CHAPTER 10
When she returned from their ride, she found most of the group in the kitchen, prints spread out all over the table while comments bounced between them. Jillian had to admit that the photos they had chosen for print ads were wonderful.
“I prefer the one on the left. Jilly’s eyes are a little too closed in the first one there,” Daniel said.
“There’s a stray hair in that picture,” Eileen objected.
“That’s easily touched up,” Brad pointed out.
Theo looked up at Jillian, grinning. “What do you think?”
“I’m amazed.”
“Good,” Eileen murmured. She exchanged pleased glances with Daniel and Theo, then looked at Brad. “Congratulations. You saw something we didn’t. And it’s terrific.”
Brad flushed. “Thanks. But, Eileen, you were the one who took my artwork and turned it into magic.”
“Hey, I had a hand in it, too,” Theo protested.
“You can all be proud—you all had a hand in it,” Douglas told them.
“Robert?” Eileen asked.
Jillian looked around and saw that Robert had reached the house, as well. He pulled his leather gloves from his hands as he viewed the photos.
“I think they’re great. You’ve captured exactly what we wanted to portray.”
Douglas smiled. “Let’s crack some of that champagne we ordered up for Christmas,” he suggested. “I think the occasion deserves it. And I’d like to make a toast.”
“I’ll get the glasses,” Agatha said. Henry immediately went to help her. When they got back, Jillian accepted a glass, looking around the room. Gracie Janner actually looked cute—flushed, her cheeks a little fuller than usual.
Was she having an affair with Daniel? Jillian couldn’t help but wonder. Still, she could have sworn the voice had been Connie’s. And only Connie and Joe were missing at the moment.
“Where are Connie and Joe?” she asked, lifting her glass for Henry to fill.
“Joe asked me if it was all right if they took off,” Daniel told her. He didn’t look at her. He was studying his bubbles as the champagne settled in his glass.
“And here’s the toast,” Douglas said, standing at the head of the table. “To you all, for making this come together. I have always said there’s nothing in life as important as family. I sat back and watched you plunge into this together, and I have seldom been prouder, more glad of what God has allowed me to create, or more pleased with each and every one of you. Salute.”
“Salute,” they returned in unison.
“To you, sir,” Griff said, raising his glass to Douglas. “With our deepest gratitude for the richness you have brought to our lives.”
Douglas nodded, accepting the compliment. Then he looked at his glass and grinned. “Pretty good stuff. Now I’m off for a nap. Aggie, when’s supper?”
“Three o’clock, and it’s scrod, so be punctual,” Aggie warned.
“We certainly will be,” Eileen promised. “There’s nothing so horrible as overdone fish!”
“But Aggie never overcooks the fish,” Theo said.
“The best breaded scrod in all of New England comes from this kitchen,” Eileen said quickly.
“The best,” Jillian echoed softly.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Griff said, and strode from the room.
Jillian quickly exited, as well.
She was feeling fiercely loyal at the moment, after the way Robert had torn into her family.
She found herself heading to the library, where the book he had been reading was still lying on the desk. She sat down and idly turned a few pages. How strange. He’d never met Milo, he was the world’s worst skeptic, yet he was dreaming about Milo coming back as a ghost.
She sat back in the chair, suddenly chilled, hugging her legs to her chest. “If you could come back, you’d come to me, wouldn’t you? I know that you would.”
It seemed as if a breeze drifted through the room. Cool, but not chilling. She hugged her knees more tightly.
She looked back to the desk. It seemed that a page had turned. Curious, she studied the book. It was very old, probably one of her grandfather’s oldest volumes. It was in excellent condition for its age, though. It had been published in America and was a collection of letters from the time of the Civil War and Reformation in England. She began idly to turn the pages. The book was by a man named Justin Miller, aide-de-camp to Captain Michael Trellyn. There were a narrative, a collection of legal documents and sections of letters, as well as a chronology, and what was probably a somewhat biased look at the English Civil War.
She scanned the pages, then paused, seeing a section titled, “The Letters and Diary Entries of Lady Morwenna, with Correspondence to Her Captain, While He Was Away at War.”
She loved old letters. Douglas had dozens of books filled with correspondences from the American Civil War, World War I and World War II. They were so poignant, creating flesh-and-blood tales that conveyed the sorrow of warfare with much greater effect than any simple recitation of dates and places.
The first entry in the section was a diary selection.
