But if Elise wanted him to…
“Okay.”
“That’s wonderful.” She beamed. Then she squinted at him. “Why are you smiling?”
“I just thought of the upside for me.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“You’ll have to stick around long enough to see what it looks like.”
She glared at him. “Sometimes I really hate how your mind works, Your Honor.”
Elise stood on the step, staring at the door knocker. She looked down at her phone’s display. The text that included his address couldn’t be right. There had to be a digit missing, or the street was wrong. No, it said he lived in Society Hill, so this had to be right.
She stepped back and looked up. Three floors, wider than her house, and in the most historic neighborhood in Philly. She wasn’t a fan of real estate porn the way Christine was, but even Elise knew she was standing in front of a very expensive townhouse. A house that would have been way out of her price range when she’d bought the Fitler Square property. How’d he manage it on a government salary?
Maybe it was flats. When she looked back at the door, there was just one doorbell. Which she rang, a bit tentatively. Half convinced it was the wrong house, Elise rehearsed a graceful apology.
She exhaled noisily when Jack answered the door. “Thank God. I was so convinced the address had to be wrong, I’d concocted a story for when someone else answered.”
“Jehovah’s Witness?”
“Candygram,” she joked, stepping into the doorway.
He kissed her lightly, then waved her into the house. Like hers, it opened onto the living room. Elise had a hard time finding any other similarities. This place had the aura of old money. Antiques, oriental carpets, rich fabrics, and really good lighting.
“Come into the kitchen. I’m working on dinner.” Jack walked back toward French doors leading to a generous courtyard garden. An island separated the kitchen from the dining room.
She drew in a long sniff. “It smells incredible. Herbs and things.”
He smiled at her. In truth, he smelled even more delicious than the food, and that was saying something. Best to double-check, though. She walked around to his side of the island, put a hand gently on his arm to prevent him from chopping at her with his knife, and brought his head down for another kiss. Mmm. Tasted good too.
He quirked an eyebrow.
“Just a test to see if you smell better than your cooking,” she said.
“What are your scientific findings?”
“This close to the kitchen, it’s hard to be completely certain. I’d like to take more samples elsewhere in the house.” She was teasing, but he promptly put the knife down.
“I’ll give you the tour. Sample all you want.”
She followed him out of the kitchen, which was twice the size of hers and even boasted a table of its own.
“Dining room,” he said solemnly.
“The table and chairs are a clue, right?”
He smiled briefly. “Your ability to provoke me is slowly diminishing, I’m pleased to say.”
He moved toward the wide arch into the living room again, but she stopped him to get a sample kiss. She could still smell whatever was roasting in the oven, but his scent—the unique Blackjack smell that intoxicated her—was stronger here. And he tasted just as good. She released him.
His eyes were laughing at her but his face remained solemn. “I believe you already have a sample from the living room.” He gestured at the stairs, motioning for her to precede him.
On the landing, he pushed open a door at the front of the house. “Guest room.” Perfectly appointed, with nothing to suggest anyone had slept in it for a long time. Elise poked her head in the guest bath, just to be thorough.
There was a laundry room on the second floor. As she pushed his hips toward the washer, she whispered against his mouth, “This is so erotic.”
He smirked, and whispered back, “What is?”
“A laundry room on the same floor as the bedroom.” She ran her hands up his shirt and into his hair. “It makes me want to get naked just for the convenience of leaving my dirty clothes here.”
Jack struggled not to laugh. “Don’t let me stop you.”
She kissed him, savoring the way his lips softened when she touched them. She pulled back, forcing herself to keep the tone light. “Hard to tell if I’m getting some interference from your laundry detergent.” She sniffed the collar of his shirt. The smell of his skin was going to her head, like brandy fumes. “Yeah, that could be it. Next room?”
His bedroom was huge and had a fireplace, French doors leading to a balcony, even a chaise. It was tidy and elegant, with little evidence that he did more than sleep there.
