Читать книгу Redemption's Kiss - Ann Christopher - Страница 8

Six months later

“Someone’s leased the Foster place.” Blanche Rousseau, vibrating with excitement over today’s gossip, hurried into the kitchen with a brown bag of groceries in each arm.

“Really?”

Jillian Warner paused in her relentless kneading of bread dough and eased the curtains aside. Peering out the window over the sink, she surveyed the Foster place, perched atop the tree-dotted hill at the end of their street.

She half expected to see a moving van speed by, buuuut…no.

Nothing about the massive and weathered white house looked any different in today’s midmorning light. The wide veranda still begged for a fresh coat of paint, and so did the columns. The bushes, as usual, were overgrown monstrosities that would soon reach out to grab unsuspecting children who wandered too close, and the windows were still vacant and eerie.

She was about to return to her dough when a distant flash of movement caught her eye. A big black dog—a standard poodle, maybe—rounded the Foster place, barking with excitement. Oh, and was that the tail end of some sort of SUV in the driveway?

Maybe, but who really cared?

Jillian let the curtain drop and attacked her dough again. They didn’t have time for gossip when there was bread to be made and meals to be cooked for ten hungry guests.

Blanche, meanwhile, set the bags on the wooden counter and surveyed Jillian’s progress with pursed bubblegum-pink lips.

Oh, Lord. What now? Jillian tried to concentrate on her task, but there was no ignoring Blanche—not the blue-beaded chain of her cat’s-eye glasses, her white-blond teased beehive circa 1962 or her plump frame squeezed into electric-blue stretch pants and a matching jacket—especially when she got in a mood.

Finally Jillian looked up, exasperated. “What?”

“You need to ease up on that dough, honey,” Blanche drawled, her lilting Louisiana tones thick with disapproval. “You trying to make shoe leather or dinner rolls?”

“This may surprise you, Blanche, but I’ve made a decent batch of rolls once or twice in my life.”

“That does surprise me,” Blanche muttered, now eyeing Jillian’s work with raised brows. Clicking her tongue, she moved along the counter.

Jillian glared after her, irritated.

Sometime soon she’d have to break the sad news to Blanche—that she was not, in fact, Queen of the Universe here at the historic Twin Oaks Bed & Breakfast outside Atlanta—but for now she’d let this latest insubordination pass.

Though she hadn’t been listed on the contract for sale Jillian signed three years ago when she moved here from Virginia, Blanche had come with the B & B, just like the dormer windows, railed porch with rockers and twelve bedrooms.

Jillian was new to running the B & B and Blanche was…well, old. Since Jillian needed Blanche’s experience and expertise, Jillian spent a lot of time swallowing her retorts.

Jillian floured the counter and reached for the rolling pin. “So who bought the house?”

“No one over at the grocery knows.” Blanche rummaged in one bag and produced several dozen eggs and a couple pounds of butter. “Must be someone with a lot of money, though, ’cause that place needs some W-O-R-K. Maybe it’s a nice man for you. Now that you’re dating and all.”

Jillian rolled her eyes. She’d wondered how long it’d take Blanche to raise this topic and was surprised it had required—what?—fifty whole seconds.

“I am not dating,” she said, now using a floured glass to cut dough rounds and place them on the baking sheet. “I had one dinner with a man—”

“And coffee with him last week. Coffee plus dinner equals dating.”

“I don’t date,” Jillian said flatly. “I meet the occasional nice man and have dinner.”

“Very occasional.” Blanche’s backside poked in all its considerable glory from the depths of the refrigerator, where she was now arranging food. “Since this is the first man I’ve seen you have dinner with in three years.”

Affronted because there was no need for such an unvarnished recitation of the sorry state of Jillian’s love life this early in the day, she put the glass down and frowned at Blanche.

“You just focus on baking that chicken for lunch, okay?”

“No sex.” Blanche emerged from the fridge and pulled a tragic face on Jillian’s behalf. “No fried chicken. All work, no fun. No wonder you’re so uptight all the time. You haven’t got much to live for, far as I can tell.”

Jillian laughed, but it was as hollow as most of her laughter these days. Something inside her had broken and, three years later, she still hadn’t found a way to fix it. Maybe it was time to face the fact that the old Jillian, the happy one, was damaged beyond repair.

The funny thing was, she didn’t really care. Here at the B & B, which she’d bought with her divorce settlement because she didn’t want to return to practicing law and she needed something to do now that she was no longer the first lady of Virginia, she’d built something more lasting than happiness: peace, personal satisfaction and self-sufficiency. Even better, she’d found a mother’s pleasure in seeing her child discover the world.

