Lost in Love (10 page)

“How do you mean?” he asked as he draped his napkin on his lap.

“You haven’t been in London very long, and they already know your name.”

“It’s all them,” he said modestly. “They’re excellent at what they do.”

No, it was him, too. He was intimidating when he needed to be, but he inspired as well. Quinn made you want to be the most you could be, to please him.

“When was the last time you were truly happy?” he asked out of the blue.

When was it? Looking back, she wasn’t sure she was ever truly happy even before she found out she had cancer. She pressed her arm down against her side, conscious of the scar.

“Stop analyzing and just enjoy, Meredith.”

“Strange advice coming from you,” she said. “You always analyze.”

“But there comes a point when the analysis is done and you have to act.”

She swallowed and then answered honestly. “I’m not sure I’m at that point yet.”

“Which is why tonight’s item was the necklace and not an orgasm. But enough of that.” He smiled at her like a patient wolf. “Tell me about your day, dear.”

He said it with humor, but he listened to her every word. The rest of their conversation for the night was light and entertaining. Nothing too personal, nothing invasive.

Dinner was astonishing. They didn’t order, leaving it to the chef to surprise them. One taste of the first course, an onion sorbet with Parmesan sauce, had her as giddy as the necklace.

On their way back to the hotel, she realized she was grinning like a fool—until the elevator doors closed and she was in the small space with Quinn in all his masculine glory.

What would happen next? Another item on her list?
The
item? He’d said no at dinner. Did she want it?

He pushed the number for her floor—of course he knew where her room was. They arrived there too quickly for her to figure out her game plan. Holding her breath, she let him guide her to her door.

Was he going to invite himself in?

She pulled her card key out of the little clutch she’d been given at Harrods and faced him. “Quinn—”

He lifted her face and reached around her neck.

Her heart thundered and her eyelids lowered in anticipation, waiting for his mouth to descend on hers. Waiting for him to take her.

The necklace loosened around her neck.

Her hand lifted automatically to stop it from falling but then she realized he’d unclasped it. He held it in his hand, looking at her.

She tried to smile. “I guess it’s pumpkin time.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“But it’s probably best that it is.” She unlocked her door with the card key and stepped inside. “I’ll see you tomorrow in real life?”

He nodded, hands in his pockets.

She nodded, too. She started to close the door, but then she paused. “Quinn?”

“Yes?”

“Today was—” She looked for the right word that’d encompass everything she felt, but nothing seemed adequate. So she settled for, “Magical.”

He smiled. Running a finger down the side of her face, he turned.

She watched him go to the elevator. She wanted to run after him and tell him she was wrong—that she wanted to be a princess a little while longer if it meant he’d come to her room. She took a step toward him, wanting to stop him before the elevator whisked him to his own room. Her heart pounded in her throat, and she opened her mouth to tell Quinn to come back.

But the elevator doors closed, and she went into her room, trying to hold on to the magic of the evening, alone.

Chapter Twelve

“Darling, you have to help me.” Imogen swept into Portia’s room and stopped. She stood perfectly framed in the doorway, her famous lips pursed at the clothes piled on the bed. “If you’re cleaning out your closets, can I have that old fur stole that belonged to Grandmother Eugenia?”

“I’m not cleaning out my closets.” Portia frowned at the overnight case and tangled heap of clothing on the comforter. “I’m packing.”

“It looks like you’re going on a five-month-long trek,” her sister said, coming to stand next to her. “Where are you going?”

“It’s only for two days. I just don’t know what to take.”

“Obviously.” Gigi surveyed the mess and then walked up to it and extracted a silk negligee, dangling it from the tip of one finger. “You didn’t say where you were going?”

“A business trip.”

Imogen tipped her head and looked at her curiously. “Since when do you have business?”

“Since I took a job.” She took the nightgown from her sister and set it aside. It might actually come in handy, if she was lucky. “Didn’t you come in here to ask for help with something?”

“Yes, but this is so much more interesting.” Her sister pushed the clothes aside and draped herself along the foot of the bed. “I’ve never known you not to be able to figure out what to wear. You’re the first to dress the part.”

