Five Days in Skye: A Novel (18 page)

“Your chocolate awaits, my lady.” He set the cup in front of her and watched as she took her first sip.

Her eyes widened. “This is sinful. You’re right. We say
hot chocolate
in America, but it’s really just cocoa. It’s not the same thing at all.”

James slid onto the stool next to her. “Haven’t I earned some sort of appreciation for my culinary prowess?”

She sipped from her mug, repressing her smile. “You’re incorrigible.”

“No. Just completely infatuated.” He took the cup from her hand, set it on the counter, and kissed her lightly, tasting the chocolate on her lips. “On second thought, let’s order takeaway so we have more time to do this.”

She laughed and pulled away from him. “No way. You promised me omelets. Besides, what happened to self-control and all that?”

“Overrated.” He moved in for another kiss, but she slipped off the stool and out of his reach.

“Come on. Dinner first. There will be plenty time for the rest later.”

“Do you promise?”

She gave him a mysterious look over her shoulder and his last defense against her crumbled.

He was in such trouble.

Chapter Twenty-Four

In James’s presence, Andrea felt like a fifteen-year-old girl with her first crush, giddy with anticipation. She might be setting herself up for a fall, but it was hard to care, especially after the look he had given her a minute ago.

She rummaged in the cabinet for a mixing bowl while James brought out not only eggs, but half the garden: tomatoes, onions, garlic, asparagus, and mushrooms. He dove back into the refrigerator for a block of Irish cheddar wrapped in wax paper.

“Okay, first lesson. Cracking the eggs.” James took one out of the carton with a flourish, rapped it sharply on the edge of the bowl, and deposited the egg into it with a swift one-handed movement. “Your turn.”

Andrea looked at him doubtfully, but she cracked her egg and dumped it into the bowl—along with half of the mangled shell.

“Maybe I should do the cracking.”

She shot him a mock-scowl. “Are you saying I can’t even crack an egg?”

“Well, the evidence doesn’t lie.”

“It’s an egg.”

He peered into the bowl. “Andrea, omelets are not supposed to be crunchy.”

She laughed and gave him a bump with her hip. “Fine. You do the eggs. I’ll wash my hands.” She moved to the sink and scrubbed the raw white from her hands. Eyes narrowing, she thought better of the towel and flicked water across the kitchen. Droplets spattered James’s face and shirt. She laughed.

“Very mature, Ms. Sullivan.” He wiped his face with his forearm and pretended to frown at her. “Get over here, or you’ll be relegated to eating carryout for the rest of your life.”

She pretended to grumble on the way back to the island, but the warmth in his gaze as she approached made her heart do a giddy little skip. “What now?”

“Well, now we beat them like so”—he demonstrated—“with a little water instead of milk to make them fluffy. And then we chop the veggies. What do you like in yours?”

“Onions, tomatoes, and mushrooms.”

“Start with the onion then.” He crooked a finger at her. “Come here.”

Her eyebrows lifted, but she sidled around the island. He smoothly slipped behind her, penning her between the counter and his body.

“How exactly does this make supper?”

“Wheesht, woman. Patience. First, the proper way to hold a knife.” He waited until she picked up the chef’s knife and adjusted her fingers on the handle, thumb and forefinger gripping the back end of the blade below the tang. He closed his hand over hers and placed an onion in front of her. “Now we slice off the root and stem end …”

His breath tickled her ear, distracting her from her task. If she just turned her head a bit, her lips—

“Concentrate, you little minx,” he murmured huskily. “I’ve not got a mind to make a trip to the hospital tonight.”

“Fine.” She heaved a dramatic sigh as he guided her through the process of dicing an onion, his hands covering hers. “I would have learned to cook a long time ago if I had known it was a contact sport.”

His laughter rumbled through his chest. “I only give special students this treatment.”

“I would hope so.” She stopped. “Wait. Who exactly have you been heating it up with in the kitchen?”

“Jealous?”

“No. Just … curious.”

“Sure you are.” He nudged her to get her attention back to the second half of the onion. “Only Cassie. And she wasn’t all that interested in learning something so—”

“Practical?” Andrea hardly imagined Cassandra Sinclair doing anything as mundane as cooking. Not that she much wanted to imagine her doing anything with James.