Wasn’t that good enough?

She knew how to meet a payroll and balance the books, manage several employees, feed up to thirty people in the dining room, unclog a toilet, install storm doors and bandage scraped knees. Best of all, Allegra was happy and healthy.

Those were the important things. As long as they were on track, it didn’t matter that Jillian felt dead inside—when she felt anything at all.

A clatter in the hall jarred Jillian out of her thoughts and she looked around in time to see Barbara Jean, Blanche’s granddaughter, appear in the doorway.

Twenty-one and heading back to Vanderbilt in the fall, Barbara Jean spent most of her time marching to the beat of her own drum. Witness the orange and red hair, the multiple piercings and the iPod, which was always strapped to her arm. On the other hand, Barbara Jean was a straight-A student, levelheaded and responsible. She was, therefore, Allegra’s well-paid and much-appreciated nanny.

Barbara Jean threw her arms wide in a flourish and bowed. “Make way for Princess Allegra!”

Jillian and Blanche, who went through this drill on a daily basis, snapped to attention and bowed as two-year-old Allegra sidled into the room, teetering on purple plastic prostitute-in-training slides with pink ostrich feathers across the open toes. Today’s ensemble also included a pink leotard and tutu combination, a sparkling rhinestone crown and a blue magic wand with pink streamers.

“All hail Princess Allegra,” the adults intoned.

Allegra blessed them with a serene nod. “You may rise.”

Jillian crooked her finger at the girl, who came over. “Come here, Princess Allegra. Mommy’s got something for you.”

“What?”

“This.”

Sweeping her daughter up, Jillian kissed her fat little honey-with-cream-colored cheeks and swung her in a circle. Allegra screamed with laughter, revealing one Shirley Temple dimple on the left side of her mouth and tiny white teeth. After a few seconds of this silliness, Jillian set the girl back on her wobbly legs and ruffled her sandy curls.

“Don’t forget you’ve got a swimming lesson soon. Barbara Jean will take you.”

“Nooo-ooo.” Allegra backed away as though she expected to be dragged off in chains and tortured in a dungeon. “I don’t want to go swimming. I want a tea party.”

“Yeah, well, there’s plenty of time for a tea party after you swim.”

Allegra prepared for a rant by opening her mouth so wide you’d think it had a hinge, but a new distraction arrived before she could get started: someone knocked on the kitchen door.

They all looked around to see a man standing on the other side of the screen with a bouquet of red roses slung over one arm.

Jillian’s pulse quickened and a hot flush crept over her cheeks. She hastily washed her hands while Blanche shot her a smirk and then sauntered to the door and swung it open.

“Adam Marshall,” Blanche cried, laying the charm on so thick she’d need a putty knife in a minute. “You come right on in here and have some coffee and a muffin. How’s our favorite accountant?”

“I’m pretty good now that I know there’s a muffin in my future.” He came inside while everyone said hello and Blanche fixed his snack. His gaze went straight to Jillian and held. “How are you, Jillian?”

“I’m good.”

Adam had been the B & B’s accountant for two years and had been making eyes at Jillian for a year and eleven months. There was an intimidation factor involved, Jillian supposed, because she’d been the first lady of Virginia and was the sister of the sitting president. That, combined with Adam’s natural shyness, accounted for his delay in asking her out, not that Jillian was anxious, given her antidating stance.

But last week he’d finally gotten up the nerve to approach her, and they’d had coffee. Why not? She had to drink coffee, right? Why not drink it with him? Then they’d had dinner. Both had gone reasonably well. Now here he was again.

On paper he was everything a single mother like her should want: single, straight, with a nice job, a sense of humor and no lurking baby mamas. Plus, he was easy on the eyes. Dark skinned with a mustache and skull trim, he had warm brown eyes and the kind of dimpled boyish grin that probably weakened knees wherever he went.

It wasn’t his fault that Jillian’s knees were impervious.

So, yeah, she wasn’t dating, wasn’t smitten and wouldn’t be falling into this guy’s bed—or anyone else’s, come to think of it—anytime soon. And that was just fine with her because she had a drawer full of BOBs (Battery Operated Boyfriends) upstairs.

But…he was a decent guy and she had to pass the time somehow. Why not do it with him on occasion?

Allegra tottered over on her plastic heels and stared up at Adam.

“I like your flowers.”

Adam looked down at the girl. “Thank you.” Allegra’s curls quivered with her bouncing excitement. “Are they for me?”

Adam, bless his heart, didn’t miss a beat. Smiling, he pulled one perfect red bud out of the huge arrangement and held it out to Allegra.

“For you, your majesty.”

