Overseas (21 page)

He laughed grimly. “Believe me, I’m no lottery win.”

A smile crept onto my lips. I reached up and stroked the side of his cheek. “Believe me,” I said, “you are.”

His hand wandered up and covered mine; the other arm wrapped around my waist and eased me against him.

“So what next?” I whispered into his chest.

He moved up and down under my cheek in a deep sigh. “To be perfectly honest, I’ve got some work to finish up before tomorrow. I have to drive back into the city first thing. Just for the day. Consult with Geoff about a few matters, wrap up some loose ends here and there.”

“You’re
leaving
me here? By myself?” I drew back and looked at him, aghast.

“Just for the day,” he said. “I’ll leave at break of dawn and be back by dinnertime. There’s a Range Rover for you in the garage, probably more suitable for the country roads than that hired piece of rubbish. You won’t be stuck in the house.”

“Hmm,” I said.

“I can drop by your apartment, pick you up a few more things.”

“And I’m not allowed to go with you?”

“Wouldn’t you be happier here?” His tone turned persuasive, almost wheedling. “You’ve had a difficult time. You can relax. There’s some sort of spa, I think, across the river; you could go there, pamper yourself.”

“Do I have a choice?”

He bent his head to kiss me. “Of course you do.”

But I could tell from his voice that I didn’t, really.

“Y
OU PUT ME
in your
guest
room?” I demanded.

Julian sat up straight, disoriented, sleep clinging to his face in the dim glow from a nearby nightlight. “Kate?” he mumbled.

“Your
guest
room?”

“What
time
is it?”

“Two o’clock in the morning.”

“Christ, Kate.” He threw himself backward into the pillows. “What else was I supposed to do? Bring you in with me?”

“Well,
yes
.”

“Well, you were asleep,” he yawned. “I couldn’t exactly ask. I thought I was being a gentleman.”

“Do me a favor next time,” I said, hands on hips, “and don’t be a gentleman. Do you know how freaked out I was, a moment ago?”

“I left a note.”

“Well, it took me a little while to find it. Although I admit it was a very nice note,” I added contritely.

“Look,” he said, sounding grumpy, “come to bed, then. Only stop talking, for goodness’ sake.”

“So, a morning person.”

“Kate,” he said, from the depths of his pillow, “I held you for two hours on that damned library sofa. I held you until my arms cramped. I tried to wake you, and all I had for my trouble was a stream of
decidedly
unladylike language. So at last, giving up, I nobly tucked you into the spare bedroom and went to bed. I thought I was being kind.”

“My skirt’s all creased. It’s going to have to go to the dry cleaners.”

His arm lifted from the covers and pointed to a door in the corner. “Basket’s in the bathroom.”

I paused. “Can I borrow a T-shirt?” I hadn’t thought about pajamas when I packed. Oddly enough.

The pointing finger shifted. “Top drawer on the right.”

I went to the chest of drawers and pulled out a soft white undershirt, then stepped with as much dignity as I could summon to the bathroom, where I changed clothes and, after a second’s reflection, rubbed some toothpaste onto my teeth. His shirt smelled faintly of himself, of that clean soapy smell I loved already.

I took a deep breath and slipped out of the bathroom. In the subdued glow of the nightlight, the large room seemed modest: a plain original fireplace
settled into one wall, flanked by low well-stocked bookshelves, and a few pieces of simple dark furniture served the necessary functions. The bed was perhaps queen-size, four carved posts, clean white bedding. Unbearably inviting.

“Come to bed, Kate,” Julian murmured.

I set my knee cautiously on the mattress. He lifted the covers and patted with his hand.

If I couldn’t trust him, I couldn’t trust anyone, I decided.

I crawled in and felt his arms close around me. “There you are,” he said against my cheek, and I lay awake for some time, listening to his breathing settle back into a steady rhythm, feeling the heaviness of his arm across my waist, wondering if my heart would actually burst.

12.

I woke up to a flood of May sunshine tumbling through the window. For a moment I thought I was back in my bedroom in Wisconsin, where the window faced east and roused me at sunrise every morning. Then I saw the whiteness of the sheets and pillows, the dark antique furniture, the empty pillow next to mine.

I sat up. “Julian?” I called out.

No answer.

So I looked for the note. Julian would certainly have written me one before he left for New York.
Sweet dreams, beloved
had been the simple message, in spidery black italic handwriting, resting on the plump down pillow in the guest room last night. Surely a night spent in his arms, however virtuous, rated even better.

I checked all over the bed, finding nothing and getting unreasonably frantic, before I thought to look on the nightstand. There it lay, a folded ecru sheet. I snatched it and leaned back into the pillow; a set of car keys fell into my lap. The Range Rover.

He’d pay for that.

I jumped out of bed, charged with energy, and padded to the bathroom. It was simple and white and new, awash with morning light, with
a large deep tub against the wall and a separate shower cubicle. Julian had brought up my suitcase and laptop bag, both unopened; I took out my travel kit and brushed my teeth and took a long hot shower.

I hadn’t been thinking clearly when I packed yesterday. I frowned at the contents of my suitcase: three tank tops, one sweater, my favorite yoga pants, two pairs of underpants, and four pairs of socks. I’d either have to go shopping or have Julian bring something up from my apartment.

