CHAPTER TEN – HAYLEY
The sun shone through the window. I stirred and opened my eyes. I looked up at a white-painted ceiling, luxurious sheets beneath me, a soft pillow below my head. I remembered. I was in Beckett Sand’s home. It was Saturday morning. Lovely.
I slid out of bed and tiptoed through to the bathroom, had a shower and, wrapped in a towel, remembered the predicament I had only half-considered yesterday. What was I going to wear?
I opened the closet. To my amazement, it was full of clothes. Amazing clothes. The place was like a designer outlet on a sale day—racks and racks of famous labels, all in elegant, delicate colors. Luckily, navy, gray, and blue were some of my favorites, because the whole wardrobe revolved around a muted, gracious palette. Whoever had put it together had a wonderful eye. Each piece was exquisite.
I pulled out a navy Vintage-style dress, with delicate polka-dots. I loved it. I just had to try it on. It looked like it would fit, whereas the pale cream slacks on the row below it didn’t look quite the right size for me. I was interested, so I checked the sizes of various things.
My check led me to realize that he had stocked it with various sizes. That was smart.
The more I came to know this man, the more I started to appreciate his mind. He was bold and forthright, but he seemed to also have an eye on the big picture, thinking of the small things and not overlooking them. It was an unusual combination. I admired it.
I shrugged the polka-dotted dress over my head and swirled in front of the mirror, loving the light, breezy fabric and the way it made me feel.
I feel so pretty.
I brushed my hair and made myself up, regretting the loss of Bethany, who’d done my makeup for the theater the past evening, and went downstairs.
“Miss Morris!”
A voice from the dining-room made me pause. He was there. The delicious smell of toast was with him, and my stomach twisted painfully at the thought of breakfast.
“Mr. Sand.” I smiled. He was wearing a pale jacket and shirt, designer jeans. Stunning, as usual. I went in.
“Please, join me,” he said, waving a hand at the seat opposite. “I was hoping you’d come down soon. Did you sleep well?”
He was hoping I’d come down? I swallowed. “Thanks,” I said, then remembered his question. “I did. Thank you. And you?”
He smiled ruefully. “My shoulder was burning, so it took me ages to get comfortable,” he confessed. “But I did, eventually. You look good.”
I felt a blush creep slowly up my throat. “Thanks,” I said. “It’s a nice dress.”
“It suits you,” he agreed. “Which reminds me,” he added, “we have something to discuss.”
“We do?” I asked, frowning. I reached for a big slice of toast from the rack and buttered it carefully, watching him as he leaned back, relaxed, sipping his coffee.
“Yes,” he said, grinning. “Our marriage.”
I dropped the toast. Then gave a self-conscious giggle. “Oh,” I said, “that.”
“Yes,” he said, “that.” He laughed.
“You want to have it soon?” I asked, trying to maintain a lighthearted tone. In truth, my heart was thumping and it was hard to think straight. I was finding it hard, I had to confess, to think about marriage without thinking about being close to him in less-than-proper ways.
“I do,” he nodded, swallowing his coffee and reaching for another slice of toast. “I had thought next week.”
“What?”
For the second time that morning, I gaped at him. He laughed.
“I know it’s sudden. But we have to get a move on,” he said lightly. “I need to fly to Tokyo in three weeks’ or so, and I’d like for you to accompany me. The sooner we get this done and dusted, the neater for all concerned.”
I nodded, slowly chewing toast as I thought about it. Was it me, or did that same strained look cross his face when he said that as when he received that message? I was starting to wonder what was going on here.
“I suppose,” I said, trying to make my voice sound non-committal.
“Absolutely,” he nodded, swallowing toast. “Coffee?” he asked, lifting a flask.
“Yes, thank you,” I nodded absently. He poured it for me, and I felt a tickle of pleasure in me.
“Thanks,” I said when he was done. He smiled.
“Least I can do,” he said playfully. “Now, what about the dress?”
