Lost in Love (15 page)

“Yes.”

“Are you alone?”

She glanced at her assistant Edie, who was just outside the office. “Not really.”

“Are you wearing underwear?”

Remembering last night, she crossed her legs and pressed her thighs together. “You suggested that I don’t.”

“Good girl,” his voice purred. “You’re wet for me.”

She glanced at her open door. Then she lowered her voice. “You know I am.”

“I enjoyed our conversation last night.”

She wouldn’t have thought her face could get any hotter, but she was wrong. “I did, too. I dreamed of you.”

“What did you dream?”

Her assistant walked in.

“Um”—Meredith tried to think of what to say—”nude may be the way to go.”

“Did someone just walk in?” Quinn asked astutely.

“Yes.” She watched Edie absently look at the files she held. “A bear-skin rug might also be nice.”

“I would love to spread you out on a bear-skin rug,” he said with fervor that made her pulse jump.

“I was thinking just the opposite.”

“We’ll take turns,” he promised. “Do you know what I want to ask you?”

Right now, she’d give him anything he wanted. “What?”

“To touch yourself.”

Her gaze flew to Edie, who was arranging folders on the desk. “That’s not possible.”

“And it’s too soon. But one day,” he said in his confident way. “I miss you.”

Her heart melted. “I do, too.”

“I want to see you when I return.”

“That would be nice.” She smiled at Edie, watching her walk out as absently as she came in.

“Have dinner with me the night I return.”

“Yes,” she replied without hesitation. “Please.”

“Good. I’ll have food brought to my suite. Meredith?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t wear underwear then either,” he requested, and then he hung up.

She didn’t realize she was still holding the phone against her ear until the tone blared insistently.

He’d invited her to his suite.

She was going to his suite.

Sans underwear.

She froze, her hand under her arm, on her scar. If they were naked, he’d see it and ask questions, and she wasn’t sure she was ready to answer them. That wasn’t something she wanted to bring up. She didn’t want anything to mar the possibility of what could happen.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement in the doorway. She’d expected it to be her assistant returning, but the silhouette was bulkier.

Hiram Waite knocked on the doorframe, a wide smile on his face. “You too busy to chat with an old man?”

“Never.” Meredith stood, genuinely pleased to see Jackson’s father. His parents had always been so sweet to her, even after she’d broken off their engagement. She’d also especially loved Hiram because he was Jackson in twenty-five years.

Frankly, she was also relieved to have a reprieve from thinking about Quinn. She rounded her desk and held out her hands to him. “You don’t look like you’re on your deathbed.”

Hiram frowned, his fierce, white eyebrows drawing close. “Is that the rumor my boy’s been spreading? Come here and give an old man a hug.”

She smiled wide as he engulfed her in his arms. Closing her eyes, she reveled in the embrace. She’d missed this. Sometimes, when she thought back to the three years she’d been with Jackson, she wondered if she hadn’t stuck with him for so long because she loved his parents.

“Now let’s look at you.” Hiram held her at arm’s length. “London’s agreeing with you.”

She blushed. London, or Quinn?

Do not think about Quinn now, she told herself—not with Hiram standing right in front of her. Ignoring her burning face, she waved to the guest chair in front of her desk. “Sit, please. I’d heard through the grapevine that you and Laura had arrived. I didn’t know you’d planned a trip.”

“We hadn’t. I needed to check on the properties.” He pushed the chair out of his way and paced in front of her desk, hands behind his back. “Brief me on the interior design.”

She smiled. Her entire career working for Waite Hotel Group, Hiram had nosed his way into everyone’s business, even though he’d been retired. She didn’t mind it—the people who did never lasted long at the company. Hiram was tough, but he was generous with his praise, too.

She gave him a brief rundown, knowing which high points to hit, especially noting how much they were saving by having Portia help them recycle the antiques that had been salvaged from the country manor.

“Who’s this Portia?” Hiram asked after she finished her mini report.

She paused. “Jackson hasn’t mentioned Portia Summerhill to you?”

“Summerhill.” Sitting on the corner of her desk, Hiram tapped a finger to his chin. “She’s related to Reginald Summerhill?”

