The Girl from Summer Hill (20 page)

“Maybe I should go back and get a chain saw.”

Casey looked at him in horror. “And destroy wild blackberry bushes? Are you out of your mind? These need to be pruned professionally, not by some redneck with a chain saw.”

“I grew up in California. How do I get labeled a redneck?”

“Ancestry can always be told,” she said seriously.

“I—” He broke off because the peacock, beak in the air, had strolled between them, arrogantly ignoring them. It lowered its head and went into the bushes. Tate crouched down to see where the bird had gone. “There's a tunnel here. Someone has bent sheets of galvanized steel to make it. It's old, but…” He stood up. “I think we may have found Mom's hideout. If I have to slither like a snake, I'm going in.”

“Tunnel or not, those thorns will tear you apart. You can't—” A crack of thunder cut her off and she felt the first sprinkles of rain.

“The keys are in the truck and it's that way. No. Wait. It's over there. No, that's not right. I'm sure it's that way. Or maybe—”

“Go!” Casey said. “I'm right behind you.”

“If we end up crawling on our bellies, I'd rather get behind you and watch.”

“No.” She motioned for him to go first. Under her breath, she said, “And I'd rather see you naked and wet.” She spoke so quietly that he didn't hear her.

Tate went in front of her, the pie container before him. “The path is a bit overgrown,” he said over his shoulder.

Pebbles and dried, thorny branches littered the ground, and, above them, blackberry stalks had found their way through the sheets of metal. It took a while to get through the tunnel, and the rain was coming down harder.

But before they got to the center, the rain hit them. It came down through the canopy of crisscrossed branches and gaps in the old tunnel. By the last few feet, they were soaked.

In front of Casey, Tate attempted to stand up, but the branches were too intertwined to fully separate. He helped her stand halfway up, her back against a wooden wall, while he wrestled with an old door. He managed to get it open a few inches, and Casey slipped inside, Tate behind her.

It was a small building, about the size of a walk-in closet, and to one side were remnants of some machine.

“Well pump,” Tate said, as he ran his hands through his hair to get the water out.

“For what well?” Casey was wringing her shirttail out. There was a little window in one wall, but between the rain and the blackberries, there wasn't much light.

“I have no idea. I was told about this place from the point of view of a child. I doubt if Mom asked what the big machine was used for. If I remember correctly, and if no one has moved it…”

She could see his silhouette as he ran his hands along a wall until he reached the corner.

“Aha!”

She heard a match strike, saw a flame, then he lit a candle and they had light. Tate held aloft an antique pewter holder with a shield on the back.

Behind her was a stack of rugs and cushions that looked as though they'd been pilfered from the Big House. They ranged from a couple of dark velvet ones, probably Victorian, to one that had big red lips with a cigarette hanging from the corner.

“Mom didn't mention that she and Ace were bandits. Want to sit and wait this out?”

“Sure.” As they moved the pillows, they coughed from the dust, but it was better than sitting on the hard wooden floor.

Casey leaned a fat pillow against the wall, put more on the floor, then sat down. Tate was still standing. The light of a single candle was behind him, and his wet T-shirt was plastered to a body she remembered well.

When she looked at him, he wore the most genuine expression of emotion she'd seen on his face. No acting, no trying to entertain, no teasing. Neither was there a sense of protecting himself. He was open and vulnerable—to her.

It was easy to see what was in his mind. He was waiting for her answer.

Scenes from the last few days flashed through her mind: his anger because she'd spied on him while he showered; how he'd sat quietly while she bawled him out for eating a whole pie. When he'd first stepped onto the stage and seen her dressed as Elizabeth Bennet, a light had come into his eyes. He'd been glad to see her. Later, he'd held her life in his hands as she dangled down on a steep roof. Most of all, she remembered how many times he'd made her laugh. He'd even made her feel better about Ben. For months all she'd felt was guilt. How could she have been so insensitive to a man she loved? But Tate had made her see a different side of it all.

