Lost in Love (8 page)

“I’d prefer whiskey,” Portia declared as she stood and put on her coat.

Jack knew he had to be gawking at her, but he couldn’t help it. “You drink whiskey?”

“Don’t you?” She batted her eyes at him, taunting.

He leaned against a piece of furniture that was covered with a large sheet, enjoying himself. “Don’t poke the tiger, sugar.”

“I didn’t realize tigers wore cowboy hats.” She wrapped a scarf around her neck and tipped her head, like a queen being patient with a lowly vassal. “Are you coming? I know just the place.”

He let her lead the way because he liked to watch her walk—so much that he’d have followed her across London.

But they took the subway—or the “tube” as Portia corrected him. A few blocks blindly staring at her excellent legs and she said, “We’re here.”

He looked at the cute white house with black trim and the hanging flowerpots. “You Brits do bars weird.”

Portia’s adorable nose wrinkled. “This is a lovely establishment.”

“Exactly.” He opened the door for her. “After you, duchess.”

“I’m not a duchess,” she murmured as she strutted past him.

He inhaled her, wanting to growl, and followed her in.

“This is a surprise, Portia,” the redheaded woman behind the bar called out. Her eyes fell on him, and a mischievous smile crossed her lips. “And
hello
, cowboy.”

Portia rolled her eyes as she stripped off her layers and perched primly on a barstool. “Don’t encourage him, Niamh. He already has an inflated sense of self.”

“If I looked that good in jeans, I would, too.” She winked at him and then faced Portia. “The usual?”

“Two.”

He watched the bartender pour two hefty glasses of Jameson as he took the seat next to Portia’s. “I never would have guessed that you drink whiskey.”

Her lips pursed. “What would you have guessed?”

“Something pink and sweet.” Because he wanted the same, he pressed a lingering kiss on her mouth.

She stilled, her eyes wide on his, but then she melted into him, her hand on his chest. “Lovely,” she murmured against his lips.

Better than just lovely. He ran his fingers down her arm and took her hand. “So how have your first few days on the job been?”

“Exciting.” She lit up. “Satisfying. I’m grateful that you’re giving me this chance.”

“You aren’t sad to be around the things you used to own?” he asked, watching her closely.

“Well, they were never my things, were they?” She toyed with her beads. “They belonged to my father. He’d only ever promised me Suncrest Park, and just to allow me to live there.”

Jack frowned. “But he sold it.”

“Yes.” She gave him a sad smile and a shrug.

He’d never met the bastard—Hiram had been the one to buy the property—but Jack wished the man were still alive so he could punch his face. He soothed her knuckles with his thumb, more for his sake than anything. “Aren’t you angry about that at all?”

“I’m disappointed. All I ever wanted was to live at Suncrest.” She gazed at him incredulously. “You’re upset though. Why is that? You don’t know me.”

“I’d like to.” He lifted the whiskey. “To getting to know you.”

She tipped her head as she clinked his glass with hers. “Do I get to know you also?”

He grinned. “Ask me anything.”

“Are your boots comfortable?”

Frowning, he looked down at his shoes. “Damn comfortable. Do they bug you that much?”

She blinked, her eyes wide and earnest. “Not at all. I love them. Frankly, I’m jealous that I don’t have a pair.”

He pictured her wearing a pair of cowboy boots and her fancy underwear, all in red. He liked the picture way too much for being in public. “What size shoe do you wear?”

“Thirty-eight. Why?” Portia asked, her brow furrowed.

“Just in case.” Tomorrow he was having his assistant Delia look for a pair.

She sipped her drink, eyeing him blatantly. “You’re quite odd, aren’t you?”

“My dad dropped me on my head when I was a baby.”

“I’m not sure my father ever held me as an infant.” She shook her head. “He didn’t single me out. I don’t remember him ever holding or playing with any of us. He was distant and exacting.”

“How many of you are there?”

“Six. Seven, actually,” she amended quickly. “We only just discovered Summer though.”

“Was she kidnapped by gypsies?”

Portia laughed, a musical sound that was as beautiful to hear as it was to see. “Summer was my father’s illegitimate daughter, by his mistress.”

He shook his head. “Duchess, your life is a soap opera.”

