Harlequin Presents January 2015 - Box Set 1 of 2: Sheikh's Desert Duty\Nine Months to Redeem Him\Fonseca's Fury\The Russian's Ultimatum (28 page)

I gave him a crooked grin. “Then definitely yes.”

“Thank God,” he said softly, smoothing tendrils of hair off my face. “One last week of holiday,” his lips turned downward, “before I go back to London.”

My stomach growled. Standing up, I walked naked across the room and picked up my silk robe. I tied it around me. “What's in London?”

“My job.”

“You really have to go?”

“I've been gone too long. My cousin Rupert is trying to convince the shareholders he should take my place.”

“Sounds like a jerk.”

“He's a St. Cyr.”

“Then definitely a jerk,” I said teasingly, but he didn't smile back. I hesitated. “But why does it matter?”

“What do you mean?”

I motioned around the bedroom. “You seem to have plenty of money. I figured being CEO of the family company was a sort of honorary title, you know....”

“Like a sinecure—getting paid for doing nothing?”

“I wasn't trying to insult you. But you don't seem keen to get back there. If you don't need the money, there's nothing forcing you to do it, is there?”

He scowled. “St. Cyr Global was started by my great-grandfather. I'm the largest shareholder. I have a responsibility....”

“I get it,” I said, but I didn't.

Edward looked away. “Come on. Let's see about breakfast.”

Mrs. MacWhirter was making bread in the kitchen, and it smelled heavenly. The housekeeper's eyebrows rose almost all the way to her white hair when she saw me still in my robe, with Edward looking tousled in a T-shirt and sweatpants that clung to his chiseled body. There could be no doubt about what we'd been up to. But she recovered quickly when Edward meekly asked if we'd missed any chance of breakfast.

“Missed? I'll say not! With everything?”

“Black tea for me, if you please, Mrs. MacWhirter. And extra tomatoes.”

“Of course. And Miss Maywood?”

I found it impossible to return her gaze without blushing. “Everything, please. With extra toast and jam. Coffee with cream and sugar. Please, thank you, if you don't mind, you're so very kind....”

Edward grabbed my hand, stopping me before I could babble any further.

“We'll be in the tea room,” he said firmly, and drew me away. A moment later, we were in a bright room with big windows facing the garden and beyond that, the sea. A brisk fire was going. I blinked when I saw the rose-colored carpet, the chintz pattern of the wallpaper.

“Whose room is this? You can't have designed this.”

His jaw tightened. “It was my mother's.”

He'd never mentioned her before. “Does she visit often?”

“She died last year,” he said shortly.

“I'm so sorry—”

“Don't be. As far as I'm concerned, she died long ago. She left when I was a child. Ran off with an Argentinian polo player when I was ten.”

“Oh,” I breathed.

It was a good reminder of the lesson I learned as a child
, he'd said.
Never depend on anyone
.

He shrugged. “Dad worked all the time, and traveled overseas. Even when he was home, he had a mean streak a mile wide.” He gave me a humorless smile. “The St. Cyr trait, as you said.”

My heart ached for the ten-year-old boy who'd been abandoned by his mother. Even though both my parents had died, I never had any doubt of their love for me. My heart twisted. And then I suddenly felt furious. “Your parents were selfish.”

His expression froze. Turning away, he threw himself into in an overstuffed chintz chair in front of the fire. “I was fine.”

I sank into the matching chair on the other side of the tea table. “Fine? To run off and leave you? Abandon you with a mean, neglectful father?”

“Well.” He gave me a wry smile. “I do wish Mum had told me the truth from the start. The day she left for Buenos Aires, she cried and said she was breaking up with Dad, not me. She promised she'd always be my mother and that the two of us would still be a family.” He looked away. “But within a year, her letters and calls began to dwindle. She stopped asking me to Argentina for Christmas. Not that Dad would have let me....”

“He wanted to spend Christmas with you?”

Edward shook his head. “He went to Mustique at Christmas with his mistress du jour
.
He just hated Mum and didn't want to do anything nice for her. It wasn't just that. Antonio didn't want me at his house, really. He just wanted Mum.”

“That must have been hard....”

