Lucky Stars (36 page)

Olive’s eyebrows went up.
“Not exactly.
He told me to get you an assistant. He usually doesn’t follow up once he gives a directive. He just expects it to get done.
Which it always does.
Hence Dirk,” she finished, throwing a hand casually toward the stairs.

“I think,” Belle said in a voice filled with portent, “he’s expecting it to be a girl.”

“He said ‘get the best’. I got the best,” Olive declared. “The best just happens to be a man.”

“I’m not sure he’s going to like this,” Belle informed her.

“Why not?”
Olive asked.

“Because, well…” She paused, not certain how to point out the obvious because it should
be
obvious. She went with, “He’s a
man
.”

“So?”

“It’s not just any man, he looks like a superhero,” Belle shared. “Or, at least, he looks like he could play one on TV.”

Olive leaned back, crossed her arms on her ample chest and grinned. “I see. You think
Jack’ll
be jealous.”

“Um…” Belle began but her mind screamed,
yes!

“Let me tell you something, Belle Abbot. Jack Bennett doesn’t get jealous. A woman’s stupid enough to look another way, which, by the by, has never happened, as in
never
, he’d let her. He doesn’t have a lot of patience for idiots,” Olive informed her.

“I act like an idiot all the time,” Belle shared.

Olive’s grin turned into a smile. “Well, that may be so but you’re also darned pretty, you smell good and you have more dignity in your little finger than every woman Jack’s ever dated while I’ve been working for him all combined. So I’m guessing you get a free pass on being a pretty, dignified idiot who smells good.”

Belle stared at her, dumbstruck then asked on a whisper, “You think I have dignity?”

“I think anyone who can ignore those vultures outside for a year and who turns down offers to cash in on a tragedy has dignity. Yes. And lots of it,” Olive answered but wasn’t quite done. “You’ve got so much dignity I’m soaking some up just standing next to you.”

It was such an outrageous thing to say, Belle let out a surprised giggle.

“I’m thinking you have dignity too,” Belle told her.

“Yes, of course I do,” she replied breezily. “Though, I lose some of it when Jack calls me on a Sunday afternoon and tells me to find a shop assistant by the next day.”

Belle’s heart dropped. “I told him he should leave you alone on a Sunday.”

She leaned in conspiratorially. “My dear, what on earth would I do if Jack didn’t shake up my life every once in a while? I’d be bored silly. Anyway, as a reward, I got to sit next to Dirk in a limousine for the last five hours.” She leaned closer. “You should get a whiff. He smells good too.”

Belle couldn’t help it. She let out another giggle. This one was louder, longer and not self-conscious in the slightest.

After a few seconds, Belle realised that Olive had joined her in giggling.

* * * * *

“I like Olive,” Belle told Jack as they walked along the narrow cobbled street, Jack’s arm around Belle’s shoulders, only a few, straggling photographers keeping their distance and taking photos.

It was evening, the sun still in the sky, the heat staying on the day but a gentle breeze was blowing off the sea.

Olive had long since gone to the castle to settle in as she was staying for a few days as well as to find accommodation for Dirk as he was moving for the time being to St. Ives.

Belle had spent the afternoon attempting to stop Belinda from declaring her undying love for Dirk and explaining her minimal operation to him.

She found he knew his stuff, he had several suggestions, not just about how she ran her store but how she produced her line, all of them excellent and she’d told him to do whatever he wanted and keep the ideas coming.

Then she, Belinda, Carol and Nola spent a goodly amount of time explaining how fantastic St. Ives was, where to shop, where to eat and how to get along with the tourists.

Dirk didn’t seem at all fazed with his rapid change of scenery.

In fact Dirk was entirely laidback.

Except when an obvious journalist walked in, his beady eyes on Belle.

Dirk got in his way, looked down at him from his colossal height and demanded to know. “Are you buying something for your wife?”

With more audacity then sense, the reporter replied, “I’d like to talk to Belle a second.”

“Ms. Abbot is available only to customers,” Dirk returned.

“It’s just a few questions,” the man said.

“You’ve got two seconds to leave before you’re ejected,” Dirk retorted.

The man smiled. “You put your hands on me, I’ll –”

Then Dirk put his hands on him and deftly and efficiently ejected him from the shop.

“I’m calling the police!” the journalist shouted from the street.

“I’ll look forward to speaking with them,” Dirk replied calmly and then closed the door.

It was then Belle lost her battle to stop Belinda who, eyes on Dirk, breathed, “I think I love you.”

Dirk
grinned
a blinding grin. “That should make our working relationship interesting.”

Belinda fluttered her eyes and smiled.

Things returned to normal after that.

As normal as they could be with the media at the door and a movie-star gorgeous new shop assistant working with the boy-crazy one she already had.

On their walk, Jack squeezed her shoulder. “That’s good. Olive called me, she likes you too.” He paused then said, “She also told me about Dirk.”

Belle read between the lines, mainly because his voice was filled with humour, that Olive had told Jack about Belle’s reaction to Dirk.

She decided her best course was to ignore this and said, “He
ejected
a reporter today.”

Jack’s arm tensed spasmodically on her shoulders before he muttered, “I haven’t met him and I already like him.”

“Though, the bad news is, you’ve lost Belinda’s blind devotion. She’s now in love with Dirk.”

Jack looked down at her. “I didn’t know I had it.”

She stared up at him in astonishment.

