Everything You Are (5 page)

The noise and chatter coming from the large white tents hung over the vast meadow like a fog. A group of children ran out from a tent nearby and past Jane. She sat on the bench, which circled the trunk of a linden tree, and waited for Mark. Through the large entrance of the tent before her, she could see rows of tables stacked with food. Here and there she could catch a glimpse of Mark, who darted between the tables, filling the large plate he held with food.

“Miss Bennet.”

Jane lifted her gaze to see the older man who, three weeks ago, had delivered a job offer to her. “Mr. Richardson.”

“How are you?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“I heard that you accepted the position.”

“Yes, I did.”

The man nodded and folded his hands behind his back. “Mr. Thornton sent me. He requests your presence, if you would be so kind as to give him a minute of your time.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

Had she done something wrong? Jane sighed and fixed her gaze on Mark, who was just coming out of the tent, juggling a large plate of food in one hand and two bottles of soda in the other. When he got closer, she told him, “I'll have to go. The food will have to wait, at least for me.”

Mark's eyes went to Mr. Richardson. “I'll wait for you here.” He sat and put the items on the bench beside him.

“Okay.” Jane stood up and turned to Mr. Richardson. “Shall we?”

Mr. Richardson guided her among the tents and she found herself glancing around. She hadn't seen Ian since the men had dragged him away to play football, an hour ago. She hadn't expected him to act as their tour guide, assuming that he had other responsibilities, but after he had picked them up and driven them to his family estate, he led them around, introducing them to his acquaintances. When they sat down for a cup of coffee, at least thirty people, if not more, stopped by their table, giving him a squeeze of their hand, or a pat on his shoulder. She would have thought that he would accept this kind of attention with frown on his face and a grumble, but he greeted everybody with a smile and a kind word, even though in that half-hour, he had only managed to take two sips of his coffee. Yes, he was quite popular among Thornton's employees and, by the looks of things, he welcomed that popularity.

They arrived at the wide expanse of grass that divided the rows of tents from the two stone staircases that led up to the upper level in an upturned V. There were people gathered at the left side of the stone wall overlooking the football field, while the one on the right side with a view over the tennis court was empty. When they climbed up the stairs, Jane's step slowed and her gaze glided over the men running across the field. She found Ian standing before the goal. His white polo shirt was stained with grey and green spots, he had his jeans rolled up to his knees and he was barefoot.

As if he felt that she was watching him, he turned in the direction of the stairs. A smile that already played on his face widened. He lifted his hand and waved.

She waved back while a warm sensation spread through her body.
He noticed me.

A ball came out of nowhere and slammed into Ian's face. He stumbled backwards.

Shouts and laughter came from the crowd framing the field and lining up the stone fence.

Jane snickered under her hand -- she couldn't help herself -- and then hurried after Mr. Richardson, who was already at the top of the stairs. When she reached the landing, she glanced backwards to see Ian rubbing his face, while people circled him and somebody offered him something. Ice, probably.
Poor thing, that must have hurt bad
.

Mr. Richardson called her and she sped up to catch up with him. They reached the villa and passed two men in black suits, who stood at the foot of the stairs.

“Mr. Thornton's guest,” Mr. Richardson said to them before he guided her up the stairs and across the long veranda, past the large windows that offered a glimpse into an enormous living room and up to a second set of French doors. He opened the doors for her and then moved aside.

Jane stepped into a room that made her feel as if she had stepped into a scene from Mansfield Park. Golden ornaments adorned the polished mahogany and flowered embroidery decorated the fabric stretched over the padded surfaces of chairs and sofas.

The door behind her closed.

“Miss Bennet.” Mr. Thornton stood up from the yellow sofa. “Sit down, please.” He gestured toward the armchair on his left. The spot on the sofa beside him was occupied by an elegant-looking woman, whom Jane recognized as Mrs. Thornton. “My wife.”

Mrs. Thornton gave Jane a smile.

Jane plastered a pleasant smile on her face and sat down in the chair before she slightly shifted in it, so that she faced Mr. Thornton more fully.

“How are you enjoying the picnic, Miss Bennet?” Mrs. Thornton asked.

“It's very nice. Everyone is very kind and the food is delicious.”

“Yes, Beth's cooking is always well received.” Mrs. Thornton laced her fingers together. “You should try her pudding; that is, if we didn't run out of it already.”

“How do you find working for my son?” Mr. Thornton enquired.

“Okay, I guess.”

“Is he giving you any problems or making any unreasonable demands?”

“No.” Jane shook her head.

“He didn't try to get you to clean his apartment or wash his clothes?” Ian's mother leaned closer.

“No.” She hadn't even seen the inside of his apartment yet, if she ever would. “I feel like I'm more of a secretary than a personal assistant.”

“Did he replace Martha himself?” Mrs. Thornton asked her husband.

“He hasn’t mentioned anything to me.”

“I haven't hired anybody yet,” a voice said from behind them.

Everybody turned to see Ian at the open door. He still had his jeans rolled up and he was holding a cloth-wrapped ice pack against his face.

Mrs. Thornton sighed. “I'll arrange for Martha to send you one of the girls. Twice a week should be enough.”

“I'm quite capable of hiring somebody myself.” Ian walked into the room. He stopped beside Jane's armchair. “Or ask Jane to find me somebody.”

“Darling, what happened to your face?” Ian's mother asked, worry in her voice. “Let me see.”

He went to his mother and bent over her, removing the pack. “A ball hit me in the face.”

“It looks painful.” Mrs. Thornton's fingers brushed over the red spot on his forehead and cheek. “I'll ring for some ointment.”

