Читать книгу Kiss Me Forever/Love Me Forever - Rosemary Laurey - Страница 11

On her way upstairs, Emily called to her, “Dixie, come in a minute, dear. I have a visitor.”

It was a toss-up who won the prize for most uncomfortable: Emily seated by the silver teapot with a lace napkin on her lap; Dixie all too conscious of the cobwebs on her clothes and the dirt on her face; Ida Collins with her knitting on her lap and a plate of sandwiches at her elbow.

Dixie invaded their dainty tea, feeling like an unwashed coal miner. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m in no state to sit down.” She hesitated to even offer a hand to Ida.

Emily obviously didn’t want Dixie on her upholstery. “Oh dear,” she fussed, “and we were planning on a nice cup of tea and a cake with you. Ida brought some jam buns, they’re raspberry.”

“I think I’d better take a rain check,” Dixie said and took a step towards the stairs.

“No,” said Ida, quiet as a lady yet as insistent as a drill sergeant. “That isn’t necessary. Emily can give you a cup to take upstairs and you must have one of my raspberry buns.”

There was no gracious way to refuse. Dixie took the cup and saucer in one hand, balanced the plate in the other and made it upstairs. She left the tea and bun in her room while she showered off the dirt of Orchard House. By the time she dried her hair, the tea was cold. She tipped it down the washbasin. She wasn’t hungry for the bun, not after the lunch she’d had. Not wanting to hurt Ida’s feelings, Dixie wrapped it in a wad of Kleenex and tucked it inside a paper bag in her trashcan.

Weary, she stretched out on the bed. An evening reading appealed more than a night at the Barley Mow. By nine, she was asleep. At ten, Emily tapped on the door. Hearing no answer, she peered inside. Three quiet steps, and she removed the empty cup and plate.

Ida waited downstairs. “Asleep?” she asked.

Emily nodded.

“That’s the poppy in the tea. She’ll be out for about six hours, then the aconite in the buns will start working.”

Emily frowned. “Are you sure it’s safe? If something goes wrong—she’s in my house.”

“I know what I’m doing and it isn’t kidneys in betony sauce for a vegetarian.”

“I did my best.”

“It wasn’t good enough. This will work.” She looked at her watch. “About four in the morning she’ll start vomiting. Wait until eight or nine to be sure she gets it all out. Then call the doctor. She’ll be weak but unhurt.” She paused. “Be sure to flush and clean the loos. You don’t want anything left.”

“But you said it was safe.” Emily felt the sweat pooling in her armpits. Sebastian had gone too far this time.

“It is.” Ida didn’t hide her impatience. “Now call Stanley to pick me up. I don’t like being out late.”

“How are you?” Emily’s plump face peered out from the kitchen door.

At least no kidney’s frying this morning—just coffee. “Fine. Just got up early. I’ve lots I want to do today.”

“Feeling alright?” Emily looked unbelievably worried.

“You bet! Living here seems to agree with me.” Her life had certainly taken a turn for the better this past week. Some week! She’d left Charleston, a newly unemployed school librarian, recently spectacularly dumped by the love of her life. Today she owned property in England and enough money to consider herself a woman of independent means. These things happened in the romance novels Gran used to read, not to Dixie LePage.

Dixie thought more about it as she drove into the village. Talk about life changes! She’d even found new men—Sebastian, polished, as good looking as hope and as worrying as a sore tooth; Christopher, strange as they come and faster than a speeding bullet; James, the obvious villain of the piece—the sleazy nephew.

She bought still-warm croissants from the baker on High Street and fresh coffee, ground to order in the small grocery store next door.

“Fine grind, I’ll remember that,” said the round and cheerful woman behind the counter. “You’re the American who’s moved into Orchard House, aren’t you? We deliver on Tuesdays and Fridays. Call us and we’ll send up whatever you need. I’m Kim, just ask for me.”

“I will,” Dixie replied, taking the business card from Kim, “but I’m still waiting for a phone.”

“You are? Did you call British Telecom?” Dixie nodded. Sarah went on, “I’ll have a word with my son. He works for them. I’ll see what he can do.” Dixie thanked her and left with her coffee and a plastic bag of milk that threatened to leak.