He shrugged. “When I was fourteen, Mum had a new baby. She was so busy, and so far away. She quit phoning, or sending letters. It was easier just to leave me behind.” He barked out a laugh. “It all happened long ago. But I wish Mum had told me from the beginning how it would be.” He looked out toward the lead-paned windows, bright with afternoon sunlight. “Rather than letting me wait. Letting me hope.”

“I'm so sorry,” I whispered, despising all the selfish adults who'd hurt him as a child. “Who took care of you?”

“The household staff. Mrs. MacWhirter, mostly. The gardener, too. But not for long. At twelve I went to boarding school.”

“Twelve?” I sputtered.

“It was good for me. Built character and all that.” He sighed. “I used to get homesick for Cornwall. I'd daydream about hitchhiking back here so the old gardener could take me out fishing. He also taught me how to catch a ball, tie a reef knot. Old Gavin was great.”

“You called him Old—to his face?”

“Everyone did. To distinguish him from his son. Young Gavin.” He sighed. “But his children had grown and moved away to find jobs, and Old Gavin missed his grandchildren. I promised if he'd just wait, when I grew up I'd create a factory near Penryth Hall that built things for adventures, so there'd be plenty of jobs for everyone. All he had to do was stay.”

“
Things for adventures?
” I queried.

“Blow darts and slingshots and canoes. Come on, I was ten.”

“Did you ever do it? Create the factory?”

“No.” He looked away. “Old Gavin emigrated to Canada, to be with his daughter. A few months after that, I was at boarding school. He didn't keep his promise. I don't have to keep mine.”

“Oh, Edward...” I tried to reach for his hand. But he wouldn't accept either my hand or my sympathy.

“It's fine,” he said roughly. “I was lucky. I've learned not to count on people. Or make promises I can't keep.”

Mrs. MacWhirter came bustling noisily into the room, followed by a maid, both of them carrying trays. As they set down china cups and napkins and solid silver utensils, Edward smiled at the housekeeper. I realized that the older woman, gruff as she could be, was the closest to family he had. She poured Edward's black tea and my coffee, set down our plates and left us.

I looked down hungrily at my breakfast, with eggs, toast, beans and grilled tomato, and a type of bacon that tasted like ham. I loved it all. I slathered the buttered toast with marmalade, then took a delicious crunchy bite. We ate in silence, sitting together near the fire. Then our eyes met.

“I don't blame you for never wanting to depend on anyone,” I said softly. “Why would you? People lie, or love someone else, or move to Canada. People leave you, even if they don't want to. Even if they love you.” I paused. “People die.”

For a moment, the only sound was the crackling of the fire. He stared at me. “You're not going to argue with me?”

I shook my head.

“I'm surprised,” he said gruffly, watching me. “Most women accuse me of having no heart.”

I thought of my kindhearted father, a professor, who'd died suddenly in an accident when I was in third grade, and my mother, who'd filled my life with roses and sunshine before her long, agonizing decline. They'd never have chosen to leave me, or each other. But they'd had no choice. In spite of their fervent promises. “Maybe you're right,” I said in a small voice, looking down at my plate. “Maybe promises are worthless. All we have is today.”

His hand took mine across the table.

“But if we live today right,” he said quietly, “it's enough.”

The air between us suddenly electrified, and my hand trembled beneath his. Slowly, he started to lean across the tea table....

Mrs. MacWhirter coughed from the doorway, and Edward and I pulled away, blushing like teenagers who'd just been caught kissing.

“I'm sorry to interrupt you, sir,” she said, “but I wanted you to know I'm getting ready to leave. The rest of the staff has already gone.”

“Fine.” Edward cleared his throat. “Good. I hope you have a nice holiday.”

“Yes, indeed, sir,” Mrs. MacWhirter said warmly. “The staff wanted me to thank you for the extra large Christmas bonus this year. You're always so generous, but this one topped it all. I nearly fell over when I opened the card. Sophie said she's going to surprise her boyfriend and take him to the Seychelles for Christmas. I'm going to get my sister that new roof, and I'll still have some left to put by. Thank you.”