“Oh, c’mon, Jack.” She pointed accusingly at the chaise, upholstered in a yellowy-cream color. “I’m willing to let the clothes and the cooking and the fine-wine crap go, but if you tell me you have ever, even once, lounged on that chaise, I will leave now on the grounds that you have to be gay.”
“That’s the worst sort of stereotyping,” he scolded.
“Have you, or have you not, ever lounged on that chaise?”
He shook his head slowly, as if dismayed. “I really shouldn’t encourage you, but no, I haven’t. The decorator seemed convinced I’d marry the moment she installed the last pelmet and draped that cashmere throw, so I let her talk me into buying a chaise for this room. It’s a reading area, by the way.” He waved at a floor lamp and a small table. It did look cozy. If she ever picked up a fashion magazine or a romance novel, this would be the place to read it in.
She turned to leave, but he stopped her. “Aren’t you going to kiss me here? You know, for science?”
The wave of desire was so strong, she felt its vibrations down to her toes. “With a bed right over there? Are you crazy? I’m struggling to keep myself from ripping your clothes off as it is.” She shook her head. “I will not be responsible for ruining dinner. Next room?”
There was a less fancy flight of stairs to the third floor, which had Jack’s library or study or office or whatever he called it filled with books, leather furniture, and another fireplace. Who brought up the wood? Someone must—there were ashes in the grate. On a cold winter’s night, this must be a wonderful place to work. She eyed the leather sofa critically. If the chaise downstairs was perfect for reading novels, this would be just right for reading case law or reviewing discovery.
She stopped herself. Do not fall in love with his house. Bad enough she already loved his hair. That was probably his plan—to get her to fall for another bit on every romantic date until it was too late for her to insist she wasn’t in love with the entire package.
“I won’t assume, so let me ask. Safe to kiss here?” he said.
“Sure. I’m pretty adventurous sexually, but naked on leather furniture is a no-no.” At his look, she explained, “They go together well enough, it’s getting them apart that’s the problem. Give me high-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets every time.”
“Mm. The decorator bought my sheets. They seem nice enough, but I rely on you to tell me what their uh, thread count is.”
“Now, there you go, spoiling the mood. I could have kissed you here, but now I’m thinking about the sheets on that bed of yours, and it occurs to me that we have to walk past your bedroom to get back to the kitchen, and I’m still trying not to ruin dinner…”
“Okay, I can solve that problem. I’ll be responsible for resisting your efforts to pull me into the bedroom to slake your lust. In exchange, you’ll let me kiss you.” He was close enough for her to revel in the combination of his body warmth and scent.
“Somehow I think that screws up the scientific experiment, but okay.” She tried to sound dispassionate before his lips came down on hers. This was a full-bodied kiss, and she thrilled at the feel of his arousal. For a moment, the idea of messing up his tidy bedroom seemed viable, even imperative, but then he softened the kiss, put a little air between them, and let
her go.
She wondered if she looked as fuzzy around the edges as she felt. “I’m confused. Is this a romantic date or a sex date?”
“I say it’s romantic. I’m trying to seduce you into lo—”
“Don’t you dare use the L-word. I’m not kidding. It makes me mad, and I really don’t want to be mad at you.” She wanted some dinner, some sex, and then she’d go home happy.
That really changed his mood. He morphed back into the judge. He checked his watch. “I need to get back to the kitchen anyway.”
They walked out to the landing. “Okay, but what are those rooms?” She stopped in front of a closed door. “May I?”
Why was she prying into his life? For one thing, her curiosity was revved up. Plus, she was annoyed that he’d morphed back into Blackjack and not in a good way. He nodded his permission and she opened the door. And almost immediately closed it again.
It was a nursery, painted a sunny yellow and decorated with a hand-painted mural. She avoided looking at Jack as she opened the final two rooms—a bathroom and another guest room.