The Aga had gone out in the night, but Dixie managed to relight it on the third try and felt she’d scaled some new domestic height. On the back door she found a note from the milkman asking when she wanted delivery started, and how much. Someone had tucked a parish newsletter into the mail slot in the front door. It was as if the village suddenly decided to acknowledge her presence.

Sipping her coffee, Dixie wondered where she could buy more of the solid fuel to replenish the dwindling supply. She took a deep breath. Yesterday she contemplated purchasing a new refrigerator. Today, it was milk delivery and fuel. What next?

What next was Sally rapping on the back door to give an estimate for cleaning.

As they walked through the house, looking over the peeling wallpaper, yellowed paint and damp patches over the front door, a quick sale seemed the best idea. But a few minutes surrounded by the pear wood paneling in the dining room and imagining a good log fire in the marble fireplace in the drawing room, and Dixie knew she was here to stay. Maybe for more than a month—or two.

The front doorbell rang as they were halfway upstairs. It was the locksmith.

Sally called from the stairs, “I’ll check out the upstairs.”

Dixie hesitated. Why? She couldn’t be in two places at once. Sally could easily look over the bedrooms by herself. The locksmith set his tool bag down with a clank. “Let’s look at these locks of yours.”

“Tell you what,” he said after inspecting the doors. “I can give you a nice set of Chubb locks. Front, back and French windows, and that side door by the breakfast room. No sense in just doing the front door.”

Dixie agreed, even though the price suggested gold-plated locks. She intended to prevent uninvited visitors, whatever the cost—and heck, she didn’t need to pinch pennies now.

He busied himself drilling a perfect circle in the oak front door, and commenting on the antique lock. “Wonderful they are. All made by hand back then. Beautiful to use and work with, but they’ll never keep out anyone who knows what they’re doing.”

They hadn’t.

As he moved on to the French windows, another man arrived at the front door. “Cheers. Mum said you needed phones.”

A couple of hours later, Dixie had phones in the kitchen, the front hall and the big bedroom overlooking the back garden that she’d earmarked for her own.

She closed the door on British Telecom just as the locksmith came in from the kitchen.

“You’re all set up. They won’t get in here easily.” He handed her a set of bright keys and left her in a quiet house. No bustle of workmen, no toneless singing, no burr of automatic tools. Alone in her own house.

Except for Sally! The upstairs was deserted, but open doors and closets ajar showed where Sally had gone through the rooms. In the book room, someone had rifled through Christopher’s stack of books. No doubt about it. The copy of The Jew had been at the top of the pile. Now it lay open, a few inches from the rest of them. Why worry? Sally had been curious, that was all.

Sally had left a note and estimate on the kitchen table. She’d slipped out, she said, because Dixie was busy. She could send in a crew on Wednesday if Dixie would call. The charges seemed reasonable enough, given a major spring clean was needed. Dixie went around and locked every door. It was getting late and she had to get back to Emily’s and tell her about moving out in the morning.

“What the hell do you mean, moved out?” Sebastian barked at Emily. He imagined her holding the receiver from her ear and then covering it to block the sounds of his tirade from the nice, respectable bank employees.

“Sorry, Sebby. She just moved into her house. I could hardly prevent it, now could I?”

She could have if she’d done the job properly on Sunday. She’d made a pig’s ear out of the whole business and Ida hadn’t done any better. That’s what happened when he left things to women. “You’ve made a mess of everything.”

“I tried,” she whined. “So did Ida. She said it was foolproof.”

If he slammed down the receiver, she might put on a pout and stay away this evening. Sebastian sensed he’d need her by then. “We’ve got to get this sorted out.”

“Oh, Sebby, never mind. I’ll be over tonight and make you feel better, lovey. Between us, we’ll fix things.”