“If that’s the man who sold you Suncrest Park, yes. She’s his daughter.” Maybe Jackson hadn’t told his parents he was seeing Portia?

Maybe? What was she thinking? Of course he hadn’t. Sometimes Jackson was annoyingly private, especially when it came to discussing things with his parents. It’d taken him six months of dating before he’d introduced her to them, and she always wondered if it wasn’t to distract his father from becoming too active in the company again.

In any case,
she
wasn’t going to be the one to spill those beans. She cleared her throat and carefully said, “Finding Portia was a boon. She’s amazing. She knows the history to every stick of furniture that was in that manor. She’s like a prettier, more socially adept Rain Man.”

Hiram frowned. “Why didn’t Jackson mention her?”

“Jackson doesn’t concern himself too closely with details like that. That’s what I’m here for.” She smiled, hoping that sounded convincing.

“Humph,” was all Hiram said. He studied her with his hawk-like gaze, intent, as though he were trying to pick apart her thoughts. Then he stood abruptly. “I hope you’ll have dinner with Laura and me, even though our boy is an idiot for letting you get away.”

“Don’t blame Jackson. I’m the one who left him.” She smiled fondly at the man. “We really wouldn’t have suited each other.”

He didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t argue the way she’d expected. He leaned forward to kiss her cheek and then strode out of her office.

The moment he left, it was like a vortex had sucked all the energy out of the room. She slumped at her desk, relieved.

Jackson poked his head in. “Is the coast clear?”

“You haven’t told your dad about Portia,” she accused.

He got the mulish look that signaled they were about to embark on a topic he wasn’t prepared to budge on. “My private affairs are my own. Not my parents’ and not yours.”

“Really, Jackson?” She glared back at him, crossing her arms. It was bad enough that he put her in this position, but she felt bad mostly for Portia, who had no idea she was about to get blindsided by Hiram Waite, when he found out she existed. “After everything, that’s what you’re going to say to me?”

“Since when do you bite back?” He frowned at her, stepping into her office. “As far as Hiram’s concerned, as long as the property is launched, everything’s good.”

“Your dad loves you and wants you to be happy.”

“I know,” Jackson muttered, pulling his hat lower over his eyes.

“I know you feel trapped here—”

“I don’t feel trapped,” he protested.

She rolled her eyes. “Give me more credit than that, Jackson. I’m not an idiot.”

He flashed her his patented charming, old-boy smile. “Some would say you’re pretty smart, especially since you cut bait and ran from me.”

“This has nothing to do with me. Just the fact that you’re hiding behind that ridiculous hat is enough to support my stance.” Shaking her head, she stood and picked up her purse. “Close the door on your way out.”

“Where are you going?”

As she breezed out of the office, she said, “My private affairs are my own, Jackson, not yours.”

Chapter Twenty

Martin walked into the area where Portia was patiently weeding through paintings. “How goes it?”

“Excellent.” Portia wiped her hands on a rag. “Look what I unearthed.”

He followed her to the spot where she had propped the painting she’d uncovered.

He gasped, kneeling down to look at the canvas. “The Stone Rose,” he said reverently, his gaze locked on the glowing necklace around the young woman in the picture.

“According to family lore, Jocelyn’s father didn’t realize that the necklace wasn’t part of the Summerhill collection until a catty guest brought it to his attention.” Portia smiled at the painting. “There was a bit of commotion in the household when he found out.”

“An act of rebellion.”

“She remained rebellious, too.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Do you want to know a not-so-well-kept family secret?”

Martin’s eyes widened behind his thick glasses. “Yes, please.”

“Jocelyn published gothic novels under a different name. There’s an old copy of an original manuscript that Oxford has on loan. I read it a long time ago.”

“Is it entertaining?”

“Only if you know about her history with the Black Pirate.” Portia brushed a bit of dust from the frame. “I love that she wore both the Summerhill tiara and the Stone Rose in her portrait. Less is not always more in my family.”

“Fascinating.” Martin stood up slowly, making sure his knees were steady under him. “All of you Summerhill women are fascinating. Determined and accomplished, I’d say.”

