by Piper Rayne
“Drink it!” he commanded.
Jillian pushed it away. “Rave, please! I’ll die if I drink that poison.”
“Girl, pul-leaze! Why would I poison you? This drink is one helpful cure for hangovers. I promise it’ll make you feel better in no time at all. Now, drink it!” Once again, he shoved the glass of green stuff into her hand.
She glared at Rave, then studied the drink a few seconds. With a deep intake of breath, she closed her eyes and chug-a-lugged the contents of the glass. It took all her willpower and control to keep from retching on the counter. When she opened her eyes, they watered and her vision blurred. Her head swam and her breathing came in rapid pants. Holding herself rigid on the stool, she waited impatiently for death to claim her and end the awful after effects of the drink. It seemed as if Rave had poisoned her, after all.
“Here, use this.” Rave shoved a bag in her face. “It’s a barf bag. Let it out in there.”
Jillian nodded weakly, then secured the bag around her mouth. After a few embarrassed moments, she removed the bag. Incredibly, her head had cleared, the queasiness in her stomach had gone, and she felt like the color had returned to her cheeks.
“I’ll take that and dispose of it,” Rave said, correctly interpreting the hostile and murderous glare Jillian gave to him. After a few moments, he returned and handed Jillian a glass of cool water to drink. “Feeling better?”
Jillian drank half the contents of the glass, savoring the water’s coolness against her parched throat and inside her stomach. She looked at Rave. “I should kill you! What was that stuff, Raveno Territo Mondel?” she spat.
“Well, thanks a lot, girl. I use my skills to rid you of a monstrous hangover and you want my blood for it.” Rave threw his hands up and went to check the coffeemaker. “And watch your language,” he added over his shoulder.
Tapping the counter, Jillian shook her head, full of remorse. “Oh, Rave,” she lamented. “I’m sorry. I do appreciate your efforts.”
“And well you should. With that you drank last night, it would take you until Christmas to overcome that hangover.”
“What was I thinking?” Jillian asked, sipping her water. “To imbibe that much.”
“You were thinking Scott Martin, Jilly. And how you feel he broke your heart, even though the man has yet to make a commitment to you.”
“If you don’t mind, Rave, I don’t want to talk about it,” Jillian said and smiled ruefully. “After the second bottle of champagne, my memory is kind of fuzzy, but I must thank Marley for putting me to bed.”
Leaning next to her and resting his elbows on the counter, Rave lifted an eyebrow. “Marley? Girl, pul-leaze. Marley was dragged out after the first bottle of champagne. Howie wanted to get her to bed before she passed out over here.”
Jillian widened her eyes. “Th-then w-who undressed me and put me to bed?” she asked with trepidation, already knowing the answer.
With a silly grin plastered on his face, Rave raised his eyebrows up and down.
“Rave!” Jillian growled, slapping him on his back with all her might. “How could you?” She stood from the stool. “How could you?” she repeated, outraged.
“Get a grip, Sheba,” Rave told her, holding a chair like a lion tamer, to keep her at bay. “It was either that or let you stay on the floor where you sat after that last glass of Pouilly Foisse.”
The shock of that announcement cut through Jillian’s anger. “Pouilly Foisse? Wine? I thought we drank champagne.”
“That, too,” Rave explained, still holding the chair in front of himself. “But the champagne ran out. And you, trooper that you are, insisted on opening the wine. Well, after a glass and a half of that, rigor mortis began to set in. Believe me, Jilly, it taught you the meaning of dead drunk!”
“Oh, my goodness! I’m so ashamed! Rave, I’m so sorry. You’re a true friend. I don’t know what I would do without you. Thank you for your concern for my well-being.”
Setting the chair down, Rave waved her embarrassment away. “Don’t sweat it, honey. I was glad to be of service. Next time, be more cautious of demon alcohol, especially since you aren’t a drinker.”
Jillian laughed. “You don’t have to tell me twice,” she said. “By the way, what was in that drink you gave me a few minutes ago.”
“Family secret. If I told you, I’d have to kill you to keep it a secret. Besides, if you knew what was in it, you would kill me. Just be grateful that my invention worked.”
