Her Man Friday (17 page)

But his eyes were what jolted Caroline the most. Because a dark and angry storm roared rampant within them, one she suspected had been raging unchecked for a very long time.

The shelves behind her bit into her back, and instinctively, she arched forward to alleviate the discomfort. Instinctively, too, she opened her palms over his shoulders, as if that meager show of objection might honestly stop him from doing whatever he intended to do. His breathing was ragged and uncontrolled, pushing and shoving his chest against her breasts, and every time their bodies made contact, she felt the rapid-fire beating of his heart that mirrored her own exactly.

His heat, his energy, his very soul, seemed to surround her, enveloping her, drawing her closer to him, even though the two of them were already as close as they could physically be. Somehow, she felt as if he were reeling her inside him, absorbing her, joining her to him, and it was with no small effort that she struggled to keep herself independent of his command.

Curling her fingers tightly into his shoulders, she made a halfhearted effort to repel him. But he only seemed to come closer when she did, and to her utter mortification, she realized she was pulling him toward herself instead of pushing him away. But as she felt herself weakening, about to surrender, he abruptly let her go. Not that he moved his body away from hers—on the contrary, physically, he seemed to be closer than ever. But a door slammed shut somewhere deep inside him, and in every other way that counted, he released her, as if he'd encountered something in her essence that simply did not mix well with his own.

Still leaning his body provocatively into hers, he parted his lips in what promised to be a bitter retort. But for a long time, he said nothing. He only held her there, pressed to the bookcase, not quite against her will, and searched her face for the answer to some very important question that she couldn't recall him having asked her.

Finally, in a voice that was soft, serious, seductive, he said, "I've been called many things in my life, Mrs. Beecham. But 'stupid,' I'm afraid, is not one of them."

She felt the hand above her head drop down to her hair, felt his fingertips skim softly over the tresses until he wound a dark auburn curl around his index finger. Only then did Caroline realize that, at some point during their—she wasn't sure what to call whatever was happening between them—their… encounter, the wide clip that had secured her. French twist in place had slipped. Now bits of hair tumbled down around her shoulders, and Schuyler Kimball had decided, as he undoubtedly had for so many other things in his life, to claim some of them for his own.

His touch sent a sizzle of heat spiraling across her scalp and down her neck, and she shut her eyes tight in an effort to dispel the sensation. She swallowed hard in an effort to alleviate the dryness that had overtaken her mouth, but all that did was magnify the rapid rhythm of the pulse pounding against her throat. So she opened her eyes again, hoping that staring her nemesis in the face might offer her some measure of strength, however meager. But Schuyler Kimball, too, seemed to notice the irregularity of her heart rate, as his attention was fixed intently on the slender column of her throat.

"Although," he went on in a voice that was longing, leisurely, lascivious. He sighed, still gazing at her neck the way an amorous vampire might. "I don't know what else to call the impulses traveling through my brain at the moment, but
stupid
. You seem to have me at something of a disadvantage, Mrs. Beecham. Congratulations. I don't think anyone's ever managed that before."

She
had
him
at a disadvantage? Caroline wondered wildly. Hey, he wasn't the one pinned to a bookcase under pounds and pounds of pure, pulsing male. She opened her mouth to say something that might defuse what was fast turning into an explosive situation. But he removed his other hand from the bookcase and skimmed his fingertips lightly along her throat, an action that dispelled any hope she might have of ever speaking again. Deftly, he dipped his fingers into the delicate hollow at the base of her neck, then ventured out to trail the backs of his knuckles slowly along her collarbone and back again.

And when he did, she couldn't stop the not-quite-silent murmur of pleasure that whispered out between her lips.

At that soft, sensual sound, he halted his caress, lifting his gaze to her face. And that was when Caroline forgot all about Chloe Sandusky's well-being. She had no choice but to forget about the girl, even if only temporarily. Because she knew that if she didn't start thinking about her own well-being instead, she would be lost in a far worse way than Chloe would be.

With one final squeeze of her fingers into his shoulders, and without a word of explanation, Caroline pushed Schuyler Kimball away. She didn't know where she found the strength or fortitude to manage such a thing, but she wasted no time as he stumbled backward in his surprise. Not caring how ridiculous, how desperate, how terrified she must look as she fled, Caroline hastened to the door and escaped the library as if flames were licking at her heels.

She would never be able to recall quite how she found her way through the vast, infinite house to the front door. Miss Rigby had deposited her coat and purse on a bench in the massive foyer, and Caroline snatched up both in one hand as she passed them. But it wasn't until she had cleared the half-mile-long drive to the estate that she dared to inhale a lengthy, calming breath. And when she did, her nose and lungs were filled with the scent of Schuyler Kimball. The scent he had transferred to her in his nearness, the scent that clung to her still.

And all she could do was think that now, he was inside her, too.