“Domestic.”

She felt the sudden tension in his body and stilled her knife hand as he pressed his face to her hair. She didn’t dare to breathe.

“I didn’t really leave her, you know. She left me.”

“For the other guy?” Andrea murmured.

“When I found out about the affair, I told her she had to choose between him or me. She chose him.” He squeezed her hand and then resumed chopping. “I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised. It was Phil Kane.”

Andrea blinked, stunned, while she scrambled for something to say. Philip Kane was perhaps the only star bigger than Cassandra Sinclair. He’d have to be in order for Andrea to know who he was. “Would you really have stayed with her?”

He inhaled deeply. “Had she been sorry … yes. I would have forgiven her.”

Andrea blinked, stunned. She wouldn’t have been so forgiving in that situation. She hadn’t been that forgiving, as a matter of fact. “I don’t understand that choice.”

He shrugged. “I loved her. At least, I thought I did.”

She set down the knife and turned to face him. “No, I meant her choosing him over you. It’s a big step down, if you ask me. Phil Kane seems like an arrogant jerk.”

He stayed silent for so long she wondered if she should have been less free with her thoughts. Then he slid one arm around her waist and pulled her gently to him, covering her mouth with his. She melted into him like the chocolate into the milk, surrendering completely to the kiss.

Cassandra Sinclair was a complete idiot.

The omelets were delicious, but only because James took over early in the process. Andrea proved to be as hopeless at flipping an omelet as she was at cracking an egg.

“Can I just forget the whole omelet thing and turn them into scrambled eggs instead? That I might be able to manage.”

James smiled at her across the table. “Or you can stick with me, and then you won’t have to cook at all.”

Andrea took a drink of water to wash down the egg stuck in her suddenly dry throat. He sounded like he was teasing, but something serious had crept into his expression since he talked about Cassie, and the look in his eyes made it hard to breathe. She shifted her gaze back to her food and said nothing.

James took the hint and changed the subject. “So, it’s still early. What do you want to do tonight?”

“I don’t know. I don’t really feel like being in a crowd of people.”

He grinned at her.

“Behave. That’s not what I meant.” She toyed with her fork, her pulse speeding a bit. “Would you like me to play for you?”

The grin faded into something softer. “I would love for you to play for me. In fact, if you’re done, you can get started while I clean up.”

“All right.” She rose with her plate, but James took it from her hand. “Let me. I can handle this part.”

Her stomach fluttered as she moved into the living room and sat down at the piano. It wasn’t as if this were a true performance, and he’d already heard her play once. Still, she’d let him talk her into it before. This was offered freely. There was a difference.

She played a few warm-up exercises, eighth notes followed by scales in increasing tempo, until her hands and arms felt warm and fluid. Then she launched into a Chopin mazurka, a moderate piece that fit her cheerful mood. She was surprised to find she didn’t stumble over the notes. She usually kept the sheet music by her piano at home, even if she rarely needed to consult it. The mazurka melded into a nocturne she had performed enough times that her fingers remembered the notes even when her brain wasn’t so certain.

The clink of plates and rush of water from the kitchen stopped. A few minutes later, James entered with two mugs that he set on the side table. The aroma of coffee drifted to her.

He settled onto the bench beside her. “What’s this?”

“Chopin. One of my favorites.”

“It’s beautiful.” He leaned in close enough to whisper. “So are you.”

“You’re trying to distract me.”

He brushed aside her hair and stroked the back of her neck. “What about now?”

It took all her control not to squirm on the bench. “Not going to work.”

Next it was his lips in the same spot, and her involuntary shiver made her miss an obvious chord. She struggled against a smile. “If you want me to play, stop it. Or go over there.”

“I’ll behave, I promise.” James put his hands in his lap, and she didn’t need to look to know he was grinning like a schoolboy. But he kept his word and didn’t try to touch her until she finished the piece and lifted her hands from the keys.

“That’s one of my greatest regrets, you know.” He retrieved the mugs from the table and held one out to her. “My father was such a talented musician. Even Muriel plays the piano. But Serena and I never learned.”

Andrea accepted her mug and wrapped both hands around the cup. “It’s not too late.”