Shaking her head and thinking it best that she didn’t know what Rave had given to her, Jillian laughed again. “My friend, the mad professor.” She walked up to him and threw her arms around him. She kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks again, sweetheart. Now, I think I’d better take a quick shower and get dressed for the day ahead.”
“Jilly?” Rave called as she started towards her apartment.
“Yes?”
“Don’t grieve over something that never happened, honey,” he said gently. “In spite of what you saw last night, I think Scott will come back and explain to you how he really feels. For my money, I would say you’re at the top of his amorous list.”
“I wish I could believe that,” Jillian said with a sigh.
“Oh, ye of little faith. You’re probably the only one who hasn’t noticed the look of love in Scott’s eyes when he regards you. Don’t judge him yet, honey. Sometimes looks can be deceiving.”
“Even the look of love,” Jillian pointed out.
“Only if the love isn’t real, honey.”
Reaching the door to her apartment, Jillian turned to Rave. “I’ll see you as soon as I can. Thanks for the cheer.” In spite of what she saw last night at the restaurant, Rave might have been right. Besides, she still felt the need to talk to Scott herself. Even if it was to end what she’d imagined they’d started. At least, there would be closure to that chapter in her life.
With that in mind, before she showered, she placed another call to his company and once again got his answering machine. The day crawled by without word from him. Not even Rave's outrageous antics cheered her up, and by the time she saw to four more new arrivals and retired for the night, she was exhausted but unable to sleep.
* * *
Getting up and putting on her robe, she went into the kitchen and prepared a cup of warm milk for herself. Afterwards, she returned to her private quarters and stretched out on the sofa. She had barely made herself comfortable when the doorbell to her apartment's living room rang.
Rave. She sighed. Maybe if she ignored the bell he would just go away. She really didn't care to be subjected to his perpetual cheeriness tonight. Unfortunately, as usual, he was persistent. He was ringing the doorbell while banging on the door.
Sipping her milk, Jillian glanced at the clock on the wall. 11:45. Well, maybe Rave and Melba had had an argument. For his kindness to her, the least she could do was let him in to talk about it. Besides, it didn't look like he would leave. She set the glass down.
"Just a minute.” Leaving the chain latched, she opened the door to reveal not Rave, but Scott, holding a sleeping Timmy over his shoulder.
Hurriedly, Jillian unlatched the chair and pulled the door opened. "Scott! Come in."
Scott walked into the living room. Unshielded from the shadows of moonlight and darkness, Jillian clearly saw his haggard, unshaven expression in the light of the room.
"Scott, what's wrong?"
When he didn't answer immediately, she thought to press the issue and demand answers from him, but she realized it wasn't her place. At the moment, he needed her as a friend. Later, she could question where he had been these past days he should have been working at the Breakfast Nook. If he cared to hear, she could tell him about her reconciliation with her parents and her restoral of fortune. If he cared to hear, she would tell him how much she loved him.
Scott spoke into the silence, broken only by the gentle, even breathing of the sleeping Timmy. "I need a favor, Jillian," he said in a strained voice.
* * *
> "Of...of course, Scott.” Her heart thundered at his nearness, but concern about why he was there in the middle of the night with his sleeping son lessened her happiness. With a start, she realized that the wedding ring he usually wore wasn't on his finger tonight. "Please, tell me what's wrong."
He dodged her question again. "Will you take care of Timmy for me tonight?"
She met his troubled gaze. "Of course."
"There's no school tomorrow. A staff meeting or something to that effect is going on. He's all ready for bed, Jilly, so I'll just lie him on the sofa."
"No, no, Scott. Put him on the bed. It's a king, so there's enough room for us to share."
"Thanks, sweetheart.” Scott brought the child into the bedroom. When he reappeared Timmy-less minutes later, he headed for the door. "Jillian, I'll explain tomorrow."
He smiled at her, and his deep dimples overshadowed the creases of worry on his face. Leaning down, he brushed her lips with his own. The brief contact left her yearning for more.