Sebastian thumped the receiver back on its cradle. He couldn’t rely on the women in the coven. Emily had been plain stupid and Ida was getting on and must have mistaken the dose—or Miss LePage possessed extraordinary strengths. Sebastian’s stomach clenched at the thought. Was it possible? He knew interest in Wicca had grown in recent years in the States and Miss LePage certainly had the ancestry for it. Was that why she’d come? To assume the mantle of her dead aunts? Impossible! He’d never relinquish power. He’d fight her to the last. Whatever it took.

He was sitting silently, considering his options, when someone knocked on the door. Emily? Too early. Who?

“You!” Sebastian almost spat.

“Me.” Christopher agreed. “I need ten minutes. May I come in, or would you rather talk on the landing?” Sebastian might well snarl. Christopher had deliberately waited until Miss Fortune left.

Sebastian opened the door and jerked his head, hardly gracious, but an invitation nonetheless. “Gone casual have you?” Christopher asked, eying his rolled up shirtsleeves.

Sebastian ignored the comment. “I won’t offer you a drink, since you can’t stay.” He leaned against his desk, arms folded.

Christopher smiled. “Don’t trouble yourself, Caughleigh. Just dropped by to mention something.”

“What? Decided you want to make a will?”

Christopher chuckled. “Not yet, Caughleigh, not yet. I came about a far more immediate matter. Miss LePage.”

“Yes, I noticed your concern. She’d be interested in your history.”

“You’d have a hard time convincing her. She doesn’t believe in me—or you. I just came to give a friendly, gentlemanly warning. If any harm ever befell Miss LePage, it would anger me.”

“And you alone would take me on?”

“I wouldn’t be alone.”

“We have a full coven.”

“Not yet. The new initiates have nothing but curiosity and a smattering of knowledge.”

Amusement lit Sebastian’s dark eyes. “Marlowe, you’ve lost your heart to her.”

Caughleigh would never know how close that jibe hit. Ever. “We both know I don’t have one. No, she’s innocent and uninvolved and it will stay that way. Keep your delinquent nephew away from her. Leave her and that house alone.”

“And if I don’t?”

Christopher picked up the telephone receiver and clenched it in his left hand. There was a loud snap and another. Slowly the plastic crumbled under his fist. The muscles in Sebastian’s face tensed and his complexion paled. He shivered. Christopher opened his fingers and let a handful of fragments fall over the leather desktop. “You will.”

He took a step as if towards the door but instead took Sebastian’s jacket from the hook. “You look chilled, Caughleigh,” he said. “You need your jacket.”

Quicker than lightening, Christopher threw the jacket on Sebastian’s shoulders and pulled the sleeves tight around his neck. “Remember what I said,” he whispered in his ear. Sebastian’s hands clutched at air as his arms flailed. Christopher tightened his grip. Sebastian nodded. Christopher whispered, “I knew you’d understand.” He held the sleeves until the seams made ripping noises.

Caughleigh slumped on the desk, the jacket still around his neck. He coughed and choked and managed a couple of profanities.

A wallet, keys, and date book fell from the jacket. Christopher pushed them aside until he saw the initials on the brown leather book: “D. LeP.” He palmed it. Maybe he had no right to it, but neither did Caughleigh.

“Pleasant evening,” Christopher said to the still-gasping Caughleigh and carefully shut the door. The evenings were still a trifle chilly.

He had his back to her, but there was no mistaking those wide shoulders and blue-black hair. After an afternoon watching him among the books, Dixie could pick Christopher out of a Super Bowl crowd. He turned before she closed the door. His smile broke through the smoky haze. Shivering wasn’t enough. She ached at the sight of him.

She’d lost her senses. She didn’t need them. She’d been crazy to come. What sort of woman came looking for a man in a bar? But this was the Barley Mow, with Vernon limping around, wiping tables and gathering up used glasses and Alf at the bar. Christopher and Alf exchanged words.

Alf took down a glass. By the time she crossed to the bar, a half of Guinness waited for her. “Your usual, Miss LePage.” She reached into her pocket but he shook his head. “It’s taken care of.” He nodded up at Christopher.

A pale hand rested inches from hers. Dixie stared at the white, perfectly manicured nails, slender fingers, narrow wrist and muscular forearm. “This one’s on me,” Christopher said.