I saw Michael for the first time today. Or perhaps I should say, “again,” as I believe he must have been around these many years, though I never noticed him until now. He has grown, gone off to be a soldier, and they say that he is a fine one. What a confident fellow, so sure of himself and so very amused by me. He does not seem to be aware of my position nor of his own lesser status. He calls me “Lady Morwenna,” but the way he says it…! He shall learn. He spoke with Father today. They talked and talked. Both admitted that though the King is often wrong, he is the King, and they will stand by him. They were closeted together like very old friends. Naturally my father will raise an army. It appears this man shall lead it. Well, he’s a fine enough commoner for that! Tall, sits his saddle well, his eyes very hard and direct, his chin far too stubborn, but he is well made, and it will truly be a pity should a cannonball destroy such a fine physical specimen.
Walter was here, as well. He has a civil position as sheriff now, and he is considered a fair and just man by both the King’s people and Cromwell’s, a hard road, they say. I say that he tells a good story; he straddles a fence well. But he is kin, and Father will leave him to govern here when they ride away to war. He is well educated and clever, and I suppose it is good that he is here. They say that much of the country is in total upheaval. Order will reign if Walter is here. He has suggested marriage, I know, to my father. He is handsome enough, and has a talent for power, but I pretended I knew nothing and reminded him of our kinship. He reminded me that it is a rather distant kinship, yet close enough that he would be an excellent heir to my father’s properties. Since he is kind, I pretend to weigh his suit. But there is something…No matter. If only he intrigued me as does the captain, who is, of course, only a commoner. We are not royalty, of course. I shall pray, at the least, that, haughty as he may be, he does not fall to the fever of Cromwell’s men.
The entry ended. The next page began a letter written soon after, when Captain Michael Trellyn had gone on to war. Despite her cool presumption regarding her position in society—she was, after all, the daughter of a lord, and he was simply a soldier—passions had flared. She wrote as the lady of the house, admonishing him to keep his head down, to take the greatest care, to watch out for gunfire. Though it is my understanding that firing pieces are most sadly inaccurate, it is also my understanding that they are most deadly when aimed by accident or precision to actually strike the human body.
“Oh, Lady Morwenna, if you could only imagine the weapons we have now,” Jillian murmured aloud. She kept reading, intrigued.
The early writings continued to ask after his welfare, to warn him to keep his head low, to care for her father, who was also among the men fighting for King Charles I. Subtly, the relationship began to change. He’d been home, and they had met again by a river or a spring. The words became more intimate, the pleas more desperate and more loving. Then came one that warned of the end.
Dearest…by all accounts it does not go well for the loyal troops of the King. Here, those afraid of Cromwell’s retribution have already begun to denounce him. In all honesty, and without disloyalty, I must admit that I do not suppose he has been the best king. He has always been so adamant about the Divine Right of Kings. He believes that God allows him any extravagance he sees as fit. Alas, by God’s right, he should have cared more for the plight of his people and less for his own excesses. But these are thoughts I share only with you. My father honors the King, and the man I honor above all others gives his faith, his loyalty, his sword—and is willing to give his life, as well—for the King. Be warned, beloved, as you face the fire and powder and bloodshed of the battles, that the tide has turned. Here, though he often makes me laugh with his presumption, Sir Walter walks the line, though evermore tottering toward the other side. What a righteous man he has become, simple in his wants and desires. He brought in a witch finder the other day before Sunday service. He was very angry when I laughed at such a notion. Only fools, he told me, refuse to see that the devil lives among us. He was so very angry when I laughed in his face. I know the King to whom I give my loyalty is heir to the very man, James I, who came to England believing with the deepest passion in the curses of witches and the work of devils and demons among us. Still, it is just a charade. Such a tragic comedy that a good God would ever allow such things to come to pass. I am well aware that there are laws, that witchcraft is illegal and punishable by death, but there are men, have always been men, sane men, even in the midst of the worst insanity, to refute the persecution of pathetic old women who have done no more than to raise a fist against injustice and mutter an angry curse. Sir Walter shakes his head at me and warns me that wise men, learned men, all recognize and fear the work of the Devil. He says that Satan himself walks among us, tempting us, moving us to acts of heresy and treachery and sin. Ah, but he swears as well that his sole purpose in life is to guard me, and my father’s property. His love is the deep love of kinship, he says, and he will see that I learn the ways of the Lord—and of Cromwell, it is becoming apparent. For me, I am well enough. Sickness in the village keeps me busy; fighting with Sir Walter keeps me amused. They speak of torturing the poor old woman who was arrested, and my fight in her defense keeps my mind from the fact that I miss you, my love, body and soul. Ah, well, I must end now, for the soldiers stopping by shall leave, and I am entrusting this to a Private Goodman, who has sworn he will see it through to you. Ride with God, my love, and come home to me.