Allegra beamed up at him. “Thank you. You may kiss my hand.”

They all laughed. Adam took her tiny hand with its chipped pink nail polish and kissed it with the appropriate solemnity. Allegra tittered.

And Adam went up another notch or two in Jillian’s estimation.

“Okay, princess.” Barbara Jean took Allegra’s hand and steered her toward the hall. “Time for swimming.”

“Nooo-ooo.” Allegra’s wails echoed down the hall as they disappeared from sight.

Blanche presented Adam with coffee and a pumpkin muffin the size of a small melon. “I’ll just leave you two to chat.” She patted Adam’s arm. “Enjoy your muffin.”

“Thanks, Blanche.” Adam watched her go and then gave the roses to Jillian. “For you.”

“Thank you.” It had been so long since a man had made a romantic gesture that she couldn’t repress her grin. “They’re beautiful.”

“They’re a bribe. I’m hoping you’ll go out to dinner with me again.”

Jillian faltered and stalled by placing the flowers on the counter. “Adam—”

“You already told me,” he said good-naturedly. “You don’t date.”

“Oh, good. You were listening.”

“Think about another dinner, though. That’s all I’m asking.”

She hesitated.

Thinking about it probably wouldn’t kill her. Besides. His face was so pleasant and hopeful that she just couldn’t say no. She was in the prime of her life, for goodness’ sake. Life wasn’t over just yet. As long as she was honest about not wanting a relationship, dinner with him was no big deal, right?

“Okay,” she said.

“Good.” Adam grinned and then apparently decided to press his luck. “Can I kiss you? I’ve been kicking myself for not asking the other night.”

Kiss? What?

But Adam, for once in his life, seemed to be in an impulsive mood and didn’t wait. Leaning in and catching her before her alarm could really take hold, he brushed his mouth across hers.

Nothing happened at first, but then there was a spark of something in her belly, a long-forgotten feeling of something she couldn’t quite identify.

Excitement? Longing? Need?

Pulling back, Adam smiled as though he’d been granted eternal life. A similar reaction eluded her and she had to force herself to smile back. Man. This kissing thing threw her for a serious loop. She hadn’t kissed anyone romantically in three years, and hadn’t kissed a man other than her ex-husband in fifteen. How was she supposed to feel? She didn’t have a clue.

“I’ve got to get back to work.” Sounding a little husky now, Adam grabbed his muffin and gulped some coffee. “I just wanted to bring the flowers and get my kiss.”

“I’ll walk you out,” she said, trying to get her mind right.

This was all too weird. She’d been asexual for so long, and now this.

It came as a huge shock that she could still affect a man, still inspire him to think about her, leave work for her and bring her flowers. She hadn’t realized that such tiny miracles were possible after all this time.

They walked outside, down the cobbled path to Adam’s car. The May day was beautiful, bright and clear but not yet humid, not that she could enjoy it with him staring at her with those unnerving, puppy-dog eyes.

Feeling fidgety and awkward, she glanced over at the Foster place. There were definite signs of activity now; a moving van occupied most of the long drive and in front of it sat a dark Range Rover. Uniformed movers swarmed in and out of the front door and up and down the driveway—

Without warning, Adam cupped her cheek and kissed her again, his mouth firmer and more confident this time. After one stiff second, Jillian responded with her lips but the rest of her body remained aloof, well out of Adam’s reach. And then she had enough.

She pulled away, flustered. “What was that?”

“That was, ‘I hope I’ll see you soon.’ I’ll call you, okay?”

“Okay.”

Watching him drive off, she touched her tingling lips and then caught herself. Don’t be silly, Jill. It was time to get cracking. Those rolls still weren’t in the oven and lunchtime would be here soon—

A low bark from her left startled her.

Turning, she saw the new neighbor’s dog trot out from behind a forsythia bush at the edge of her property, his pink tongue lolling in a friendly doggy smile.

“Hello, cutie.” She held her hand out for inspection. “Hellooo.”

The dog ambled over. He was big and black with short curly hair, pointy ears, long legs and huge paws. Probably less than a year old, he wriggled with excitement and had a red collar with a numbered tag.

He snuffled her hand, apparently decided she was okay, and then nudged her. She accepted this obvious invitation to scratch his ears, and the dog all but passed out with pleasure.

Oh, man. Her heart turned over, hard.

This wasn’t a standard poodle. This guy was a Bouvier des Flandres, the type of dog she’d had as a child. His long hair had been shaved, probably because it was so hot here in Georgia during the summer, but he looked exactly like Ishmael, and the sudden sweet nostalgia from her childhood was almost unbearable.