She jerked her head up and saw his smile. Had he noticed her ogling his hands? Please, no. “Thanks.” She took a sip from the heavy glass mug. Swallowing wasn’t easy.

“What’s going to tempt you tonight?” he asked.

“What?” And what did that grin mean?

“What gustatory delight on Alf’s menu?”

“Oh.” She stared up at the chalkboard menu and took three deep breaths. “I’ll have a jacket potato with a shrimp cocktail, Alf.”

“We’ll be over in the conservatory,” Christopher told Alf.

“We will, will we?”

“I want to talk business. If we do it here, we might as well publish it in the local paper.”

That made sense. She took her Guinness and followed him until they found an empty table. He raised his wine glass to his lips and sipped, pursing his lips together as he swallowed, then a bright red tongue smoothed over his full lips. Dixie felt herself mirroring the gesture as her stomach did a flip. This was ridiculous! They’d come here to discuss first editions, hadn’t they?

“Here you are, one jacket potato with a shrimp cocktail.” Dixie stared at the plate Vernon placed in front of her. She hadn’t realized the shrimp cocktail would already be sauced, and she’d never expected to get it on top of the potato.

“Looks tasty,” Christopher said.

Dixie nodded. Once over the initial surprise, it did look appetizing. But when she met Christopher’s eye, she wondered if he’d meant the spud.

She tasted a shrimp, the tang of cocktail sauce was sharper than she’d expected, a strange mix of vinegar and something she couldn’t recognize. She let it sit on her tongue, trying to identify the elusive taste and hoping to calm her racing pulse. If her stomach didn’t settle soon, she’d never be able to swallow. She managed one shrimp. It was small enough that she swallowed it whole. The taste lingered on her tongue, strange and unexpected as the combination on the plate in front of her, as alien as the one-eyed man watching her.

“I wanted to talk to you,” she said, sipping from her glass to wet her dry throat.

“I know.”

“About the books you wanted.”

“Yes.” He smiled. His wide mouth spread to reveal teeth white as alabaster. He laughed, a warm chuckle that came from deep in his belly, and his eye twinkled. His lips closed, but he still smiled as he leaned back and tilted his chair. “I know why you came, Dixie.”

He whispered but it felt as if he’d shouted. The words echoed like a siren in her mind. Did he? How could he? Please, she wasn’t that obvious, was she?

This time it took three deep breaths and a couple of mouthfuls of jacket potato, but at least she could still swallow. “The books you wanted. I found an antiquarian bookshop in Guildford in the yellow pages. I plan to get them valued.”

“Name your price, I’ll pay it.”

“What about the first-edition forgery? You want that too?”

He nodded. “Especially that. Couldn’t let my namesake get away, could I?” Broad shouldered and handsome as sin, one arm draped over the back of his chair, he could probably get away with anything. But not with her. She’d come here to get over men, not tangle with them. She’d successfully evaded James and Sebastian; she wasn’t falling for one-eyed Christopher, no matter how wide his smile or inviting his lips.

“I’ll get back with you as soon as I have a price.”

“I’ll be waiting.” He rested an elbow on the back of his chair. Slim fingers rubbed his chin. He watched her the way a gambler might study his cards, assessing his hand and planning a finesse. His lips parted slightly, the pad of his index finger traced the fullness of his lips. Shivers raced like cold mercury up and down Dixie’s spine. Who was she fooling? He wasn’t talking first editions here. He wanted more than a look at her books. And so did she. Her body hadn’t reacted this way for months. In the silence between them, a strange clarity hit her. This man could give her incredible joy and pleasure and heartbreak. And she’d had enough of the latter to last two lifetimes.

Now was the time for a quick exit.

She stood up. “I’ll get back in touch with you.”

Like one of the slow motion scenes in a movie, he reached over and wrapped his cold fingers round her wrist. She could have moved. She didn’t want to. “Don’t go, Dixie. Besides, you haven’t eaten your dinner.” She’d swallowed three mouthfuls, if that. “Alf put that on the menu just for you; don’t hurt his feelings.”

