Summer at Seaside Cove (41 page)

But he hadn't. There were parts of his soul, or at least his past, he hadn't revealed. And he needed to fix that. Before things went any further.

After making use of the bathroom and brushing his teeth, he slipped on a clean pair of boxer briefs, then made his way to the kitchen. Godiva greeted him with tail-wagging joy, and after giving her a good rubdown, he opened the door and she scrambled down the stairs and headed for her favorite patch of grass. He put on a pot of coffee, and as the kitchen filled with the scent of fresh-brewed java, he changed Godiva's water bowl and opened a can of her favorite dog food. When she gave a quiet woof at the screen, he let her in and couldn't help but grin when she practically inhaled her breakfast.

“You don't see Cupcake doing that,” came Jamie's amused voice from behind him.

He turned and his heart kicked at the sight of her. With her tousled hair, eyes still a bit droopy with sleep, and wearing one of his white T-shirts, she looked sexy as hell.

He leaned his hips against the counter and folded his arms across his chest. “Cupcake doesn't eat?”

“Oh, she eats. But daintily. Not like a vacuum cleaner.”

He pushed off from the counter and walked toward her. “Sometimes you're just so hungry for something, crave it so much”—he snagged her hand and yanked her against him—“you can't help but devour it.” He buried his face in the warm curve where her neck and shoulder met and pressed his open mouth to her soft skin. Never had any woman ever smelled as good as she did.

“Hmmm . . .” she murmured, tilting her head to give him better access. “I can't deny you proved last night—several times in fact—that being devoured is a
reeeeeeally
good thing.” She ran her hands down his back and slipped her fingers beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs to skim over his butt. “Definitely wouldn't mind being shown again.”

And God knows he wanted to. But in the light of a new day, his conscience wouldn't allow him to be sidetracked—not until he'd told her the truth.

“Definitely looking forward to that,” he said against her neck. Then he forced himself to raise his head. “But first, we need to talk.”

Her exploring fingers stilled on his butt and wariness crept into her gaze. “Uh-oh. That doesn't sound good.”

Since he was pretty sure she wasn't going to like what he said, he couldn't argue with that. Instead he gently eased her hands from inside his briefs, entwined their fingers, and led her to a stool at the snack bar. “Why don't you sit and I'll pour us some coffee.”

“Oh,” she said in a tiny voice. “So, um, it's not only that we need to talk, but I need to be sitting down
and
fortified with a caffeinated beverage?”

He laughed, but the effort sounded forced. He quickly poured the coffees, then carried them to the snack bar. After setting them on the counter, he sat on the stool next to her, swiveled until he faced her, then loosely linked their hands.

“There's something I need to tell you,” he said, his gaze steady on hers. “I should have told you already but—”

“Oh, God.” Her face went pale. “You're married.”

“No. I'm—”

“Out on parole.”

“No.”

“You really are a hit man.”

He gently squeezed her hands. “No. And if you'd stop with the crazy guesses, I'll tell you.” After she pressed her lips together and nodded, he continued, “Remember I told you about my family's business?”

“The bed-and-breakfast.”

“Right. Well, I sort of underplayed that. A lot.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“It's not exactly a bed-and-breakfast. It's more like an exclusive luxury boutique hotel. And there's not just one. There're actually two hundred and eighty-four of them. Spanning sixty-two countries. And it's growing every year. You've probably heard of them—Luxe hotels.”

Her eyes widened. “
The
Luxe hotels?”

“Yes.”

“Where all the celebrities and uber-wealthy stay.”

“Yes.”

“You're telling me that your family owns Luxe hotels.”

“Every one of them. Right down to the Egyptian cotton towels in the bathrooms.” Since it seemed he'd robbed her of speech, he rushed on, “Everything else I told you was true—about not wanting to be part of the business, of wanting a simpler, quiet life, being away from the rat race, building something with my own two hands. Of walking away from an existence I found empty.”