“It’s been rather dull until lately,” she said modestly. “Do you have siblings?”

“No, which is why I’m here.” At her confused look, he sighed and pushed up his hat. “My dad needed to back off work for health reasons, so I had to take over the company.”

“I gather you don’t love it.”

“You gather correctly, duchess.”

She tipped her head and looked at him with her angelic eyes. “If you could be anything, what would it be?”

“Free,” he said without thought. “I’d go on my own and research new industries and products for my partners to invest in.” Deciding to take a risk, he added, “I’m planning on resigning as soon as this new European luxury line is launched.”

Understanding dawned on her face. “So you have as big a stake in the completion of the warehouse project as I do.”

“Yes.”

She nodded, her gaze steady. “Then you needn’t worry.”

He believed her. His gut told him she wouldn’t ever willingly let anyone down. He relaxed, tossing back the rest of his whiskey. He leaned in to speak softly in her ear. “Work has been a mite more difficult than usual, and it’s your fault, duchess.”

She put a hand to her chest. “What did I do?”

“You’ve bewitched me.” He put his hand on her leg, right at the edge of the hem of her skirt. “I can’t concentrate on work, because I only think about kissing you. I go damn crazy wondering what sort of hooker underwear you’ve got on under your prissy, little suits.”

“I don’t wear hooker underwear,” she protested breathily as she shifted toward him. Her voice should have been crisp and cool, but it oozed sex.

He let his palm slide under her skirt, just enough until he reached the edge of the stockings he knew she’d have on. His fingers grazed her soft flesh, and it was all he could do not to kneel in front of her and sink his teeth into her. “It’s made for seduction.”

“I like wearing them. I feel pretty.”

He inched his way up along the elastic of her garter strap until he felt the lacy edge of panties. “Showing them to a man doesn’t factor in your desire to wear them?”

“There’s only you,” she said softly, closing her eyes.

“I like that.” He tucked his hand between her legs, resting it there where he could feel her moist heat. “Does that mean I’ll get to see, duchess?”

She sat forward, so his hand pressed more against her. “Exactly.”

He wanted that. He wanted
her
. So badly that his head was clouded and hazy, and he knew it wasn’t the whiskey.

But he couldn’t take her to his suite—Quinn had access to him there. And Portia deserved more than a quick lay in a sterile executive’s hotel room. She deserved frilly lace and fluffy pillows, rose petals and champagne. “Do you like champagne?” he asked, eyeing her whiskey.

“I adore champagne.”

Somehow that was a relief. Impulsively he said, “Come away with me.”

She blinked at him. “Where to?”

“Suncrest Park,” he replied. A stroke of genius, because he needed to visit the property to check on its progress. “I need to visit Suncrest, and you’re the best tour guide I could ask for. You’d be happy seeing it, right?”

“I would,” she said softly.

“Then come with me.”

“When?”

Right now, as far as he was concerned. “Next week.”

Her luscious lips pursed. “Isn’t Valentine’s Day next week? Would that be wise?”

Wise—probably not. With any other woman, he’d have backed away from the devil’s holiday in a heartbeat. But he wanted to romance Portia. “It’d be perfect,” he said, touching her face.

She studied him for so long he was afraid she’d say no. But then she nodded curtly. “I’d love to.”

He exhaled, feeling a surprising amount of relief.

Chapter Ten

Too much whiskey with Jackson the night before made Portia’s head muzzy in the morning. But she was meeting Meredith and didn’t want to be late, so she took a long, hot shower and made her way to the kitchen. A quick cup of strong coffee and she’d feel human again.

Although the buzz of being with Jackson diminished much of her hangover. They’d chatted until Niamh had finally forced them to leave so she could lock up the bar.

It’d been one of the best nights of her life.

They’d talked and flirted, punctuated by steamy kisses that were topped by the steamiest kiss of her life after he walked her home.

She’d agreed to go away with him for Valentine’s Day.

She paused as she fastened her pearls around her neck. It was work related, she forced herself to remember.

Coffee. She put on her shoes and went downstairs.

As she approached the kitchen, she could hear Franny and Jacqueline talking, but when she entered the kitchen they stopped abruptly.