Alf’s feelings would survive. Would hers? She sat back down to find out. And maybe find out something else. “Tell me about my great-aunts,” she said. If he got talking, maybe he wouldn’t look at her in quite the same way.

“What about them?”

“Anything. I’m living in their house, sleeping on their bed, making coffee in their kitchen and they’re strangers. I know nothing about them. Except Gran didn’t like them.”

His frown eased a little. “What did your Gran tell you?”

“She broke with them when she married Grandpa. They never wrote or phoned or anything. It’s so odd they left the house to her.”

“Their father left it to the three of them for life, and then to their heirs. It came to you as the only survivor.”

How did he know? “You’re up on village gossip?”

“Not gossip. Fact. Ask your friend Sebastian.”

“He’s hardly my friend.”

“I’m relieved to hear it.”

Was he flirting? Smiling like that, who knew? “Get serious. Tell me about them. Gran called them witches. Were they?”

“I thought you didn’t believe in witches and vampires and things that go bump in the night.”

“I don’t, but I spent a couple of hours looking at your books and the others in that section. Not everyone shares my skepticism.”

His mouth twitched at the corners. “And what a beautiful skeptic you are.”

“Yeah, right.” But she didn’t laugh it off—the snicker died as she met his eye. Flirting was one thing, this was—what?

“Right,” he whispered. “Are you skeptical about compliments?”

“Not compliments. Men!” She wanted to choke herself. That wasn’t supposed to jump out like that.

It didn’t faze Christopher. His dry, deep chuckle emerged like a ripple of spring sunshine. “Don’t worry. You’ll be safe with me.”

Meeting the warmth of his velvet-brown eye, she wondered about that. She gave her potato a lot of attention for the next few minutes. “Back to my aunts,” she said. “Were they witches?”

“Black witches? No. They were a pair of eccentric old ladies who longed for the feudal ages when they’d have controlled the whole country.”

“And all the books?”

“Bought by their father. A retired colonel from the Indian Army. An old martinet if ever there was one. He treated his daughters like unpaid servants, his servants like slaves, and ran the village. He was in charge of the local Home Guard during the war. One day a group came to discuss invasion defenses. One of them was a young captain from the United States Army. Your great-grandfather invited them to dinner.

“The rest, as they say, is history. They stayed around for a week or so. Six months later, three days after her twenty-first birthday, your grandmother got married in London. They say the old colonel never let a single man under sixty into the house after that.”

That tallied with Gran’s version. “Didn’t they have a mother?”

“She died out in India.”

“How do you know all this? It happened years before you were born.”

He hesitated, just a beat. “This is a village. Gossip keeps a long time.”

He’d given more information in five minutes that Gran had in a lifetime. She wanted to go home, and think about it. She drained the last mouthful of Guinness and set the glass on the table. The creamy rings of lather clung to the glass like stray thoughts, unclear and indistinct. Christopher watched her. She knew it even as she watched the slow beads of froth descend the inside of her empty glass. Her breath caught in her throat.

“You walked.” It wasn’t a question.

This time he didn’t offer to walk her home. He didn’t need to. There was no moon, but Christopher had no problem finding the path. She stumbled on a root, but he reached out and caught her. After that, it made sense to hold his hand and follow him across the green. It also made for distraction and wild imaginings. Her fingers felt warm against his, his handclasp firm and sure. How would his fingers feel on her neck, her shoulders, her…? Enough. She didn’t want any involvement. She’d come here to catch her breath and find peace of mind. Not lose it.

“No visitors tonight,” he said as they stood on the gravel drive looking up at the house.

“With my new locks, they’d have to be desperate to keep trying.”

“Maybe they are….” He whispered it, as if talking to himself.

She walked up to the door, key in hand. He came with her. Did he expect to be asked in? He’d be disappointed. She wasn’t ready for that. Wasn’t likely to be, either.

His hand tightened around hers. Her heart tightened inside her chest. “Dixie, make sure you double check every lock and the windows.”

“Worried about me?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? Someone’s up to no good.”

“Offering to come in and protect me from ill wishers?”

“No.” It came out a hoarse cry.