Yes, but she didn’t know what her part was here. Was he really only interested in her expertise at Suncrest, or was he using that as an excuse for ulterior motives? He’d hinted as much, and a man didn’t take a woman away for Valentine’s Day without motives—sexual ones. “I’m going to Suncrest Park with the man who bought it. He’s converting it into a luxury resort, and I’m curating the Summerhill antiques for him.”

Gigi blinked the big blue eyes the world adored. “That’s fabulous. Does that mean you don’t need the tiara any longer?”

“I’m doing this to earn the tiara. It’s the terms of my employment. I help him, he gives me the tiara.”

Her sister’s smile became cunning. “What other terms has he set on you, darling?”

Feeling the heat creep into her cheeks, she turned around and began pulling more things out of her dresser. “None.”

“Then why are you taking this on your ‘business’ trip?” Gigi plucked a garter from the overnight case.

Portia grabbed it, too. “I always wear them.”

“Interesting.” Her sister studied her. “So who’s this man you’re working for?”

“Jackson Waite.” She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

Gigi shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance. “Just curious. What’s he like?”

“Like a man,” Portia replied carefully.

“Really, darling? That’s the best you can do?” She arched her perfect brow. “If you aren’t careful I’m going to think you have something going on with him.”

“I—” She sighed. “He kissed me.”

“Did you like it?”

Trust Imogen to get to the sexy point of it. “There aren’t words to describe it. I never knew fireworks actually happened.”

Gigi’s gaze softened. “That good?”

“Even better.” Portia sat on the edge of her bed. “You know the men I’ve always dated?”

“Stuffy and uptight, like Father,” Gigi said without hesitation.

“Jackson is
nothing
like Father.”

Her sister sat up, blinking in what seemed like shock. “You like him.”

“I don’t know him.” She worried her necklace, thinking about the way he looked at her, like he wanted to eat her in one sitting. She thought about the bright look of intelligence in his eyes that contrasted with the worn jeans he always wore. She smiled, seeing his impossible cowboy hat.

“You
do
like him,” Gigi declared. She took Portia’s hand. “Men are opportunistic. Promise me you won’t go so starry-eyed that he takes advantage of you.”

“In case you forgot, I’m older than you, Gigi.” She frowned, looking at her younger sister closely for the first time. “Has something happened?”

“Don’t be silly.” Gigi smiled blithely, but there was a tinge of something desperate at its edges.

“You’re a good actress, Imogen, but no one is that good.”

“Don’t worry. There’s nothing I can’t handle. This is about you and what you should take to wear for your beau.” She shimmied off the bed and went directly to the dresser. Opening a drawer, she rummaged through it until she found what she was looking for. She sauntered back to the bed and handed her a frothy white teddy. Smiling in all her siren glory, she said, “Take this with you. You won’t need anything else.”

Portia looked at the barely-there lace. “I might get cold if that’s all I take.”

“That’s what
he’s
for, darling.” Her sister’s smile grew wicked and knowing. “To keep you warm.”

Portia gripped the handle on the car door and calmly said, “Jackson, there’s a car coming toward us.”

“Right.” He corrected the car, flashing a grin at her. “Thanks.”

She clung discreetly and cleared her throat. “I’d have thought you’d have a driver, especially since we drive on the correct side of the road in England.”

“That’s Quinn. He says he gets more work done in the car than in his office. I can’t stand being carted around by someone else. And even though y’all drive on the wrong side, it’s no problem getting the hang of it.” He gave her a wolfish grin. Then Sinatra came on and he began to sing along. “
Someday, when I’m awfully low, when the world is cold …
”

She gaped at him. “Your voice is lovely,” she exclaimed, hating to interrupt him but unable to help herself. “I can’t sing to save my life.”

“I doubt that, duchess.” He glanced at her. “Give it a try.”

She shrugged. He wanted proof of her off-key warbling—the damage to his eardrums was on his head. “
There’s nothing for me but to lov—
”

“You’re right.” He patted her leg and then left his hand there. “Leave the singing to me.”

Grinning, happy, she settled back into the seat, not caring that her life was in peril with his driving—not when he was touching her.

