primrose, isn’t she?”

“Grandpa.” Cybil sighed as she wheeled in a loaded tea tray. “Don’t start on McQuinn. He hasn’t even been here ten minutes.”

“Start what?” Daniel narrowed his eyes at her. “Are you pretty or not?”

“I’m adorable.” She laughed and kissed his nose. While she was close, she whispered in his ear. “Behave and I might tip a bit of my whiskey into your tea while she’s not looking.”

Daniel’s teeth flashed in a grin; his eyebrows wiggled. “There’s a lass.”

“You won’t believe these scones, McQuinn.” Satisfied she’d bribed The MacGregor, Cybil loaded a small plate. “I can’t quite pull them off. Mine are close, but not quite there.”

“Cybil’s a fine cook,” Daniel agreed, scowling when he watched his wife measure a measly two drops of whiskey into a cup for him. “You’ve been feeding the man a bit from time to time, haven’t you, lass? Like a proper neighbor.”

“She made us all a potpie the other night.” Matthew loaded a scone with strawberry jam. He’d promised to be a buffer, he remembered. “Preston, you want whiskey or are you making do with tea?”

“I’ll take the whiskey, thanks. Neat.”

“And how else would a man drink it?” Daniel muttered, pouting into his teacup. “So you’ve had a taste of our Cybil,” he added, and watched with a barely suppressed grin as Preston nearly bobbled a scone.

“Excuse me?”

“Her cooking.” Daniel’s eyes radiated innocence. Oh, aye, he thought, I’ve got you on the reel, laddie. “Woman who can cook like my darling here ought to have a family to feed.”

“Grandpa.” Cybil tapped her finger on her whiskey glass.

When a man was torn between his drink of choice and his granddaughter’s future, what choice did he have? Sacrifices, Daniel mused, had to be made. “What man doesn’t appreciate a hot meal well made, I’d like to know? You can’t disagree with that, can you, lad?”

Somehow, somewhere, there was dangerous ground, was all Preston could think. “No.”

“There!” Daniel pounded a fist, made plates rattle. “Hah! McQuinn’s a good and honorable name. You’ve done proud by it.”

“Thanks,” Preston said cautiously.

“But a man your age should be thinking of what comes after him. You must be thirty by now.”

“That’s right.” And how the hell do you know that? Preston wondered.

“A man gets to be thirty, it’s time to take stock, to consider his duties to name and family.”

“I’ve got a few years left,” Matthew whispered to Cybil.

She merely elbowed him. “Do something,” she hissed.

“If he turns it on me, it’s gonna cost you.”

“Name your price.”

“Oh, I will.” And cheerfully throwing himself on the sword, Matthew dropped into a chair. “Grandpa, I haven’t told you about this woman I’ve been seeing lately.”

“Woman?” Distracted, Daniel blinked, then zeroed in on his grandson. “What woman would that be? I thought you were too busy building your big metal toys to pay any mind to women.”

“I pay them plenty of mind.” Matthew grinned, lifted his whiskey in salute. “This one’s something special.”

“Is she, now?” Shifting gears, Daniel settled back. “Well, it would take a special lass to catch your eye for more than a blink.”

“Oh, I’ve been looking at this one for a while. Name’s Lulu,” Matthew decided on the spot. “Lulu LaRue, though I think that’s her stage name. She’s a table dancer.”

“Dances on tables!” Daniel roared as his wife choked back a laugh, then continued to drink her tea. “Naked on tables?”

“Of course naked. What’s the point otherwise? She’s got the most amazing tattoo on her—”

“Naked, tattooed dancing girls! I’ll be damned, Matthew Campbell. You want to break your dear mother’s heart? Anna, are you listening to this?”

“Yes, of course I am, Daniel. Matthew, stop teasing your grandfather.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Matthew shrugged, grinned and watched Daniel’s eyes narrow into blue slits. “But I don’t see why I can’t have a naked, tattooed dancing girl if I want.”

* * *

Much later, after the rain had passed and night had fallen and Preston had slipped into her room to take advantage of her and the big four-poster bed, Cybil hummed in contentment.

It had been a near perfect day.

Perfect enough that she let herself curl up against the man she loved and pretend, in this fairy tale world, that he had scaled the walls of the castle to find her. And love her. And stay with her for always.

“Tell me something,” he murmured, too relaxed to worry about how soothing it was to be there with her arm draped over him, her head in the curve of his shoulder and their bodies sharing a lazy, intimate warmth.

“Okay. Despite exhaustive research, the exact number of angels who can dance on the head of a pin has never been fully documented.”

“I thought it was 634.”

“That’s mere speculation. Nor in related studies has it ever been fully discovered precisely how many frogs one must kiss before finding the prince.”

“That goes without saying. But …” He loved the way she chuckled as she shifted closer. “What I really wanted to know—and you would be the handiest authority on the subject—is what the hell was all that with your grandfather at tea?”

“Which all?” She lifted her head, skimmed her hair back from her brow, then rolled her eyes. “Oh, that all. I didn’t warn you because I had the pathetic hope that it wouldn’t be necessary. The fault is entirely mine.”