When she gazed up at him with a smile of welcome, he grinned in understanding—and in such deep happiness that she laughed.

He peeled off his wet T-shirt and flung it to the side. The candlelight played off the muscles of his body, and for a moment he stood there looking down at her.

She expected him to pounce on her, but he didn't. Instead, he stretched out beside her on the pillows, barely touching her. She'd braced herself for an electrical shock, but there was none. Instead, her body seemed to hum.

He reached out to run his fingertips down her cheek. “You're a very pretty girl,” he said, his voice low and husky.

Her heart was beginning to beat faster. “You see starlets and—”

He pressed his lips to her temple. “You're prettier, and I
like
you. Big difference.”

She started to reply, but he began to kiss the side of her face. Her eyes closed as she gave herself over to the pleasure of his lips and his skin pressing against hers. He kissed her eyelids, then slowly moved down toward her mouth.

His lips touched hers, softly at first.

The gentleness slowly deepened so that her mouth opened under his and she felt his tongue. Her arms went around him, her hands on his warm skin, caressing the hardness of the muscles beneath.

The humming inside her seemed to increase.

Tate drew back to look at her. “Feel that?”

“I do,” she said.

His lips moved to her chin, down to her neck. It was only as he reached her throat that she realized he'd unbuttoned her shirt. He easily slipped it off her shoulders. Her bra came next, and when he pulled her bare chest to his, she gasped. Her skin was cool from the rain, but his was warm to the point of being feverishly hot.

His face was in her neck, kissing, his tongue touching the sensuous cords. His hand moved up her ribs, his thumbs caressing her breasts.

“I've wanted you since I saw you in those pajamas.”

“You yelled at me.”

“It was either that or throw you across the kitchen table.”

“Too bad I wasn't given a choice.”

When Tate laughed, she could feel it all over her body. “Not you,” he whispered. “You hold yourself in too high esteem for that.”

“Do I?”

Casey leaned her head back. His lips moved down to her breast. With his tongue on the tip, the humming that ran through her body grew too loud for her to remember words. All she was aware of was this man and this moment.

She wasn't sure how it happened, but all their clothes came off. When their nude bodies touched, she thought she might die if he didn't come to her completely.

But he didn't. He continued to kiss her, to touch her, until it was as though her very soul left her. She was all sensation, all desire.

She ran her hands over his body, caressing each muscle and its contours.

His hands moved down between her legs and parted them. When he moved on top of her, she was more than ready for him, and he slipped inside her with velvet ease.

Tate took his time, slowly building, his strokes gradually increasing in strength and speed. His breath was by her ear. She could hear him, feel him, sense him, smell him.

When he came, she was ready for him, and her release went through her entire body. Waves of pleasure passed through her, making her body convulse.

Tate held her close to him, not moving off her, and the weight felt good. The hardness of his taut, muscular body was a perfect contrast to her softness.

It was a while before he rolled away and pulled her over so her head rested on his chest. “I wasn't prepared for this, so maybe we should talk about my lack of protection.”

“Pill,” she murmured. Right now she didn't want anything to ruin this magic moment.

He kissed her forehead and snuggled her to him, her leg across his. The rain kept coming down, isolating them. When it grew cool, Tate pulled an old lap robe across them, and when the dust flew up, they coughed and laughed, but they didn't detach from each other.

“I want to thank you,” Tate said softly, his voice barely a whisper.

“For this?”

“No, but yes. Thank you for taking my mind off my…my fear of seeing this place.” He paused before continuing. “Nina and I kept track of Tattwell since we were kids. We knew it changed hands twice after my mother had to sell it, and both times the owners wanted to subdivide the land and put in mass housing. The town of Summer Hill fought them and won. But the place was virtually abandoned for about ten years.”

“Why didn't you want to see it?”