I gulped. “The dress? Oh! Of course you mean the wedding. Well…” I trailed off. It was so, so strange to be discussing a wedding that was an act only. I had an idea in my mind of what I would want a wedding dress to look like, but I wanted that to be for a real wedding, not an act. To use it for this would seem a funny kind of disrespect of my ideals. I sighed. “I guess we should do something current.”
“I suppose so,” he nodded. He looked surprised. I supposed he expected me to have some kind of input about it, some preferences or ideas to contribute. I cleared my throat.
“I guess it should be white,” I hazarded. “And I’d like chiffon on it somewhere. But aside from that, let the designer go crazy.”
“I think I won’t be doing that,” he said, laughing. “You haven’t seen them go crazy. Well, neither have I. But I’m sure, with their artistic temperament, that it’s a scary thing to see.”
We both laughed.
“I’m sure,” I added. “Well, then. What else do we have to make plans about?”
“The actual wedding is going to take place in a friend’s chapel,” he said quietly. “I deliberately wanted it intimate and, well, inaccessible to the press. So we don’t have to do anything.”
“Oh. Good. Yes.” I nodded. Somehow, that part of the plans had escaped me. He had thought of the big picture again, as it seemed he always did. I smiled. “Good idea.”
“Thanks,” he said shyly. “As for the rest? What kind of reception would you like? We won’t have the honeymoon directly, since I have work commitments, but we can schedule one for when I get back, if you want?”
I laughed. “Well, I’m happy with whatever you choose. I’ve always fancied the idea of a hotel reception. But if you have another plan, then, I’m happy to go with it.”
“You’re very relaxed,” he commented, grinning brightly. “It’s a nice trait.”
I smiled. I could feel myself flushing under his praise and I shifted in my seat, feeling warm. “Thanks,” I commented. “Is it hot in here?”
He laughed. “I suppose it is. Those windows are quite big and they do let the sun in, especially in summer. I’m quite warm too.”
“I’m sure you are,” I said.
He stared at me. I gulped, realizing what I’d said. I went red.
“I’m sorry,” I swallowed, feeling terribly embarrassed. “I mean, it is warm in here. Oh, silly me. I’m tired. Sorry. Late night and all.” I trailed off, feeling wretched. I looked at him. He was smiling.
“Not at all,” he said, eyes merry. “I like the odd compliment. But I promise I’ll put it down to your being distracted and tired. No worries.”
I sighed. Smiled at him. I wanted to say that I meant it. That he was hot. Very. And I’d love to let him know just how hot I thought he was. Of course, I couldn’t say that. So I smiled.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Don’t mention it,” he said gently. “Now,” he added, pushing his chair back, “I have to make a call. Then, perhaps we could meet here in about twenty minutes? I’d like to show you the garden.”
I nodded. I didn’t ask who he was calling, or why. It was, I guessed, none of my business. I drifted out and went upstairs to my quarters.
Twenty minutes later, we met up again. He was smiling, looking cheerful.
“That was my daughter,” he explained.
“Oh?” I frowned. I didn’t know he had a daughter. That was news.
“She’s coming back from college tomorrow afternoon,” he explained. “I’m going through to the airport to fetch her.”
“Oh,” I said again, carefully. “How old is she?”
“She’s seventeen,” he explained quickly. “Almost eighteen. Her name’s Estella.”
“What a lovely name.”
“It is,” he agreed, nodding briskly. “She’s a lovely girl. You’ll like her.”
“I’m sure I will,” I agreed. Especially if she’s like you.
“I hope she’ll take to my wedding idea okay,” he confessed, running his hands through his hair. We were in the drive at the foot of the front steps. He looked down at me, face nervous.
“Beckett,” I said softly, “it’s okay. She’ll understand. She’s a smart girl. She’s your daughter, after all. And she loves you. Just go easy on her.”
He let out a shuddering breath, head dropping forward. “You’re right,” he sighed. “I hope she’ll understand me. And I’ll break it to her slowly. I wanted to go and fetch her alone, so I can get her used to the idea. You think that’s good?”