“Change the music, will you, duchess?” He nodded at his mobile, plugged into the console.

“I’d never have guessed you’d be a fan of old standards.” She rummaged through his media collection. “First Cole Porter, then Sinatra.”

“I’ve got layers, sugar.” He glanced at her. “What do you listen to?”

“Silence, but I grew up with five sisters.” Her smiled faded as she thought about Imogen. Something was wrong in Gigi’s world, but she’d refused to tell her what.

“You went quiet,” Jackson said, glancing at her. “Blown away by my music collection?”

“Indeed,” she said mockingly.

“Put on The Boss.”

“What boss?”

He braked suddenly in the middle of the road and stared at her. “You don’t know who The Boss is?”

Cars honked and careened around them. She clutched the phone, looking behind them. “What are you
doing
? We’re going to get killed here.”

“Bruce Springsteen?” he repeated, gaping at her. “Born in the USA? Dancing in the Dark?”

“If I say I’m a great fan, will you drive?”

“Oh my God, what rock have you been living under?” He muttered under his breath as he put the car in motion again. “I don’t even know who you are.”

“Of course you don’t. We only just met.”

He glanced at her. “What other hideous secrets are you hiding?”

“I’m not a man, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Duchess, I had no doubt about that.” He set her hand on his leg, holding it the rest of the way to Suncrest Park as he explained who this boss was and how he changed American music.

Chapter Thirteen

Portia stood in the middle of her old room, not recognizing it at all. The broken window sash was gone, and the walls were no longer covered by peeling wallpaper. There was a lovely king-size bed, built high with steps to get up to it.

Unable to help herself, she climbed up the little steps and toppled backwards on the plush comforter. Sinking into a cloud of down, she sighed and stared at the ceiling. She used to know every crack and stain up there, but now it was as foreign as everywhere else.

Suncrest had changed. It’d gotten a facelift and was no longer recognizable as the place where she’d spent every spare moment.

It made her sad even as she appreciated the change. It was lovely to see the place she loved look cared for and less haggard. She just wished she’d been able to say goodbye to the old Suncrest Park first.

“Here you are.”

She lifted her head to find Jackson in the doorway, leaning against the frame, his cowboy hat tipped back. Her sadness began to fade in the pleasure he sparked. She propped herself up on her elbows. “I’m not supposed to be in here, am I?”

He sauntered in, long-legged and easy, hands in his jean pockets. “There wasn’t yellow police tape across the door, was there?”

“No.” She shook her head, her heart beginning to beat hard as he approached her.

“Good, because then I’d have to arrest you.” Grinning crookedly at her, he crawled up the bed.

Was he going to lay down on her? Kiss her? Do more? She held on to her necklace and swallowed her anticipation. “Do you have handcuffs?”

His grin spread wickedly across his face. “I knew you were kinky the first time I saw you, duchess.”

She shook her head. “I’m a good girl.”

“Good girls don’t wear hooker underwear.”

“I don’t know why you insist I have hooker underwear,” she said, frowning. “My lingerie is quite fine.”

“Yes, it is, sugar.” He sat up and knelt by her knees, sliding his hands up the sides of her calves. “Tell me these are those
fine
thigh-high nylons.”

“I always wear stockings.”

“That’s one of the things I like about you,” he said in a low voice, his gaze fixed on her legs.

She gasped as his hands traveled up to her knees and under her skirt. “I never thought I’d lie in my room with a man feeling me up.”

“This was your old room?” Jackson lifted his head and looked around.

“It’s nothing like it was when we lived here, but I used to love it.” She smiled, remembering locking herself in here, away from her sisters and their incessant bickering. All she’d wanted to do was read the diaries from her ancestors.

Jackson laid beside her, one arm propping his head up and the other slung across her waist. “Is it difficult being here?”

The concern in his voice surprised her. He understood. She touched his face. “I’m here to help you. It shouldn’t matter how I feel.”

“But it does.”

Warmth bloomed in her chest, seeping through her body until she felt full with the sensation. She had the urge to blurt words that she’d never said out loud to anyone—not even to her parents.