“My goal had always been to make enough money acting to buy it and present it to Mom as a gift, but she died before I could afford it. I felt guilty and…” He shrugged. “I told Nina there were too many memories attached to the place and that I didn't want to be taken back to the stories of the past. Or I didn't want the press to find out. Whatever. I came up with a thousand excuses. But then one day Kit Montgomery showed up at my trailer on set and told me we were related. Nina said that it was fate that Kit had shown up, so I could buy Tattwell through him without the press knowing.”

“Maybe it was fate.”

“Nah. It was Kit's secretary. Someone in Kit's family works on genealogy and found out that we're related. When he made an offhand comment to that fact, his secretary said that if he didn't get her an autographed photo of me she was going to quit.”

“Did you give it?”

“Of course. Kit and I spent a weekend drinking and bellyaching about relatives and employees. When I got sober—which took a while, as that man can drink!—I went to his office in D.C. and had photos taken with everyone. And…”

“And what?”

“I had a friend, an assistant director, who I'd told Kit about, and he said I should bring him. Kit arranged a blind date with my friend and the secretary's widowed daughter. They're married now and expecting their first child.”

She looked up at him. “That's a wonderful story. Was the matchmaking your idea or Kit's?”

“His. He likes to manage people's lives.”

“Like yours? And mine?”

“Exactly. But this time I like it. How did you meet him?”

“I opened the back of my car. I was—”

“Wait,” Tate said. “I think this story calls for pie.”

When he moved away from her, Casey sat up to watch. Although he was totally nude, he didn't seem the least bit shy or inhibited. As for her, she held the dusty old lap robe under her arms.

Tate got the pie carrier and the spoon, then moved back to snuggle beside Casey. He opened it, scooped a huge spoonful from the middle, held it out to her, and she took a bite.

“You do know, don't you, that pies are usually sliced and served on plates.”

“I used to think so too. But then I fought a mad beast in a girl's bedroom, and later I ravenously dug a spoon into a pie so good it must have been made in heaven. Then a very pretty girl yelled at me, and all I could think of was that her cheeks were pink and every part of her body was bouncing, so I changed my mind. Since then I've liked pies and spoons. Brings back good memories.”

Casey blinked a few times. “In that case, I understand.” He fed her another bite. “Back to Kit. Remember I told you that I packed up everything and drove to Summer Hill? In my case, that meant one suitcase full of clothes and the rest of my car packed solid with cookware and cookbooks.”

“You could have shipped it all. No! Let me guess. You feared that it would be lost. Too precious to trust to strangers in big trucks.”

“Exactly. But it was all a bit much for my little car, because when I parked in front of the local B&B and opened the back, a lot of things came tumbling out. The owner of the inn helped me repack, then she made a call, and ten minutes later Kit was there.”

“Then what?”

“He looked inside the open back of my car and hired me as his cook, without my having so much as made a biscuit. The next day he put me in the guesthouse on an old plantation I thought he owned. Over the winter he introduced me to half the town and used Stacy and me as readers for a play he was writing.”

“All while planning to have you perform as Elizabeth.”

“Maybe. I'm not sure about that. That all seems to have just happened. My guess is he wanted you and Stacy together. But then, he also wanted Stacy for his son.”

“At least we agree that Kit was up to something.”

They had eaten half the pie. Tate licked a tiny bit of chocolate-tipped pecan off the side of her mouth, then kissed her. He seemed about ready to do more, but his head came up. “Treasure.”

“I agree,” Casey murmured, her eyes half closed.

Tate sat up straighter. “Mom used to talk about the treasure box she and Ace put things in. She never said where they kept the box hidden, but this was their hideout, so maybe it's in here somewhere.” He picked up Casey's hand and was kissing her fingertips. “Put on a child's thinking cap. Where would you hide a treasure box?”

“I think you already found it,” she murmured.

He turned his attention back to her and his voice lowered. “I don't think so. I'd better keep searching.”

Casey slid down on the pillows and he took her in his arms.

It was nearly an hour later that they flopped back on the pillows, sweaty and sated. Above them, the rain had stopped and the candle had burned to a nub.