She nodded. “It stems from the first Countess of Amberlin. My sisters are certainly cut from the same cloth.”

“And you, my dear.” He waved his hand. “I don’t know anyone who could have conquered this warehouse the way you did.”

She looked around them, and a feeling of pride filled her chest. She’d set out to find the tiara and she’d made it happen. Maybe she wasn’t such an outsider after all.

“I’m very impressed,” Martin continued. “What’s your background?”

“I have no background.” She shrugged. “But I hope to change that. I’ve never had a job before this. My father always believed it was important to know the family history, so that’s what I did.”

“You certainly have a talent for it. Have you ever considered working in this field?”

“The Museum of British Peerage has an opening I’m interested in. As soon as I finish this job, I think I’ll be working for them.”

“You’d be well suited to it.” Martin tapped a finger to his chin. “Wexler is a self-righteous prick, but their collection is outstanding. Let me know if you need a reference.”

“You’d do that for me?” she asked, touched.

“You have a gift for this. It’d be a shame if you didn’t use it.” He pouted. “I’m sorry that bastard Wexler got to you before I did.”

On impulse, she leaned down and kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”

He blinked owlishly behind his large circular glasses. “Whatever for?”

“For believing in me.”

Clearing his throat, he patted her shoulder awkwardly. “You make that easy, dear. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

She nodded. She was about to go anyway. She was supposed to meet Jackson at his office—they’d talked about having curry and chips delivered to his suite. She hoped dessert would be included, something long and sweet and Southern.

Tidying her work, she put on her coat and secured the warehouse. A taxi ride through traffic and she arrived at the Gherkin.

She stopped at the receptionist and gave her name. She was given her badge almost instantly. She absently played with her pearls in the elevator, thinking how everything had changed in the course of weeks. She had a job (almost) and she was respected (by those who counted) and she was loved (sexually, but she had high hopes for more).

She was so happy.

Walking down the corridor, she smiled when she saw the white briefs on the door. She knew they didn’t belong to Jackson—he didn’t wear anything under his jeans. She liked that. She liked slipping her hands in his pants and finding him. Or Big Jack, as he called his penis.

Grinning, she shook her head. She adored that man.

The door was cracked open, but one never walked in unannounced. She started to knock on it when she heard a deep Texan drawl that didn’t belong to Jackson.

Unable to help herself, she peeked in. Jackson sat with his boots on his desk, of course, arms crossed. He didn’t look amused—in fact, he looked fairly annoyed.

So did the older man who paced in front of him. If she had any doubts about his anger, they faded when he spoke. She was going to discreetly back away and wait until Jackson was free when she heard the older man say, “Who is she to you, and what does she have to do with Suncrest?”

Jackson pulled his hat low over his forehead. “Don’t get your panties in a wad, old man. She’s working with Meredith to spank your baby on the bottom and send it into the world.”

They were talking about her. She pressed closer, trying to stay out of sight. It compromised her view, but she didn’t care as long as she could hear what they said.

“What are her qualifications?” the older gentleman barked.

“Her name is Portia Summerhill. I’d think it’d be obvious.”

The man snorted. “Nothing is obvious with you.”

Who was the man, and why were they discussing her? Jackson was the CEO—could this man have been on the board of directors or something? Having never worked, she didn’t really know how companies were structured.

“Look, Dad,” she heard Jackson say.

His father
. She blinked, wanting to look at the man again, now that she knew he and Jackson were related. Though she should have known—they had similar builds and blunt ways of expressing themselves.

“She’s doing a good job,” Jackson continued. “She’s helping Meredith and her contribution is making Suncrest more than just a spa. It’s going to be of historical interest as well.”

“What’s she costing us?”

“Nothing really.” There was a pause. “I agreed to return one of her family heirlooms in return for her service.”

“What heirloom?” Jackson’s father asked.

“A tiara.”

“Is it expensive? Do you have it? Let me see it.”

“Dad—”

“Just show it to me, boy.” There was some shuffling and a long moment of silence before the older Mr. Waite exclaimed, “Are you crazy, boy? Even I can see that thing is worth a fortune!”