They went downstairs in silence. She didn’t dare ask the obvious question. Why did he have a decorated baby’s room? Was that left over from the previous owners? Had he—? But no, he couldn’t have a child. Someone would have reported gossip that juicy. Blackjack McIntyre’s Love Child.
Elise felt guilty. All the playfulness had been sucked out of the evening. Jack went back to chopping whatever he had been chopping—something green, that was all she knew—and she sat on one of the swivel chairs pulled up to the other side of the island.
“Look, I—” he started.
“Jack, I’m so—” she began, then stopped when she heard his voice. He stopped too and just looked at her. “I was going to say, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.”
“I wanted you to.”
She shook her head a little, not sure what he was telling her.
“I don’t think I planned it, not consciously, but maybe I did.”
He went back to his chopping. Then he stopped and poured them both some wine without even asking if she wanted some. She skipped the routine lecture about his presumption. She was more interested in what he was going to tell her. She took a sip. It was nice wine, she guessed. Well, of course it was. Jack had selected it. She took a larger sip.
He ignored his own glass while he looked at her, unsmiling but focused. That resolve scared her. He was going to say something she wouldn’t like, and then they’d never get back to the sexy kisses and toe-to-toe verbal jousting. She wanted more of the sexy kisses and, yes, the verbal jousting too.
“It’s those damned turtles’ fault.” His mouth crooked on one side. His wry smile made her feel sad, and even guiltier. Stop talking, she wanted to yell at him. Stop talking so they could rewind the last fifteen minutes. Or better yet, fast-forward to eating a nice meal…? She smelled dinner, something meaty in the oven, and her stomach reminded her it had been a long time since lunch. Food and sex were so much more basic than a sunny yellow nursery.
He must have taken her silence as encouragement. “The turtles in Fitler Square. Remember? Last week, when you had that problem with your fireplace, you met me on the edge of the square?”
She nodded.
“I’d been sitting on the park bench near the turtles. An adult and two babies. And it hit me that if this—” He gestured between them. “If we don’t work as a couple, I won’t have children of my own.”
“Jack, that’s absurd. Of course you will. You’ll meet someone and—” She stopped when he held up a hand.
“Please.” His face had that stony look again. “Respect me enough to acknowledge that I believe what I believe. If I’m wrong, I’m wrong. If it doesn’t work out, then it doesn’t. But you won’t convince me that I’m confused, and you insult me when you try.”
That stung. She sat up straighter and took her medicine. “You’re right, of course. I’m sorry.” Now her expression was equally stoic. They must look like a pair of statues on Easter Island.
He drank some wine. She could see his shoulders relax slightly. He took a deep breath. “Anyway, I could have stopped you from opening that door. I’m sure I should have. It’s not what you think, by the way. I’d given Joyce—that’s the decorator—carte blanche and told her to do the entire house. I only cared about certain rooms, like the study and here,” he said, pointing his knife at the kitchen cabinetry and appliances around him.
“When she showed me the plans for the nursery, I was tempted to stop her, but she made a good point, which was that it was more likely than not I’d marry and have children, so why not get it done. Also, she’d found a muralist who didn’t know yet how good she was. Joyce was always finding ways to save a few dollars when the entire job cost a fortune.” He flashed that half smile again.
“How old were you when you bought this place?”
He’d gone back to cooking. “I didn’t. I inherited it.”
Elise tried to hide her surprise. “Okay, when did you inherit it?”
“Ten years ago. My sister and I are Fitzgeralds on our mom’s side. This was my grandparents’ home for forty or fifty years. When they died, their estate came to Stacy and me. She didn’t need the house—they’d already moved to Boston with the twins—so I got it. Honestly, I’d have sold it if it hadn’t been remarkably convenient for the office. Still is.”
One aspect of this story was still giving Elise chills. “You’re a Fitzgerald? As in Dorian Fitzgerald?”
Jack looked a little surprised. “My great-uncle. Bit of a black sheep, actually. At least the way Granddad talked about him.”