Just like that, she remembered the joys of pet ownership, especially during that terrible year when Mama died, leaving her and her older brother, John, alone with their grieving and distant father.

It all came back to her: the nightly warmth of Ishmael’s heavy body stretched out across her feet at the end of her bed; Ishmael sprawled between her and John on the floor in front of the TV; a soap-covered Ishmael resisting his bath in the plastic pool next to their estate’s enormous inground pool.

Good times, good times.

Boy, did she miss that dog. He’d died of old age when she was in high school. Come to think of it, she missed Ramona, too, the chatty Siamese she’d named after her favorite Beverly Cleary character. That silly cat. When Ramona wasn’t ignoring her and John or terrorizing Ishmael, which was most of the time, she was underfoot, meowing about the general unfairness of life and demanding to have her chin scratched.

Wow. She hadn’t thought about Ramona in ages. The ache of nostalgia grew. Allegra occasionally made noises about wanting a pet; maybe it was time to think about getting one.

In the meantime, this dog needed to get home before he ran out into the street, and there was no time like the present to meet the new neighbor. Those rolls could wait another minute or two.

Oh, but wait. New neighbors had to be greeted with food. It was a rule.

“Come on,” she told the dog.

He followed her inside the kitchen, where she quickly washed her hands, lined a basket with a large cloth napkin and filled it with leftover pumpkin muffins from breakfast.

“Now we’re ready.”

The dog agreed with another bark.

What a sweetie. Scratching his head again, she led the way.

They walked up the lane to his owner’s driveway, where serious progress was now being made. Someone had lowered the ramp on the moving van, and there were various blankets and dollies lying around, but no signs of human life. A discreet glance inside the van as she passed revealed several nice pieces, including a black leather sofa and an enormous entertainment center. A man’s furniture. Definitely a man’s.

They climbed the shallow steps and crossed the huge veranda, which crunched beneath Jillian’s feet. Hopefully, the new guy had a rake and a broom because there were dead leaves everywhere. This baby needed a lot of cleanup. It was a beautiful house, though, with clean lines, exquisite woodwork and beveled glass framing the open front door.

She knocked and waited.

No answer.

She tried again, this time using the heavy brass knocker.

Still nothing.

The dog looked up at her, and she could swear he raised his furry eyebrows in a What now? gesture.

Well, the door was open.

Stepping inside, she gasped at what had been a remarkable house and, with a little love, would be again. Several rooms spun off the foyer, the centerpiece of which was a wide staircase with a carved handrail, and every room that she could see was bathed in light from full-length windows. Ornate woodwork framed every doorway, and there was an enormous marble fireplace in what was unmistakably the living room.

No signs of life, though, and—

Oh, wait. Were those voices upstairs?

Turning back in the direction of the staircase—maybe she’d wandered a little farther inside than she should have—she opened her mouth to call out a hello, but a movement out of the corner of her eye stopped her.

A man’s hand on the brass handle of a cane came into view, followed by one long khaki-trousered leg and a foot encased in an expensive loafer.

“Hello,” Jillian called. “Your dog wandered down the street to say hi and I was just bringing—”

The rest of the man came into view and Jillian’s words stopped dead.

Oh, God. No. God, no.

Above the khaki pants was a lean, broad-shouldered torso in a white dress shirt. Above that was the face of the man who had destroyed her marriage, her heart and her happiness—the man she hadn’t spoken to directly for three years and who made regular appearances in her dreams to this day.

She staggered back a step, putting a hand on the wall for support.

Beau. It couldn’t be.

But no other man in the world had those amazing hazel eyes. No other man in the world had that beautiful honey-brown skin, those slashing cheekbones or that lush mouth. No other man in the world had those silky-sexy waves of soft sable hair or that potent brand of masculinity that reduced her to a vibrating mass of overheated flesh every damn time, aeons since she’d first laid eyes on him at the orientation at Columbia Law.

“Is it you?”

Stupid question, yeah, but she had to ask, just to be sure; her untrustworthy eyes needed confirmation that it really was him. That despite all the time and distance, both physical and emotional, that she’d put between them, this man was back in her life and would be living down the street.

After an endless wait, one corner of his mouth curled.

His face. Oh, God, his beautiful, ruined face.

He had a jagged, puckered scar that cut across his cheek, went past the edge of his mouth and ended at his chin. Yet he was still breathtaking, damn him, and that was unquestionably still Beau’s wry smile. Worse, those were Beau’s piercing eyes staring at her with such unwavering focus, and Beau’s delicious scent of fresh cotton and sporty deodorant she smelled.

“Yes,” he said, and the world spun out from under her.