In the library, Schuyler braced both hands against the bookcase before him, tried to steady his own breathing, and wondered what the hell had just happened. One minute, Caroline Beecham—
Mrs
. Caroline Beecham, he reminded himself brutally—had been accusing him of being a stupid bastard, and the next, he had been looking to make her pay for it.

Why? He had no idea. He couldn't imagine a reason to make her pay for such a thing. It wasn't as if he disagreed with her on that score, after all.

His thoughts were thankfully interrupted when his darling Lily entered the library. He sensed more than saw or heard her arrival, and when he glanced up to greet her, he saw that she was in warrior mode. The expression she wore was dark and unforgiving, and her black wool suit was almost austere. And it would have been, too, on another woman—a woman who
wasn't
soft and sensuous and splendid. Lily, however, made the ensemble look sleek and elegant, even when she stood as she did now, making no effort to disguise her utter disregard for him.

"She's a nice woman, Schuyler," she said resolutely, not bothering to identify Mrs. Beecham with anything other than a pronoun. "And she cares about Chloe. Which is more than I can say for some people. You leave the woman alone. Or you'll answer to me."

Without awaiting a response to her threat—after all, they both knew exactly what she was talking about—Lily turned and strode out of the library. Schuyler watched her go with a half-smile playing about his lips, daring himself to defy her. Because, hey, there were infinitely worse things in life than being answerable to Lily Rigby.

And Caroline Beecham, he thought further—Mrs. Caroline Beecham—was proving to be far more interesting than he had planned.

So darling Lily was just going to have to deal with that. Some things in life were worth risking one's friends for.

Holding fast to the memory of Mrs. Caroline Beecham's near capitulation, Schuyler went back to his books.

Having cautioned Schuyler the best way she knew how to leave Caroline Beecham alone—well, the best way she knew how that
didn't
involve the use of a Louisville Slugger—Lily decided that she needed, and deserved, a day off. It was Saturday, after all, and she was tired of working on Saturdays. Besides, October was fast drawing to a close, and she'd scarcely had a chance to leave the estate to enjoy her favorite season. Soon the trees would be stripped bare of their bright fall foliage, and winter's chill would be nipping at her nose. And once hibernation and the holidays set in at Ashling, there would be little chance for her to venture out.

Air. She needed air. She needed to fill her nose and lungs with the pungent scent of autumn, needed to feel the kiss of the brisk wind on her face, needed to remind herself that there was more to a day's passing than the little dramas that took place inside Ashling.

What Lily needed was a life. Unfortunately, on days like this, when she felt as if she were tending to other people more than she tended to herself, life seemed to be racing past her without stopping to even explain its rush. How had she arrived where she was, having planned none of it? she wondered, not for the first time.

Not that she was unhappy—not really—but she wasn't entirely happy, either. She felt as if she'd spent the bulk of her adult life making plans for the future, thinking that after this happened, or that happened, or something else happened,
then
she could get on with the business of living. But always, something else seemed to intrude first, hindering her progress, keeping her from enjoying the plans she made. It had never once occurred to her to enjoy the here and now.

Now
, however,
here
, it was beginning to occur to her. She only hoped that
now
, it wasn't too late.

For some reason, such a realization made her think again about Caroline Beecham. And as Lily started for her bedroom to change her clothes, she couldn't quite rid herself of the notion that Schuyler hadn't fully appreciated the vehemence with which she had offered her warning some moments ago. Mrs. Beecham
was
a nice woman. That was the first reason Schuyler should leave her alone. And Mrs. Beecham
did
care about Chloe. That was the second reason Schuyler should leave her alone.

But the third, and perhaps most important, reason was that Lily suspected there was something going on with the woman right now that made her far too fragile to handle someone like Schuyler. Lily had no idea what that something might be, but Mrs. Beecham was clearly going through a rough time of it. She looked more tired than Lily had ever seen anyone looking in her life. She seemed defeated. She seemed hopeless. She seemed lonely.

She was easy pickings for someone like Schuyler. And Schuyler, damn him, had been in a surly mood ever since his return from Bermuda, and had clearly been spoiling for a fight. It would be just like him to take advantage of the weakness and fragility of a woman who, at another time, under other circumstances, would probably be a worthy adversary for him. As much as Lily cared for him, there was no getting around the fact that there were times when Schuyler could be a complete… a complete…

She sighed fitfully as she searched for the right word. A complete butthead. There, that would do nicely.

Goodness, she thought as her low heels pounded the black and white checkerboard of Italian marble that made up the endless length of Ashling's gallery. She was in something of a surly mood herself today, wasn't she? Normally, she didn't mind being Schuyler's keeper. Or Chloe's keeper. Or Janey's keeper. Or Miranda's keeper. Or even Mrs. Puddleduck's keeper. It was part of her job, after all. And she'd been doing it long enough now that it was almost second nature to her. Today, however, she wished the various and assorted Kimballs would just grow up and learn to take care of themselves.