He looked down at their joined hands for several seconds, then returned his gaze to hers. “You're the first woman I've ever been with who didn't know me as Nicolas Trent the third. Who didn't know who my father and grandfather were. Who didn't know my net worth. Who didn't expect expensive gifts and lavish vacations. Who didn't want anything from me. This is the first time I didn't have to ask myself, ‘Is she interested in me—or in my money?' And most refreshing of all, you're also the first woman who didn't kiss my ass.”

She cleared her throat. “Actually, I believe I
did
do that. Last night.”

A surprised laugh escaped him. He hadn't expected humor during his confession. “So you did. But you know what I meant.”

“I do.” Her gaze searched his. “You walked away from a great deal. That must have been very difficult.”

“In truth, it really wasn't. Because I wasn't happy. Whoever said money can't buy happiness knew what they were talking about. I had a big house, but lived in it alone. I had a lot of stuff, but that's all it was. Just . . . stuff. None of it really mattered. Except for Kevin—who lived hundreds of miles away—I didn't have any close friends. Sure, there were tons of acquaintances and hangers-on and ass kissers, but not true, got-your-back-no-matter-what friends. I hated working in an office, sitting behind a desk. I felt like my entire life was a lie. My brother loves it, thrives on it, the wheeling-dealing, the constant travel, the nightly parties, but I grew to hate it. To me it was all just superficial bullshit.

“Things came to a head when I asked a woman I didn't really love and who didn't love me to marry me. And I foolishly would have gone through with it if she hadn't found someone richer and, as she put it, ‘more ambitious' than me. After we split, I reevaluated my life, decided what I wanted, and it wasn't the life I was living. What I wanted was here. Doing what I'm doing now. The sort of life Kevin has. Has always had. I bought Paradise Lost and Southern Comfort, sold my big fancy house and cars, my various real estate holdings, donated a lot of stuff, packed up what was left, and came here.”

“And no one here knows all this.”

“No one. Except Kevin. And now you.”

“And you didn't tell me before now because . . . ?”

He again looked down at their joined hands. And really liked the way her fingers looked linked with his. When he raised his gaze, he said, “I just wasn't ready to share my past. I didn't want to risk that maybe you'd look at me differently. But I really decided to keep my mouth shut when you told me about Raymond and said you'd never want to be with another guy from that world. And that's where I'm from.” He brushed his thumbs over the satiny backs of her hands. “And I wanted you to be with me. Just me—Nick. Not Nicolas Trent the third.”

She frowned and nodded slowly, clearly digesting everything he'd said. “Now the Princeton education makes sense,” she murmured. “And the high school where you met Kevin—since he was from out of state I assume that was a boarding school?”

“Yes.”

“Of the fancy, ritzy sort?”

“The fanciest and ritziest, I'm afraid.”

“But you said Kevin's family wasn't wealthy. So how did he get in?”

“Scholarship.” A grin tugged at his lips. “We were roommates freshman year. I'll never forget entering our room for the first time. He glared at me and said, ‘I'm not one of you rich boys. I'm here on scholarship. You plan to give me any shit about that, asshole?' ” Nick chuckled. “I was fourteen and no one had ever spoken to me like that. Certainly no one had ever called me an asshole, although I'd done plenty to deserve it.”

“Like what?”

He shrugged. “I was your typical spoiled brat. I was also a late bloomer—really small and scrawny back then. Kevin was about eight inches taller and outweighed me by a good ninety pounds. No way in hell was I going mess with him—he could have kicked my ass into oblivion. During that first week of school, we pretty much stayed out of each others' way. Then one of the bigger kids cornered me in the locker room. Said some shit, pushed me around. Kevin came in. Threw one punch at the guy. That's all it took. Then he looked at me and said, ‘You okay, roomie?' I wasn't—I'd just about crapped my pants, but I said, yeah, and thanks. He told me I needed to learn a few things about real life—starting with defending myself against bullies—and since we were roommates, he'd give me a few pointers. We've been best friends ever since.”