"You're wonderful," he said, caressing her cheek with the back of his hand. Opening the door and flicking on the outside light, he stood there for a moment. "Timmy knows I'll pick him up some time tomorrow. He has a change of clothes in his backpack."
Desire and vulnerability stood in his gaze, but before Jillian commented, before she touched him, he spoke again.
"Thanks again.” Then, he rushed to the big, black Beamer parked outside.
Jillian stood in the door until Scott drove away. Securing the latch, she went in to check on Timmy, who was sleeping peacefully, before going back to sit on the sofa.
* * *
She couldn't imagine what had transpired with Scott since she'd last seen him. Where was Kayla that she couldn't take care of Timmy? Maybe something had happened to her. Speculating again. Well, she just wouldn't do that to herself. She was stressed enough already. She would just wait for the explanation Scott promised to give her.
The next morning, Jillian sat at the kitchen table, sipping from a cup filled with strong, black coffee. Already seven-thirty, her guests would be down in a half-hour looking for breakfast. That didn't matter, however. She'd been awake nearly forever, wondering about Scott, and had already burned the food she attempted to cook. Now ready-made, fluffy croissants and thick pastries lined the counters, waiting to be warmed.
Her lack of cooking skills was a serious matter. She would have to remedy that as soon as possible. Maybe the ex-sous chef Scott had recommended could teach her the basics.
"Good morning, Jillian.” Timmy came to the table and pulled out a chair, sitting across from her. It surprised her to see him already dressed.
She'd intended to peek in on the little boy after she finished her coffee, but apparently that was unnecessary.
She smiled brightly and looked into his light brown eyes—eyes that mirrored Scott's. A poignant longing assailed her, but she ignored it as she perceived Timmy's wariness. He was only a child, left with a virtual stranger until his father took care of whatever business he had.
"Good morning, Timmy. Aren't you the efficient one, up and early at this hour."
Timmy relaxed slightly at the compliment. "I'm used to getting up early, Jillian," he explained. "Especially on school days. Mrs. Benson always comes at seven in the morning. She says it's to help me and Scott get started. Sometimes, she even comes at five, when Scott needs her to."
* * *
"I see. And what does your Mom do when Mrs. Benson isn't there?” She was prying, but she couldn't stifle one of many questions that begged to be asked. Why did Scott have to bring Timmy there when he had Mrs. Benson and the child's perfect mother?
She was being uncharitable and spoiled, but she was so afraid that Scott would return and say goodbye. And, now, she was questioning a seven-year-old in his father's stead. This was an all-time low for a grown woman.
Timmy squirmed in his seat and she softened her irritation.
"Can I have some Cheerios?"
Glad that he had taken away her guilt from the question by not answering her, she rose from her seat. "Of course, Timmy. But I'm not sure I have Cheerios. We'll just see what kind of cereal we have."
"I'll get it!” Timmy bounded from his chair and ran to where Jillian stood. "I'll bet my Mommy liked Cheerios, 'cause me and Scott both like it.” He screwed his little face into a frown. "Do you think God has Cheerios in heaven where my Mommy is, Jillian?"
Her hand froze on the box of cereal and she stared at the child, rendered momentarily speechless. The thought might have crossed her mind once or twice that Scott was a widower, but she'd never truly believed it. Nor had she comprehended fully what that meant for Timmy.
Timmy was motherless, and Scott was a widower. That might have explained a lot—his vehement defense of the lady in question, his warning that Jillian never compare herself to Timmy's mother, his interest in her but his apparent reluctance to become deeply involved. Yet his behavior in the past days would have made Jillian wonder if Timmy's mother—Scott's wife—had passed away last night had she not known better. But that just couldn’t be. The death of Timmy’s mother hadn’t occurred last night. A few weeks ago, in an angry outburst, Scott had told her in so many words that Timmy’s mother was dead.
Timmy tugged at her sleeve. "Jillian, what's the matter? Aren't you going to get my cereal?"
* * *
The discovery had brought her to a complete halt, but she didn't want to distress the child any more than he must have been. She mobilized herself and yanked several boxes of cereal down from the cupboard.