“Maybe not. But you have a gift, Andrea. You amaze me. Really.”

The tenderness in his gaze made her believe it. She doubted James recognized his own gift. It had taken her a while to see his caring, nurturing side, but he was thoughtful in all his interactions with his family. He showed his love by cooking for them, sharing his talents when he didn’t have to. He had done nothing but ensure Andrea was comfortable, entertained, and treated with respect when she was with him.

Her thoughts must have shown on her face, because his smile faded, replaced with a sort of quiet awareness. “Why did you give up performing?”

She swallowed hard. His eyes remained fixed on her, steady, compassionate, and she realized she did trust him.

“I met my ex-husband during my senior year at NYU,” she began. “I roomed with his sister. She played the cello. The first time I met Logan, I fell hard. He was handsome. Charming. So self-assured.” She gave James a bare smile. “A little like you, actually.”

James grimaced, and somehow the expression gave her the push she needed to keep going. “It all felt like a fairy tale. I was only twenty-two, but I was so innocent. He was twenty-eight. Do you know who Bryan Roberts is?”

James shook his head.

“He’s Logan’s father. Back then, he was a senator. Old money, lots of contacts. The family is like American royalty. Logan worked for his father, and he had all that wealth at his disposal. He gave me lavish gifts, took me on trips. I shouldn’t have let myself get seduced by it all. I was raised to know better. But what girl wouldn’t get caught up with a man who could take her to Paris for dinner or to the Spanish Riviera for a day at the beach on a whim?”

“Of course you were susceptible,” James said. “He was trying to impress you.”

“And he succeeded. Things got serious fast, faster than I was ready for. I knew the relationship was wrong, but that deep into it, I didn’t know how to slow down or back away. And I thought I loved him.

“When I graduated from college that May, I was already eight weeks pregnant.”

She swallowed again, barely daring a glance at his face, but he just waited, unsurprised, not judging. He gave her hand an encouraging squeeze.

“We told his parents first. We knew it would be a scandal, but I still didn’t expect his father’s reaction.” Her voice fell an octave. “He wanted me to have an abortion.”

She heard his long, slow exhale and plowed on. “I refused. Senator Roberts informed us we would be getting married. You see, he was going to be running for president. And for a man who was campaigning on family values, it would be a scandal.”

“He sounds like a prize,” James said, his tone low, gravelly.

“Well, it wasn’t how I’d pictured things going, but I loved Logan. I was going to have a husband and a family. I gave up an offer to play with the New York Philharmonic in order to have the baby.”

“You did what you thought was right. You wanted to give your baby a stable home.” He rubbed the back of her hand reassuringly.

“We honeymooned in Maui. It was supposed to be romantic, but things were already different between us. Logan was distant. He resented being trapped in a marriage he really didn’t want. I was sick half the time we were there, so I stayed in the room while he played golf.

“One day I was feeling a little better, so I went down to the hotel restaurant, and he was having lunch with this pretty blonde. Apparently, golf was just code for other activities.” She dipped her head, the humiliation and pain of the memory hitting her again with full force. “I made a huge scene. Needless to say, the woman was shocked to find out he had a pregnant wife.”

Andrea dragged air into her lungs, steeling herself for the next part of the story. “Logan didn’t come back to our room that night. Or the next morning. I knew I couldn’t stay married to him. If he treated me like that on our honeymoon, life with him would be … Well, I would rather raise the baby on my own than have my child exposed to that kind of marriage. I was booking my plane tickets home when I started to have this terrible pain.”

James’s patient expression changed, darkening, but he didn’t say anything, just clasped her hand tighter.

“I ended up being be rushed to the hospital into emergency surgery. I lost the baby.” Her throat burned from the effort of holding back tears. Her memories of that day were blurred, but she would never forget the ultrasound technician’s pronouncement that there was no heartbeat. She hurried on with the story before she could change her mind about telling it.

“Logan finally showed up at the hospital the next day. I don’t know what I expected. Some sort of reaction, some emotion. I’d lost our baby, and I could have died in the process. But the only thing he said was ‘Too bad you couldn’t do that a few weeks ago. You could have saved us both a lot of trouble.’”