She frowned at them. Did they seem guilty? Franny, their housekeeper, was at the counter, her hands in a bowl and flour dusting her forearms. Jacqueline sat at the table, pen in hand with what looked like a journal in front of her.

Her mother closed the leather-bound book and set the pen down. “Good morning, Portia.”

“Good morning,” she murmured, studying the two ladies. Lately it seemed like her mother and Franny always had their heads put together, like they were keeping secrets. Portia had lived here with the two of them all her life, and she hadn’t seen them act like this ever before. They’d always had more of a employer/employee relationship, as far as Portia could tell. Lately they were closer—more chummy.

She stopped as she reached for a coffee cup and turned to stare at them. They couldn’t possibly be having a
relationship
, could they?

No
. She’d have noticed before, wouldn’t she?

Then her mother’s naked ring finger caught her eye. She stopped short. When had her mother stopped wearing her wedding ring?

Of course she’d taken her wedding ring off. Reginald Summerhill had died a couple months ago. Worse: he’d died with the mistress he’d kept for thirty years. Jacqueline had every right to take her ring off. She had a right to move on.

But who was she moving with? Portia looked back and forth between her mother and Franny.

No.

“You look peaked,” Franny said, narrowing her eyes. She took her hands out of the bowl and washed them. “You aren’t coming down with something, are you? Maybe I should fix my special brew for you.”

“No.” Portia shuddered and poured herself some coffee before Franny could act. “I’m just not quite awake.”

“You came home late last night,” her mother remarked.

“I went to the pub for drinks.”

“With your sisters?”

She hummed noncommittally, hiding behind her cup. She wasn’t ready to divulge her relationship with Jackson. It was too new and too precious—she wanted to keep it to herself just a little while longer.

“It wasn’t even Tuesday night,” her mother said.

She lowered her cup. “You know about Tuesday night drinks?”

Jacqueline arched her brow. “I’m not completely blind, Portia.”

Franny snorted.

“For instance, I’ve noticed you’ve been scarce of late,” her mother said, studying her more intently than Portia would have liked. “Where have you been going? You haven’t started work at the museum, have you?”

“No.” But she was working on it.

“You haven’t had a falling-out with Summer, have you?”

“Of course not.” Summer was the easiest one of the lot to get along with.

Wiping her hands on a towel, Franny said, “And it’s awfully early for you to be up.”

Portia frowned. “Is this an inquisition?”

“If it were an inquisition, I don’t think you’d be so comfortable,” her mother replied in a dry voice. “We’re only inquiring as to how you’re spending your time, because you’ve been gone during the day. I told Franny I think you’ve started to work.”

She heard the pride behind her mother’s words and felt a peculiar tightness in her chest. She cradled the warm cup to her chest. “I have.”

Franny clapped her hands together and then rushed to give her a squeeze. “Oh, lamb, that’s wonderful.”

“It’s not what you think,” she said quickly before they could get too excited.

Jacqueline and Franny exchanged a look. “What is it then?” her mother asked.

“I’m doing some preliminary work at Parliament Auction House in preparation.”

Her mother’s face brightened. “I know Martin Grey. Lovely man. What sort of work are you doing for him?”

“I’m organizing the lot of valuables from Suncrest Park.” Before they could ask, she added, “It’s a temporary, one-off assignment.”

The silence in the kitchen was deafening. Then her mother said, “What happened to the position at the Museum of British Peerage?”

She stiffened. “I’m still working on it. It’s contingent on how well I do at the auction house.”

“I see.”

Only Jacqueline didn’t sound like she understood and, frankly, Portia wasn’t in the mood to stay to help her. “I need to go.”

“Enjoy your day, Portia,” her mother murmured.

She felt their eyes on her all the way out of the kitchen. In the hallway, she heard their hushed voices again. She paused to listen to what they were saying, hiding far enough down the hall so they wouldn’t catch her eavesdropping.

“What are you doing?” Imogen asked as she swept down hall in a long scarlet peignoir. Her hair was tousled like she’d just woken up, though her eyes looked shadowed rather than rested.

“Nothing.”

Her sister arched her brow, and for the first time Portia realized just how much Gigi looked like their mother. “Do you think Mother and Franny are having an affair?” Portia asked.