“Sounds like me and Kate—without the punching and the ass kicking, of course.”

He nodded. “When I met your sister last night and she thought I looked familiar—Jamie, it's definitely possible she and I attended the same event at some point. I don't recall ever meeting her, but our paths may have crossed. When she said that, I knew I needed to tell you. I'd intended to last night, but when I walked in the door you—”

“Ripped your clothes off, had my wicked way with you, and, um, kissed your ass?”

He gave a short laugh. “Yeah. Not that I'm complaining. But one thing led to another—five times, if I recall correctly—and then we basically passed out from exhaustion. And now here we are.”

“Here we are,” she repeated softly. “Me and Nicolas Trent the third.” She narrowed her eyes. “You can't be
too
destitute—you bought two houses here. And you ordered that All-Clad cookware without batting an eye, plus all that furniture for Paradise Lost.”

“I never said I was poor.” And he wasn't. He just was no longer defined by his possessions and his bank balance. His gaze searched hers. “So now you know.”

She nodded slowly. “Now I know. Thank you for telling me.”

“You're welcome. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner.”

“I'm sorry you were the proverbial poor little rich boy. Having it all yet—”

“Having nothing,” he finished for her. “Or at least not the things that were important to me.”

“That doesn't sound like fun.”

“It wasn't.” Since her expression wasn't giving any clue to her thoughts, he asked, “Are you upset?”

“About what? Your upper-crust upbringing in general or the fact that you didn't tell me until now?”

“Either. Both.” His gaze searched hers. “Am I forgiven? Are we okay?”

She didn't answer for several long seconds and he realized he was holding his breath. Finally she said, “I told you I never wanted another guy who led that lifestyle, and that still stands. But you're not that guy.” She squeezed his hands and smiled. “So yeah, I forgive you.”

The amount of relief that raced through him was nothing short of ridiculous.

“And yes, we're okay,” she continued. “I mean, I don't see any reason why the revelation that you grew up mega-rich should cause the premature demise of our fling.”

Her words were exactly what he'd wanted to hear—yet somehow hearing her call what they'd shared a
fling
didn't sit well. Which was completely crazy, because that's what it was.

So he forced himself to smile. “Glad we agree. After all, there're still almost three weeks until . . .”

“We're flung?” she suggested.

“Right. Flung.” The word weighed like a stone on his tongue.

She slid off her stool, stepped between his knees, and wound her arms around his neck. “Actually, I find it very difficult to imagine you as a rich boy. You're so . . . down-to-earth.”

He slipped his hands beneath the T-shirt of his she wore and cupped her bare bottom. “I think that's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me.”

“Really?” Deviltry danced in her eyes. “Bet I could say something you'd think was even nicer.” She leaned in, brushed her lips against his ear, then whispered a suggestion that made steam pump from his pores.

“Nicer?” she asked, trailing her mouth along his jaw.

“Oh, yeah.” He pulled her closer and was about to settle his mouth on hers when he heard someone climbing the steps.

They groaned in unison. “Damn. That's no doubt someone from Paradise Lost,” Jamie said, her gaze flying to the screen door. She grabbed his hand. “C'mon!”

Together they dashed into the bedroom—not an easy run with a raging hard-on—and closed the door. Seconds later a knock sounded and they heard Godiva barrel to the door, barking for all she was worth.

“Aunt Jamie?” came Heather's voice. “Are you there?”

Nick reluctantly eased Jamie away from him and headed toward the bathroom. “Good luck.”

“Where are you going?” Jamie asked, following him.

He shot a pointed look at the erection tenting his boxer briefs. “To take a cold shower. I'm not suitable to receive guests.”

She wrapped her fingers around him and he sucked in a sharp breath. “Neither am I. I'm not even wearing panties.”

“Don't remind me or you'll never make it to the door.”

“Who wants to go to the door?”

“Aunt Jamie?” came Heather's voice, more insistent this time. “Where are you?”