Elise twisted her face into a parody of tragedy and wiped away an imaginary tear. “Yeah, because three Oscar nominations but only one win—that’s really shameful.”
“I’m pretty sure Granddad’s poor opinion of his brother was more about Dorian’s four wives and at least one bastard child.”
Elise threw her hands in the air. “Okay. I give up. You win—on one aspect, at least,” she said hastily when his face brightened. “I was going to leave, earlier—you know, with the whole turtle story. I mean, c’mon, that was pure bathos. Except, it doesn’t matter because you aren’t real. You’re not human—you’re too perfect. You cook, you’re a media darling—” she ticked the items off her fingers, “—you look like a movie star because you’re actually related to a movie star—”
“Not directly descended from one, though—pretty sure Dorian didn’t get my mother pregnant.” He grinned at her.
“Whatever.” Elise looked at her left hand, which had three fingers up. “Let’s see. What else? Oh, you have a stunning home, you’re well-versed in wine, you’re going to be a wonderful jurist, you—”
He grabbed her right hand, which was about to tick another finger. “There’s only one thing I want to be good enough at.”
She looked into his eyes. She figured he was talking about sex, which was pretty much the only thing she felt qualified to judge him on. Again, he surprised her.
“Do I make you laugh?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Oh, sure—about as often as I make you laugh, and that’s got to be way less often than either of us infuriates the other.”
Jack hesitated, nodded, then picked up his knife. “It’s a start.”
Chapter Eight
As he served them both at the kitchen table—no formal dining room for his Elise—Jack wondered if he’d made progress or lost ground with her. Showing her—well, letting her see—the nursery was a huge mistake, he knew that now. His desire for children with this woman was clearly not a selling point. Of course he wanted marriage and kids, but he’d settle for living together, just the two of them, if a ceremony or kids bothered her. What mattered was the commitment to a future.
He wasn’t going to think about it. If the nursery and subsequent discussion of children had made Elise uncomfortable, mysteriously Dorian Fitzgerald’s colorful marital history had helped. Jack would take his succ
esses from any source.
“Any black sheep great-uncles in your family tree?” he asked.
“None with an Oscar, that’s for sure.”
“Do you have family nearby?”
She speared some asparagus and cut it into tidy logs before answering. “Ah, yes, the ritual exchange of family data. My dad, his second wife and their sons are all living in and around Cleveland. Dad’s a vet, and Robbie, the middle brother, is preparing for veterinary school. They’ll probably end up in practice together. My stepmother works for the city government. And Greg, the youngest, is at Ohio U. Biochemistry, I think, but I’m not sure. He’s the smart one in the family.”
Jack let that pass. She didn’t need him to tell her she was smart. “And your mother? Is she alive?”
Elise pushed the asparagus logs around with her fork. “She’s in Oregon. She never remarried.”
Her stoic face startled him. Angry or laughing, aroused or sleepy, Elise was always vibrant and expressive. This…this blankness worried him. And her matter-of-fact delivery told him nothing, which was maybe the point. Whatever Elise thought about her family, she didn’t want to share it.
“How did you end up in Philadelphia?”
“You know—well, actually, no, you wouldn’t know.” She laughed. “But for mere mortals, there’s a sticky process called getting a job. I interviewed with firms from D.C. to Boston, and Fergusson offered me a job. I like it here. I find Philly to be a very livable city. I’m relieved that I didn’t end up in New York.”
“Why’s that?”
“Too big. Too expensive. Too many people. Too far from the real world.”
“Most New Yorkers would say that the five boroughs comprise the real world.”
“And that’s why they live there and I don’t. I like it here, where you can drive an hour—assuming decent traffic on the Schuylkill—and you’re in the country for the weekend.”
“Jersey Shore? Pennsylvania Dutch country? The Poconos?”
“Each of them at one time or another. I usually pick a B&B that looks nice and take myself off. It’s cheaper than trying to own a second home, and I’m not tied down to one area.”
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