Shopping. Definitely.

I got dressed and went downstairs and made a bowl of cereal in the kitchen. He’d left another note on the marble countertop, with the password to his desktop computer and the house alarm code.
Missing you already,
he’d added at the end.

I took my cereal to the library and turned on the computer, chewing thoughtfully as it booted up. I was going to have to let my parents know what had happened before they called into work and started panicking. How to begin?
Dear Mom and Dad, I just got fired from Sterling Bates for insider trading. Have moved to Connecticut to live in sin with Julian Laurence. Have a great day! Love,
Kate.

They’d be delighted.

Eventually I managed to compose something that resembled the truth and moved on to a more straightforward activity: researching the shopping opportunities within a twenty-mile radius of Lyme.

But before I left, I reached for Julian’s phone and called his cell number.

He answered immediately. “Good morning, darling. Sleep well?”

“I just want you to know you’re going to pay, and pay dearly, for that snoring remark.”

“They were the most elegant little snores. Really quite charming.”

“Okay. Not helping.”

He laughed.

“So here’s what I’m going to do,” I went on. “I’m going to seduce you tonight.”

“
Are
you, now?”

“You don’t stand a chance, Laurence. Not a chance.”

“You think not?”

“Because I, for one, will shove a stake through my heart before I spend another night in your bed without making love to you. I realize you find me utterly resistible…”

“Just because I spent years in army discipline, darling, learning to endure unimaginable extremities of physical hardship…”

“… but even
you
won’t be able to withstand what I have in store tonight…”

“… doesn’t mean I’m not aching for you in the most acute way…”

“… because I am going to run my tongue over every inch of your body,
every delicious inch,
until you beg for mercy…”

I paused for effect, but he had nothing to say. Until, at last, a subdued “Go on.”

“No,” I said, “on second thought, I’m going to leave the rest to your imagination. So hurry home.” And I hung up.

T
HERE WAS REALLY NOTHING
like retail therapy for a girl with a train-wrecked career and a near-paralytic case of sexual frustration.

It occurred to me, as I swung the car into a parking space at a nearby upscale outlet mall, that someone who’d just lost her job really shouldn’t be out spending money like this, but I pushed it aside. I’d made decent coin for the last three years, had saved all my bonuses, and kept my expenses low. Why not tap a bit into my savings for a little well-deserved catharsis? The thought carried me into J. Crew and beyond on a wave of self-righteousness. I bought shorts and tank tops and sundresses and sandals, running clothes and a bikini and a collection of lacy underwear to make Julian’s eyes pop out.

It was only when I walked back through Julian’s front door, tapped in the alarm code, and stared at all the loot that my mood began to sag.

I left the bags in the hall and went into the library to sit in front of the
computer. The room faced north, probably to protect the books from the sun, and it was cool and dark and serene inside, with a large wood-stacked fireplace suggesting cozy winter evenings. Very much Julian’s room: I could almost feel him in it.

I clicked the computer into wakefulness. No reply yet from my parents—they checked their e-mail about once a day, if that—but there was a message from Brooke, of all people.
the doorman said some guy came looking for u today, he didn’t leave a name. b careful honey cause that could b trouble, take it from 1 who knows. xoxo
b.

I felt a chill at the back of my neck. Would Alicia stop at getting me fired, or would she take it to the SEC now? Oh my God. What if they arrested me? My fingers poised above the keyboard, ready to send Julian a frantic e-mail, but I checked myself. E-mail trails could be followed. What if they investigated Julian, too, knowing the connection between us?

I sat back in the chair and stared at the ceiling. Maybe Charlie had something for me. Where was his number? My laptop bag, right? I went upstairs to Julian’s bedroom and found the bag next to the chest of drawers. I opened the zipper. There was the Sterling Bates contact list, right at the top, and the Amazon book that had arrived before I left.

Only it wasn’t from Amazon, I noticed. Same kind of packaging, obviously a book, but no Amazon logo. The Pearl Fisher bookshop in Newport, Rhode Island, it said on the return label. Maybe the book had been listed by a dealer, not Amazon itself. Sometimes I hit the order button without reading too closely.

I shrugged and opened the packaging.

It must have been a mistake. I didn’t recognize the book at all. It was used, a bit dated-looking, but in good condition. A history book. I turned it over and read the title.

And the Lamps Went Out: Julian Ashford and the Lost Generation, 1895–1916
, by Richard G. Hollander. Below it, the sepia photograph of a broad-shouldered man in a British army officer’s uniform stared up sternly at me.

With Julian Laurence’s face.

His great-uncle, I thought immediately. Or a cousin. Family resemblances could be so strong. He’d probably sent it himself, too modest to tell me face-to-face about his famous relative, but wanting me to know the family history.

I opened the book with ice-cold fingers, trying to ignore the strange high-pitched ringing in my ears, and read the inside flap.

I closed the book and set it down carefully on the bed.

We lived primarily in London; my father was somewhat active in politics…

Then I joined the army. It seemed like the thing to do at the time. Adventure, excitement…

No, not Iraq. That was after my time…

The scar. The man on the sidewalk, calling frantically:
Ashford, by
God!

His body was never actually recovered…