“I think that’s a very good idea,” I agreed firmly. “Now, where do we start?”
He laughed as I swept my hand across the vast expanse of fragrant, green and dew-soaked garden.
“We should start with the roses,” he smiled. “I have a big arbor here and I think you’ll like them.”
“I love roses,” I agreed fervently. They were some of my favorite flowers.
“Then you’ll love this garden,” he promised. “We have an extensive collection here…hybrids from everywhere, though mostly I love the classics myself. The cottage roses. We have lots of those as well, in the section over there…”
“I love those best too,” I agreed.
We headed, side-by-side, into the vast, rolling grounds of his estate.
The morning passed quickly in that garden. I did love it. He had whole gardens of roses, the size of my cottage garden at home. The conifers were guardians of tranquil knot-gardens, long wandering paths or spaces of lawn, one brightened by a sparkling fountain. We sat there together, watching the water dance, the sunlight on the pond’s surface sparking and shattering as the drops touched the surface.
“Hayley,” he said softly after a long moment. He paused. “I…It’s good to have you here.”
I felt my heart melt. “It’s good to be here,” I said. I wanted to say, “with you”. I couldn’t quite get it out of my throat, though. I looked into his eyes, wanting to tell him that way.
He swallowed. I could see a blood-vessel pulsing in his temple and his eyes were wide, pupils flared slightly. I sighed. His expression mirrored my own feelings. I was taut with desire for him. Each nerve tingled as we sat together by the pond.
We kissed.
I sighed, leaning against him. My body was soft in his firm clasp and he drew me to his chest, holding me there. His mouth was hungry on mine, his lips exploring my mouth with a passionate fury that set my own body burning up. I leaned into him and pressed against him, my arms holding him close.
He drew back, blinking, sighing. “Hayley,” he murmured. “I…” He sighed. “I’m sorry.”
He moved a little, so our bodies were not touching. I felt a stabbing loss as his warm body withdrew from beside me. He stood.
I looked up at him, so handsome, his shoulders broad, his body lithe with compressed action like a horse at the starting-line of a race. I felt my breath catch in my throat, just studying him.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I shouldn’t have done that. Shall we go in?”
I sighed. “I shouldn’t have done that either,” I said softly.
He frowned at me. “You didn’t do anything,” he said, sounding confused. “I did.”
I wanted to say something, tell him I had loved every second and regretted nothing, but he looked so shattered, his brow creased in a frown, green eyes wide, that I couldn’t.
“Let’s go in,” I said gently. “Your housekeeper showed me the library and I feel the need to look up some of these roses. I’m sure you have plant books up there?”
He laughed. “You bet we do! One of the best collections in the state, or so I’ve been told. I inherited most of them from the previous owner, actually. But it is a good library. If you like reading, you’ll be happy here.”
“I do like reading,” I said gently. “And I am happy here.”
There. I said it. He looked at me, a slow smile spreading across his lean, carved features.
“I am so glad,” he said lightly.
His mood lifted, and mine, we walked together side by side toward the house.
He stood back for me in the doorway. I thanked him. His gaze on me was soft.
Something had changed between us, that time at the pond. I could feel it. I could see it in him, the way his eyes were gentle and he seemed pleased. But we were bound by our contract.
It had stipulated no physical contact of an intimate nature. We were already breaching it. It still seemed to bind him and, I suppose, it bound me too.
Sighing, I went up the stairs ahead of him, heading to the library.
“Here it is,” he said, stepping back for me as I went in. “Enjoy.”
“You have to work on Saturday?” I asked, seeing him hover in the door, already halfway, mentally, to whatever called.
“I just have to make a call,” he said briefly. “Organize some things. And get Bellamy Carrington onto the phone,” he added with a smile.
“Who?” I asked, intrigued.
He laughed. “The lady who’ll make your wedding gown
.”