She did not sign her letter, or, if she had done so, the signature had not been transposed to the book. The next entries were from her diary again.
Jillian went through page after fascinating page. Lady Morwenna wrote about the time in which she lived, interesting facts about farming, and about her land, her home. There is no place more beautiful than here, on the Welsh borderland, with the mountains, the streams, the rivers, trees, flowers and foliage. All the earth rolls. It is wild, it is verdant, gray on a harsh day, greener than emerald in the midst of summer when the grasses grow deep. How odd it is to think that years ago, an English King came here and brutalized all that he saw. Wales became part of his rule and we forever English, beneath the domination of Edward I, Hammer of the Scots and Butcher of the Welsh, though that was not to be written on his tomb. Yet now a King of England runs, and there is rumor that he runs for his life.
There were more such entries, along with recipes for cures for wounds, her search for specific mushrooms to make tonics and salves, about the weather, blustering and calm, rain and sunshine and snow.
There came a heart-wrenching entry in which her father came home injured. Terribly sick, his mind wandering, his body was confined to bed. The lady’s love for her father was touchingly evident. Along with her father’s infirmity came a subtle change to life at the manor. I have no time for the continual meetings Walter demands. I tend to Father, and ignore him. And yet, I wonder what ill I may be doing, for it has come to my ears, through faithful servants, that this usurper in my home becomes evermore entrenched, and grasps each day with greater strength for power here.
She spoke no more of Walter for several days. She wrote about her father as he had been when she was little, so tender always, as she had grown. Yet even then, each entry was not finished until she had added in a prayer for her captain, still fighting the war, still commanding her father’s loyal troops.
And then…
He should have been far away at battle. I missed him so. I ached for him, prayed for him, and told God that I longed for him to come to me, for my soul was so very distraught.
And then he came.
Aye, he came to me last night. I knew not that he had returned to the village, here where we lie so close to Wales. The moon was full when I awoke, I knew not why, and looked out the window. He was there, as tall as the light, shimmering in half armor, as powerful as the darkness beyond. I said nothing, but rose, and he came to me and he held me, and I felt the strength and the trembling in his arms. He went down upon his knees, his arms around me still, his head bowed. I removed his plumed hat, slid my fingers through his hair and knelt down to join him. He kissed me, wrapped me in his arms, loved me. And I knew then that there were indeed miracles in this world. He told me that in a fortnight I must meet him by the stream. It will be summer then, and warm. He stayed the night, and there was magic. But come the morning he was gone, and I was bereft, afraid that I had dreamed, and yet, the essence of him lingered, that haunting scent upon my sheets. I can now scarcely wait for a fortnight to pass.
There were no more entries until then.
Dear God, I am so excited, so jubilant, it is near impossible to keep the secret! That I am so loved, so cherished, is a gift unequaled on earth. I thought myself insane, for there was no talk of the armies or soldiers nearby, no Cavaliers or Roundheads, and yet I believed. He had said that he would come, and so I went to the river. There, in the moonlight, with an owl crying out softly above, I found him. He had come with just a few of his men. I ran to him and I greeted his friends, and I told them all what I knew of the situation in London and in the field. At first I wondered why he had come to me with others to witness the night. Then I knew, for a priest stepped forward, and my love went down upon one knee, a glimmer of the moon’s refection alight in his eyes, and he most humbly asked for my hand—admitting, of course, that he was just a commoner and I, after all, the daughter of a lord.
There, in the night, with the sounds of the river flowing and the owls and the night birds, the scent of summer wildflowers on the air, before God I swore to be his wife, and he vowed to be my husband. He had brought sweet wine from the King himself, and we drank and danced in the moonlight. Then all witnesses melted away, and we were alone in the soft yellow glow of the fire, surrounded by shadow. There was the comfort of the earth, the beauty of my love, the perfect warmth of his strength. And when at last the dawn itself came, he spoke gravely of the worry that plagued him. I assured him that I was well and strong and could manage Sir Walter and his underlings! He told me that he wished I would come with him, but I again argued that he must stay. I could not desert my beloved parent or my father’s home. He swore that he loved me, held me, cradled me, and vowed that he would come, through wind and rain, snow or fire, that he would be with me, if ever I called, if ever there was the slightest need.