“It's nothing.” Ian straightened and moved so that he faced all three.

“It’s not like you to be so clumsy.” Mr. Thornton lifted his eyebrows.

Ian rubbed his chin, while his blue eyes found Jane's. “I got distracted.”

Heat bloomed in Jane's cheek and she averted her gaze. He made it sound as if it were her fault.

“Why is Jane here?” He tossed the ice pack on the end table.

“I wanted to have a chat with her,” his father said.

“About what?”

From the corner of her eye Jane observed Ian, who glowered at the older man with narrowed eyes.

“Tomas showed me the reports she made for you,” Mr. Thornton said to his son before he turned to Jane. “I'm impressed. You said you're not good with numbers, but you are quite good at gathering data and making clear and transparent summaries from them. Even Ian commented on how competent you are and how much you're helping him.”

“He did?” Jane glanced at Ian. He never said anything to her; he rarely even thanked her.

“Yes, I did. Now, if that's all...” Ian walked to her chair, took hold of her arm and pulled her up. He turned on his heel and pulled her with him as he strode to the door.

“It was nice meeting you.” As she stumbled beside Ian, Jane glanced at Mrs. Thornton, giving the older pair a small nod.

“You too, Miss Bennet,” Mrs. Thornton said.

After the door closed after them, she wiggled out of Ian's grip. That man acted far too familiar with her and didn't acknowledge any boundaries, making it hard for her to maintain a professional distance between them. “Could you stop dragging me, please? It's quite rude, to me and to your parents.” He was acting as if he didn't approve of her being with his parents.

“But trying to interrogate you behind my back isn't?” Without a backward glance, Ian walked across the white and brown chessboard floor.

She hurried after him. “They probably only wanted to know how well I'm performing and how well we get along.”

He came to a halt, turned and blocked her way. “How do we get along?”

She frowned. Why was he asking her that? “Fine, I guess.”

He pressed his lips together, appearing displeased.

“Is there a problem?” She stared at his blue eyes. His irises were always so vivid, but now, highlighted with the redness from the blow, they looked even more intense as they gazed down at her. Her fingers itched to touch his face and to caress the light swell of his cheek. He had shaved today and without the stubble he looked younger, more vulnerable, not that that diminished his manliness. She lifted her hand and her fingertips lingered against his cheek. “Does it hurt?”

“No, not anymore.” He shifted closer to her.

Her fingers touched his warm skin.

He covered her hand with his.

She bit into her lower lip, trying to stop the sizzle that coursed like electricity through her body. What was happening to her? No, she knew what was happening to her.
He
was happening to her.

He dragged her hand to his mouth. He pressed a soft kiss on the tips of her fingers, while his eyes, blue as a summer sky, burned into her, making her feel as if they were devouring her.

Her breath hitched, then rushed out of her lungs in a puff as she stood frozen, unable to tear her eyes away from his. The hushed noises coming from the hallway beyond faded away and the carved frames of the art and fragile-looking cabinets lining the walls disappeared. It was just the two of them in the empty, silent space.

He leaned over her, narrowing her world to the width of his shoulders. He released her hand and his fingers touched the outline of her jaw. He bent lower.

She knew what he was about to do and she wanted it badly, so badly. She stared at his mouth getting closer and closer and, with bated breath and fluttering heart, waited for the contact of their lips. The desire for his kiss suffocated her and squeezed her chest painfully. Her hand touched his chest, feeling his hard muscles under her fingers.

Do you like what you are touching?
Ian's words flashed in her mind together with the image of the smirk he had worn on his face then, followed by an image of Amanda leaning on Ian. Just a day before he had been on a date with that stylist. He might have sent the blonde home when she started to openly nag about Jane and Mark's presence, but that hadn’t meant he wouldn’t end up in her bed down the road.

His breath brushed against her lips.

He was a player and a modern-day Casanova. This was not the kind of man she would like to lose her virginity to. Her hands fisted; she pressed them against her stomach and stepped backwards, tearing herself away from his warmth.

A scowl wrinkled his forehead. His hands fell to his side.

She glanced past him down the hallway. “Mark is waiting for me,” she said in a voice that cracked at the end. She cleared her throat and then with her eyes fixed on the ground, she passed him and almost ran toward the end of the hallway.

“He's in the kitchen,” Ian said.

Why did he sound so normal? It wasn't fair, not when her heart drummed inside her ribcage so loudly that it echoed in her ears. “Kitchen?” She came to a halt at the point where the hallway opened into a large hall with two crescent staircases.

“Right.” Ian sounded close.

She turned right.

He was a step behind her and then, in the next moment, he overtook her with his long stride.

She slowed down and for a long second she watched his back, absently noticing the grass stains on his shirt and jeans. Then she sighed and scrambled after him.

He guided her into another hallway, this one filled with people, which brought them to a big kitchen. A large kitchen island with a stove occupied one side of the room, a set of twelve bar stools around it, while a table that could easily seat thirty people stretched from wall to wall on the other side of the room. People dressed in white and black uniforms rushed across the space with purpose in their steps, and the room buzzed with life. The chairs, stools and the bench, which ran along the wall by the table were empty, except for the spots at the front of the table, near the door. A brunet in a black suit sat on the bench, a mug of coffee in one hand, while he had his other arm around a blond girl beside him. Mark sat on the chair across from them.

Jane recognized the girl. Mark had showed her a magazine with pictures of her, dressed in an elegant wedding gown. She was Isabella Thornton, Ian's sister.

“Hey.” Mark waved.

Ian's hand, heavy and warm, descended on Jane's shoulder. “Jane, the pair sitting over there are my sister, Izzy, and her husband, Andrew.”