“It's the least you all deserve for putting up with me,” Edward said. “Especially over the last few months. I haven't always made it easy.”

Her lips lifted into a smile. “You haven't been so very bad as all that. Considering all you've been through...” She hesitated. “I needn't go to Scotland for Christmas, you know. I could stay over the holiday, if you think you might need me.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” he said sharply. “You've been talking about visiting your sister for months. You get the week off, as always.”

“But in your current state...who will take care of you?”

“Miss Maywood.”

She eyed me dubiously. “What about in the kitchen?”

“In the kitchen,” he said gravely, “as in all areas.”

He didn't meet my eye, and a good thing too, since I could barely keep from laughing.

“In that case...I'm off.” Mrs. MacWhirter looked relieved. “Happy Christmas, Mr. St. Cyr, Miss Maywood. Take good care of him,” she added with a beady glint in her eye.

“I will,” I murmured, feeling new appreciation for her, now that I knew she'd been caring for Edward since he was a child.

And I kept my promise, all right. I took very good care of Edward over Christmas week. Just as he took very good care of me. We huddled in the warmest rooms of Penryth Hall, lighting a fire with a Yule log, and watched the snow rise in the chilly wind outside.

We had sex for Christmas. Sex for Boxing Day. Sex for New Year's Eve. In between, we had champagne, opened Christmas crackers, wore paper crowns and gobbled up a Christmas goose we'd prepared ourselves—Edward actually knew how to cook, somewhat to my surprise—and a great deal of trifle.

I'm not going to lie. It was a very naked week. Alone just the two of us, we barely bothered with clothes. Edward said it was more efficient that way, plus he just liked the look of me. We lit fires in every room, in every possible way.

Christmas morning, we made love beneath the tree and it was so explosive that at the critical moment, ornaments and tinsel fell on Edward's head. Edward looked up with a mix of amusement and annoyance.

“I've heard about choirs of angels singing,” he grumbled, looking at the angelic item that just had landed on his back from the very top of the tree, “but this is ridiculous.”

With a laugh, I pulled him back over me, and we wrapped ourselves in tinsel.

But on New Year's Eve, as all the world looked with anticipation toward the bright, shiny new year, I felt building sadness, the sense that our time was running out. I tried to ignore the feeling, telling myself I should be grateful for the magical weeks we'd spent together. But all I could feel was misery, that soon Edward would return to London, to work long hours at a job he didn't particularly like, and I would go back to California, to face the scandal I'd left behind, and see if I had the courage to try acting again. Just thinking of it made me want to cover my head with a pillow. And as for the thought of never seeing Edward again, never ever....

“Stop sighing,” Edward said across the table. “I don't believe it for a second. I'm not going to fall for it again.”

We were sitting in the study, at a folding table we'd moved directly in front of the fire, where for the past hour we'd been playing strip poker. Caesar the sheepdog was stretched out on a rug beside us, ignoring us, clearly disgusted by the whole thing. I sat half-naked in my chair, wearing only panties, a bra, knee socks and Edward's tie. Which probably sounds grim, where strip poker is concerned. But Edward had only his silk boxers left. He was sweating.

“Where did you learn to play like this?” he demanded, staring down fiercely at his own cards.

“Madison taught me,” I said sweetly. “We used to play all the time.”

His scowl deepened. “I might have known Madison was at the bottom of this.”

“Yeah.” I looked down at my own cards. I didn't even have a particularly good hand, but due to my confidence—and the straight flush I'd had in the last round—he believed I might. Nothing except a miracle could save him now. Madison had taught me this much about acting—how to bluff.

Madison. I missed her, in spite of everything. I'd called my stepfather on Christmas, on set in New Mexico, where he was filming the latest season of his highly regarded cable TV zombie series. I would have tried to call Madison too, except Howard let me know she'd just left for some ashram in India, to cope with her explosively public breakup with Jason.

“She could use a friend, kiddo,” Howard had told me quietly.

“She doesn't want to talk to me,” I'd mumbled. “She hates me.”

“No, sweetie, no. Well, maybe. But I think the person she hates most right now is herself.”

Edward's cell phone rang, rattling violently across the table, drawing me out of my reverie.