“Hey!”
The voice so startled Jillian that she dropped the book, feeling as guilty as if she had been involved in an illegal endeavor.
It was Griff, standing in the doorway.
“Hey back,” she said, amazed that she was still trembling.
“You’re late.”
“Late?”
“For dinner.”
“Dinner? It can’t be.”
“Jillian, trust me, it is. Would I lie to you? Well, would I lie to anyone about something so trivial as dinner?”
She grinned, closing the book. “No, you wouldn’t lie about dinner.”
“I don’t really lie.”
“You wouldn’t fib about something so trivial as dinner.”
He bowed gallantly, offering her his arm. She grinned and took it, and they started out of the library together. As they turned toward the stairs, Griff suddenly paused. She saw that he was surveying them in the mirror at the far end of the hall. “Great-looking couple,” he teased.
Griff was handsome. Tall, blond, with sculpted features, generous lips, large, deep-set eyes. She matched him well, with her light hair, just touched with red, and her own slimness and height.
“You’re just gorgeous,” she said.
“Not like tall, dark Robert Marston, though, huh?”
“You’re my cousin, and you know I adore you,” she assured him. On tiptoe, she kissed his cheek.
He sighed. “Scrod awaits. Feathery light, perfectly dusted with bread crumbs. Of course, let me remind you that we’re not all that closely related. If Tall, Dark and Overpaid falls short.”
She laughed, but she was aware that the sound was just a little uneasy. She really was irritated by Robert’s unfair attitude toward her family. Sure they all had their quirks. Eileen was most often sweet, always very talented—but a young woman with a chip on her shoulder, always worried that people weren’t taking her seriously. Maybe she had the right. They’d both had to fight for their places with three male cousins. For all Griff’s devil-may-care manner, he knew how to deal with buyers and could charm almost anyone into taking a chance. Then there was Daniel, so serious that he seldom knew how to play anymore. And Theo, the most steadfast, but with his own secret world.
But they were her family. All that she had. And they meant everything to her. Robert Marston couldn’t change that with his ridiculous suspicions.
She was angry, she realized, especially angry that he seemed all but convinced she was the object of some foul plot, when he didn’t believe in anything else. All of this had started on Halloween, with the tarot card reader. He didn’t believe in the occult, in the miraculous, in anything beyond what was flesh and blood or tangible. But there he was, dreaming about her deceased husband’s ghost—and casting blame upon her closest relations.
“Hey, are you with me?” Griff asked. “You are in love with him, aren’t you.”
“Him…?”
“Oh, please. Robert Marston.”
“I—Griff, he just came into the company. I would never do anything so…quickly. I hardly even know him.” She turned to him curiously. “What do you think of him?”
He shrugged. “He seems to be a good enough guy. Theo thinks well of him, and he should know. They went through college together.”
“So you approve?”
He laughed. “Do you care if I approve?”
“Well, yeah, I guess I do. This family means a lot to me.”
“Ah, there’s Douglas speaking.”
“Maybe. Doesn’t the family matter to you?”
“More than I ever let on,” he said. “More than I ever let on. Come on, let’s get down to dinner. I like Robert just fine. As long as he stays out of my office and remembers that I’m a Llewellyn, lord of the castle. Well, okay, one of a pack of lords of the castle, but you know what I mean.”
“Hey, up there!”
Douglas was at the foot of the stairs, calling them.
“Coming,” Griff responded.
“Race you down,” she challenged him.
They were probably lucky they didn’t break their necks. Griff was beating Jillian, so she jumped up on the banister and slid down. He jumped down the last few steps and crashed to the floor, and she came sliding down on top of him. They were both laughing hysterically.
She hadn’t realized that Robert was talking to her grandfather, that he was leaning against the door frame that led into the dining room. He watched her as she took Douglas’s hand and rose, sobering.
“Shall we eat, since everyone is waiting?” Douglas asked pleasantly.
“Of course. Sorry.” She hurried into the dining room.
Daniel had been talking earlier about heading back that night, but now, because of a slight warming that day and a freeze setting in, the roads were dangerous. Daniel paused as Douglas entered and everyone sat down. Douglas always said grace. He did so, and as soon as the prayer was completed, Daniel said, “Jilly, pass the potatoes, please. I wonder if I should still get on the road,” he went on, returning to his previous topic.
“We’d planned on going back tomorrow,” Robert reminded him.
“Yeah, I know. It’s just that with all of us here, every exec in the office is out,” Daniel said.