"I was just thinking, Timmy, your mom probably does like Cheerios and get all she wants in Heaven."
"Yeah?” Timmy seemed relieved at that. "You know that's what Scott says."
"Then Scott's right.” Her admiration and respect for the care and love Scott seemed to shower upon Timmy increased. What a lucky little boy Timmy was. "Why do you call him 'Scott'?"
"'Cause that's his name," Timmy answered quietly, looking over the bright, colorful boxes of cereals. "Oh, boy! Cap’n Crunch! I want that!"
"Then you shall have that," Jillian said with a laugh. She fixed his cereal, then poured herself another cup of coffee. "In a few minutes, I have to serve breakfast to my guests. I have some game boards on the bookshelf in my apartment and also neat books. Some about airplanes and big trucks and trains—"
"Do you have any about boats?"
"Yes. And also some about animals. Just take your pick." Marley wouldn't object to Timmy reading her kids' books.
"Is it okay if I watched television? I'll read and color later. Do you have any coloring books?"
Jillian ruffled his russet hair. "I have almost anything you wish, dude! As soon as you're finished I'll set you up in my living room."
Timmy slurped up the last of the cereal and milk in his bowl. A milk moustache framing his lips, he burped. "I'm finished now," he said with a giggle. "I want to watch the Cartoon Network."
Bounding from his chair, he headed to Jillian's apartment.
17
Another day passed without word from Scott.
Jillian went through her routine with military precision, ever grateful for a friend like Raveno Territo Mondel. Not only did he lend his usual generous hand in the kitchen, he entertained Timmy while Jillian occupied herself with a telephone call to Howard and one from her parents' giving her the phone number to their hotel in Paris; writing necessary checks to clear up her accounts; and then seeing to her guests' needs.
By dinnertime, Timmy had relaxed quite measurably, and by the time she was tucking him into bed, they had become friends. Before she completed the book she was reading to him, he'd drifted off into a contented sleep.
Now, an hour and a half later, nearly midnight, Jillian was bathed and ready for bed but she worried about Scott's absence. He was supposed to pick Timmy up sometime yesterday, but no one had heard from him in nearly two days. Jillian consoled herself that Scott's absence wasn't due to the passing of
his wife. Sometimes, during the course of the long day, Timmy revealed that his mother died a long time ago. Pressed further, she discovered he had still been a toddler at her death, only two years old.
That was small consolation, however. Her concern for Scott overrode everything else, and another phone call to his office produced the same results she had gotten since early evening. His blasted answering machine clicked on.
What could be wrong? She knew how Scott felt about Timmy, and unless something dire had happened, he wouldn't have gone, then not contacted his son. Where could he be? Was he with Kayla?
Her eyes began to droop, but she wouldn't allow herself to fall asleep until after she'd heard from Scott.
* * *
As if on cue, a knock sounded on her door, the voice accompanying it soft and weary sounding.
"Jillian?"
Without preamble, Jillian unlocked her door and pulled it open. Scott stepped inside and, before she could reclose the door properly, he had her in his arms, clinging to her. His body was warm and masculine against hers, and she held onto him as tightly as he held onto her, holding him for whatever reason he needed to be held, as long as he needed her. Which she hoped was for an eternity. She laid her head against his chest, feeling so right in his embrace.
Long moments later, his grip on her relaxed. He stared down at her, his eyes red, his face a mask of grief.
On impulse, she hugged him and kissed his hair roughened cheek. "Oh, Scott, come. Sit down.” She led him to the sofa, where he obediently sat. Her nerves hummed through her, making her unable to sit down. "Can I get you a drink? Wine? A Coca Cola? Coffee? Water? Beer—"
"No, I'm fine.” Scott ran his fingers though his hair. He looked exhausted. "Is Timmy all right?"
"Yes, Scott. He's asleep in my bed.” She regarded him in question. She hated to force the issue, especially when he seemed so aggrieved, but she needed answers. His pensiveness was arousing her old fears and uncertainties, and any plausible explanation to his behavior failed to surface.