His hand closed on hers. She clenched back. She didn’t want him to go. For two cents she would ask him in. No, she wouldn’t! Why not? Because she wasn’t stupid. Lightheaded from the Guinness and the night air, she turned to face him. “Christopher,” she whispered, “I will be all right.”

“I know. No one will bother you tonight.”

“Good night, and thanks for the company.” She kissed him.

Rather than the cheek she’d intended, she found his lips and stayed there. Warm, smooth and moist, his mouth opened and hers followed. She had to stand on tiptoe. She’d have climbed the wall for this. His lips tasted of wine and moonlight and his mouth offered passion and heat. She heard a groan like an echo in the night and reached around his neck as his hands framed her head.

His hands seared trails of sensation through her hair and his tongue half-scrambled her brain. She wanted more. She wanted everything he had. She wanted the night, the world, and the morning and she found them here among the overgrown roses and the ankle-deep grass. Her heart raced. Her breathing quickened as if trying to outrace her heart. She felt heat and need and want and satiation. When he pulled back, she gasped for air. The pulse in her neck throbbing and her body screaming for more.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” a hoarse, ragged whisper warned as his arms locked behind her back.

Why waste words? Kisses like his came once in a lifetime. Her fingers locked behind his neck. She stretched up and met his welcoming mouth. His arms held her. Without them she’d be a wobbling heap on the front step. His hands smoothed her back, sending racing streaks of heat up and down her spine and then lower, until need sank deep into her belly. She leaned into him, wanting the feel of his hard body against hers. Needing his touch and his lips.

He pressed her against the doorjamb. His hands cupped her upturned face. “Oh Dixie,” he whispered and gently covered her face with kisses hot as a thousand honeyed brands. Her knees shook. His legs felt like iron as she stood between them. She felt him hard against her belly. She had no breath to ask him in. All she knew were kisses that turned her mind to mush and her blood to fire. His lips brushed her forehead; they dusted her eyelids and caressed her cheeks. His tongue explored one ear and sent her nerve endings into orbit. A trail of kisses down her neck wrung a groan from her lips and a sigh from her constricted lungs. A shudder of delight whipped through every fiber in her body. His lips reached the base of her neck. He nipped, her body melted against his as stars and comets collided. He caught her as her legs gave way.

“Dixie!” Anguish sounded in Christopher’s voice. She had to be grinning like a fool and she didn’t care. Besides, it was dark and what was a grin after what they’d just shared? “Are you all right?” He sounded worried. He shouldn’t be. That kiss alone made the whole trip worthwhile.

“I will be when I touch planet Earth.”

“Look here…I didn’t mean it to…I hadn’t planned on that.” He was embarrassed. He shouldn’t be.

“If that’s unplanned, your seduction routine must be something incredible.”

“Don’t joke, Dixie.” He sounded hurt.

“I’m not. I meant it.”

“Look here get in the house. I want you safe.”

“And I’m not, with you?” The back of his hand brushed her cheek and then caressed her neck. She couldn’t repress the sigh that rose as his hand brushed the base of her neck. “Get in the house, Dixie.”

“Good night,” she whispered.

He unlocked the door and handed her back the key. In the light of the hall, he looked drawn and wan.

“Sleep well,” he said and closed the door with a dull thud.

She turned the lock and started up the wide, shallow stairs. The mahogany bed waited with its crocheted bedspread and down pillows. She was alone but not lonely. Not with the memory of a kiss like that. She’d thought stories about climaxing while kissing were wild imaginings. She’d been wrong.

A sudden weariness soaked her bones. The day had taken its toll on her. She dropped her clothes on the floor and stopped only to brush her teeth and wash her face. In the mirror, she noticed a mark on her neck. An insect bite? A mosquito maybe?

Lying between the cool linen sheets, she was all too aware of her body and the warmth between her legs. She caressed her neck, remembering. Her fingers traced the trail of his kisses. At the base of her neck, just above her shoulder, her fingers danced a memory, plucking chords of response. Without warning, her body leaped in reply and then her head sank into the soft pillows. The moon rose an hour later and Dixie slept a quiet dreamless sleep.

In the morning she saw it all differently.