“Joe Murphy will be in. And Connie can handle a lot of what comes up,” Robert said.
“Oh, yeah, Connie can handle a lot,” Daniel murmured. Jillian found herself studying him, wondering what had been going on in his room. Was he seeing Connie? She couldn’t believe it. Not here—not with Joe in the same house. Connie loved Joe. And they had those two beautiful little girls.
It couldn’t have been Connie. It must have been Gracie.
“As long as someone is in by the afternoon,” Theo said. “I wasn’t planning on heading back at the crack of dawn—too cold, the roads will still be bad. But if we head straight into the city around ten, that should be all right.”
“Sounds good to me,” Eileen agreed.
“Can you believe it’s this bad in early November?” Gracie Janner asked.
“Which means it will be great when we get around to filming in Florida,” Griff commented.
“We’re filming in Florida?” Jillian said.
“You didn’t know?” Robert asked.
“Artists never pay attention at meetings,” Griff said with an overly dramatic sigh.
* * *
Jillian was definitely angry with him, Robert realized as the night went on. Well, she loved her family, naturally, and he had attacked them. However, she was being a fool to ignore the danger.
Too many strange events were occurring. First the tarot card reader. Something just wasn’t right there. Then there was the strange incident of the cat, which died in her office. Of natural causes? Of old age? The cat hadn’t looked all that old to him. Had the others finding the cat inadvertently ruined the plan for her to find a black cat dead on her desk immediately following the Halloween tarot card reader?
The cat had been cremated, but there was a lot that could be learned from ashes, or so he hoped, because he wanted to know exactly how Jeeves had died.
Then, a fence down, a speeding truck. An accident? Maybe just a hoped-for accident?
Next, a broken saddle girth. On the horse anyone would have assumed she would be riding. Well, he’d taken the girth, and it was going to the cops, too, and he was damn well going to find out if normal wear and tear had been given a hand. A dangerous hand.
Jillian wouldn’t listen to him, but at least she was nearby, where he could keep an eye on her.
He was tired, having spent the afternoon with Daniel, going over plans for the new campaign, but he didn’t intend to leave her alone to go sliding down a banister again. He stayed up, not participating, but watching as the house was decorated. It was clearly Jillian’s project, with Henry her right-hand man, and for once the others seemed willing to be the workforce. They did seem more like siblings than cousins, he had to admit. They joked, teased, argued, scuffled, ruffled feathers, mostly made up.
Daniel gave up for the night first. Soon after, Eileen and Gary gave in, and Jillian followed them.
She kissed her grandfather, then offered a cool “Good night, Robert.”
He didn’t stall, just bid Douglas good-night, thanking him for his hospitality.
“It was a working weekend—no thanks needed,” Douglas told him gruffly.
“Maybe, but I enjoyed myself.”
Great house, he thought as he went up the stairs. Great place to raise kids.
From his bedroom, he heard Jillian moving around in hers. Then he heard her settle down to bed. In the darkness, he pressed his temples. No mulled wine tonight, but he felt a slight buzz, anyway. He’d indulged in some hundred-and-fifty-year-old cognac with Douglas. Not that much, but it felt now as if he’d imbibed for hours.
“No ghosts tonight, okay?” he mocked himself aloud. He gave his pillow a punch and settled down, praying for some sleep.
* * *
A hot shower had done little to soothe her, and Jillian didn’t think she would ever be able to sleep. She was still too bothered by the ride that morning, and by Robert’s attitude. He had made no attempt to talk to her that night, but every time she’d looked at him, she’d known what he was thinking. Fool.
And still she wished she knew him better, longer. She wanted to argue with him the way she might if they were a real couple. Disagree, but not step away from him. Never let the sun go down on an argument, Milo had told her once. She believed it. And if she were really in love, if they were looking toward the future, they could retire to the same room, hash it out, even keep their own opposite opinions and still curl into bed together.
She reflected on the book she had been reading that afternoon, on Morwenna and her Michael. A war lay between them. They were on the same side, but it tore their country apart, destroyed her home. And still what they had found between them gave them strength and faith through adversity.
Warmth…
She remembered the words of the diary entry.
He came to me last night….
Had she dozed? She opened her eyes, thinking, remembering, longing for the warmth.
And there he was, standing at the foot of her bed, in a long velour robe. Red, she thought, but she couldn’t tell, because the shadows of the night were too thick. It was as if he had been waiting for her to see him; then he came slowly to her, and she sat up in bed, words on her lips but not falling. He hadn’t asked her permission to be there; she had said they needed to keep their distance.