Was he blind?

Then again, women probably fell in love with him when he walked down the street. Like at that very moment, women were probably looking out the windows of restaurants as Belle and Jack walked by, all of them falling madly in love with him.

“You had it,” she told him instead of sharing her thoughts.

“My heart bleeds,” he remarked dryly and pulled her closer, curling her so her torso was twisted to his even as she was walking forward. Her arm had to wrap around his stomach for balance and she had to tip her head way back to look up at him before he murmured, “Maybe you can fill the void.”

“I’ll try,” she breathed, he grinned and leaned down to touch his mouth to hers.

Then he straightened and uncurled his arm so she was walking plastered close to his side, not half plastered to his front.

He did all of his without breaking stride.

If she tried something like that she’d fall flat on her face.

He could, she thought, do anything.

Anything.

They walked silently the rest of the way to her cottage.

She shared her cottage with a neighbour. They owned the garden level. Belle owned the elevated ground floor.

Therefore they walked up a short flight steps to get to her
door,
each step held a pot of burgeoning flowers. Her cottage was painted white. The front door was a brilliant, Prussian blue. She opened the door and led them into the mud room, her many jackets hanging on hooks, ready for her walks.

She closed the door behind Jack but grabbed his hand when he ducked his head to avoid the low ceiling at the foot of the stairs in preparation for climbing them.

He turned to her in enquiry.

“I didn’t ask you here just to make you dinner,” she told him and she watched as his body braced. “I asked you here to show you something.”

He didn’t speak so she moved around him but kept her hand in his. He ducked again as she guided him up the stairs to the landing which led to her back hall as well as to her kitchen, her bath and her second bedroom. Then she took him up two more steps to the back hall and turned left into the living room.

She knew when he saw it because she felt his body jerk through his hand.

Then he stopped dead in front of her couch.

Belle stood beside him and looked at the massive canvas hanging over her couch.

It depicted a graceful, Savannah mansion (the “haunted” one where they’d once lived) with lushly blooming garden, an oak tree in front, moss hanging from its branches. Its colours were muted, beautiful blues and greys mostly, and lightning split the sky behind the watery portrayal of the house.

“The Storm Series,” Belle whispered and felt his hand squeeze hers before, slowly, his head turned and tilted down to look at her.

She caught her breath at the raw look in his eyes, a look she couldn’t read but it felt as velvet as the air from that morning.

“I have most of them here at the cottage,” she went on nervously when he didn’t say a word. “I thought you’d appreciate seeing them.” He still didn’t speak and she began to feel funny. “You can, um…” She hesitated then surged on, “Take your time. Wander the house. I’ll start dinner.”

Then she dropped his hand and escaped to the kitchen.

Carol had told her the menu.
Fillet steaks that Belle was to grill then sprinkle with Stilton to melt onto the meat.
Baby new potatoes, carrots and fresh petit
pois
for the boil.
Fresh baked rolls from the bakery down the street to complete the main meal. Pudding was a
tarte
tatin
, also from the bakery down the street, for Belle to heat and serve with famous Cornish clotted cream.

Belle would have preferred to make everything herself, including the rolls and the
tarte
, but she didn’t have time. Instead, she did the limited prep work, put the water on to boil, the oven on to heat the grill and was setting the table when Jack arrived in the kitchen.

She looked up from the table, still placing a knife in its spot.

“Did you see them all?” she asked and his eyes moved around the walls in the kitchen. “I don’t keep any in here. Too much moisture,” Belle informed him.

“Of course,” he muttered.

“Did you see them?” she asked, straightening.

His eyes came to her. “I saw them.”

“Aren’t they beautiful?” Belle queried softly.

He watched her a moment then he replied, “I was wrong yesterday. Your grandmother doesn’t love you.” Belle felt her brows draw together in confusion before he went on, “Those pictures, pictures she painted for you,
there
aren’t words to describe that kind of love.”

Belle stared at his beautiful face as her mind finally caught on.

She knew.

She
knew
.

She knew anyone who would understand the hidden meaning behind her grandmother’s paintings was someone who would never hurt her.

Someone she could trust.

Someone who would keep her safe.

And she also knew what she had to do.

That didn’t mean she wasn’t terrified out of her skull.

But that didn’t stop her from walking to the oven, turning off the stove, flipping off the grill and then walking to Jack.

She again took his hand and guided him down the two steps to the landing then up the two steps to the hall.

“Belle,” he said behind her but she turned right to her bedroom.

She dropped his hand just inside the door but walked in further and turned.

Looking in his eyes, she flipped off her shoes and crossed her trembling hands in front of her, grabbing her dress.

“Belle,” he said her name again. It was deeper this time, husky and rough but she didn’t see him because she was pulling her dress up over her head and then off.

She’d barely got her arms free, she definitely didn’t get a chance to focus on him but he was right there, she felt his hands at her bottom and she was going up.

She dropped her dress, wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his hips and she was turned, moved and then falling backward to the bed.

It started wild and out-of-control and neither Belle nor Jack did anything to stop it.

He had her out of her underwear and him out of his clothes before she could whisper, “oh” (which she did).

Then she pushed him to his back, her mouth on him, lips brushing, tongue tasting, her body igniting as she worked her way down his broad chest, over his planes and angles of his belly and lower, her hand moving to wrap around his hardness, her thumb lightly rolling over the tip.

That was all she got.