But she was glad he was there. So glad. She left the bed, going to meet him. She looked up at him, curling her arms around his waist, laying her face against his chest, where the soft velour of the robe and the bristle of short dark hair teased her nose and cheeks. His fingers moved into her hair and she felt his kiss on the top of her head. She looked up at him again, and once again, words hovered on her lips, but he laid his finger over them, and the deep, uncanny blue of his eyes fell upon her with a brooding depth of emotion that seemed to stop her heart from beating. He never said a word, but she was suddenly in his arms, feeling his kiss, meeting it with her own, feeling a burning hunger, desire that bordered on magic, the essence of dreams.
Then she was in his arms, lying with him, entangled with him. And there she found what was often so elusive in life. A touching beyond the flesh, an intimacy of the soul. She was where she belonged.
The warmth. Warmth she felt as such a sweet and poignant yearning. The feeling she had found in the pages of the book, the feeling she had envied.
Yes, it was just like the book….
* * *
She was alone when she awoke. Silence surrounded her, and a coolness in the room made her pause and think she had imagined the entire fantastic night. Her bed appeared almost completely unruffled, and she was dressed in a flannel nightgown.
Perplexed, she rose slowly, then glanced at her watch on the nightstand and went tearing for the shower. Almost nine. They had been talking about leaving by ten. Showered, dressed, makeup on, hair neatly smoothed, she was certain that she could not have imagined what had been. She stared at herself in the mirror, practicing ways to ask him about it. “What were you doing in my room last night?” she said aloud to her reflection. She cleared her throat and looked very seriously into the mirror. “I thought we had agreed to a certain distance, let some time go by?”
That was it. Just right.
She went downstairs. Voices from the kitchen assured her that the rest of the household had already gathered.
Robert was with Daniel, studying some shots as they separated photos into the pockets of a briefcase. “Down to those—final decisions at the office?”
“As soon as we get in, so we can have them ready to run ASAP.”
“Hey, Jilly.” Griff met her at the foot of the stairs. “We found one of Jeeves’s old cat carriers. Were you taking Jeeves Junior on your lap, or do you want the carrier?”
“The carrier, I guess. If we stop for coffee or something along the way, he’ll probably feel safer in an enclosed space. And it’s cold. I can throw an old T-shirt in with him.”
“Ah, good morning, Jillian,” Douglas said.
Gracie came over to her, bearing a cup of coffee. “Just a touch of milk, Jillian, is that right?” She smiled eagerly.
Jillian accepted the coffee, noting that Gracie looked good, not so nervous. The country seemed to agree with her. Maybe she’d had time alone with Daniel.
Jillian suddenly hoped so. She hoped very much that it had been Gracie with her cousin the other night, not Connie. It couldn’t have been Connie!
“It’s perfect. Thank you, Gracie.”
“My pleasure.”
She sipped the coffee, walked over to Douglas, kissed his cheek and smiled.
“Grab some breakfast. I can see that Eileen is getting antsy,” he said.
“I still can’t believe it’s this cold so early in the year. Makes you want to sit next to a fire and just roast,” Eileen said.
Jillian shivered, as if icicles rather than fire danced along her spine. She walked around the table, selecting a scone. They were like a colony of ants in the kitchen, everyone moving about, taking a bite here and there, going for more coffee, packing up papers.
At last she managed to meet Robert at the coffeepot. Business Robert, Mr. Powerhouse in a perfectly cut suit, hair freshly washed and smoothed back, cheeks freshly shaven. He smiled at her as they met there, his eyes touching hers in a way that brought back a sweet rush of the same warmth that had filled the night with magic.
She wasn’t insane.
“I…”
“You okay?” he asked softly.
“Yes, I, um…I just, well, I guess I’m a little surprised—though not disappointed—that you came to my room last night. I mean, we’d agreed to let some time go by.”
He sipped his coffee, staring at her, a curious frown furrowing his forehead. For the longest time he didn’t speak, those deep blue eyes simply pinning hers.
“Dear Lord, please tell me that I was with you!” she said a little desperately. Not at all what she had practiced in the mirror.
“Yes, you were with me,” he said.
She exhaled a long breath of relief. “Then why…why did you look at me like that, as if I were…way off base?”
He set his coffee cup down, his attention entirely on her as he shook his head. “Jillian, I didn’t come to your room.”
“What? I don’t understand. You just said you were with me.”
“I didn’t come to your room. You came to mine.”