But he was already heading for the door, allowing her to at least appreciate the fine curves of his back, and the way it tapered down to his hips. The towel was low enough that she could see the clear demarcation of a tan line, and she swallowed, suddenly forgetting the exact appearance of Simon’s legs. He’d not been naked in front of her very long before they’d collapsed into the bed, and she felt oddly cheated that she hadn’t had time to simply stare at him.
“Caroline?” Simon’s voice rumbled with amusement and she blinked hard, drawing her attention back to his face. Of course he’d stopped at the door and asked her something, while she’d been staring decidedly in the region of his backside.
“I’m sorry, what?” she tried to recover. To his credit, his face remained a mask of polite solicitation.
“I said, I’ll put something on for dinner, but there’s no hurry for you to come downstairs for a bit.” He gestured with his clothes-laden hand around the room. “Just make yourself at home.”
“Of cou—” had she already said that? It seemed like she had. “Thank you,” she said instead, nodding quickly.
Then he was gone.
Caroline allowed herself one additional moment of complete mortification, her eyes sweeping the charming room. She hadn’t really noticed it carefully earlier, chilled to the bone and eager for the shower. But now she took it in with more leisure. It had the same hardwood floors as most of the other rooms in the building, a thickly loomed blue rug extending almost to the walls. The bed she was on—the bed she truly didn’t want to leave, if she was honest, as it still held the warmth and clean, spicy scent of Simon—had a pretty metal frame that looked antique. The dressers, table and chairs also looked antique, and charmingly mis-matched. The windows were large and framed with crisp white eyelet curtains, as well as equally crisp shades snugged at their highest position. There was no need for privacy concerns at Pinnacle House, she thought. Nothing but the ocean in all directions.
Her gaze returned to the fireplace, and she jolted as she saw her purse…and her phone.
Grabbing the robe and throwing it on hurriedly, Caroline moved to the hearth and knelt beside it. She picked up her purse first. The jute weave was already dry, but the inside smelled like wet paper, and she winced. Nothing in there was too critical, but she still wrinkled her nose as she emptied the small, sodden pile of receipts, her wallet, a notebook stuffed with folded papers, and other random items on the hearth. They…would dry. Eventually.
Her phone still beamed up at her cheerfully, and she picked it up again, then quickly keyed in her password. The action was silent—the phone still on mute. Which is how she’d missed the easily fifteen texts, two phone calls and even an email she’d received over the last few hours. Great.
Setting it aside for the moment, she pawed through the soggy printouts she’d tucked into her notebook. She pulled the mass out in one big clump. Her emails and photos of Edeena’s alternate jewelry options were all stuck together, completely ruined. So was the printout of the letter from the Saleri lawyer. She’d have to get that all printed again if she was going to officially present it to the Wetheringtons.
Caroline sighed, sitting back on her heels. How would she broach that subject, anyway? The old couple were clearly delighted by the story that they’d woven around the jewels—though come to think of it, Caroline wasn’t exactly sure what that story was. The ferry horn had sounded before they could get to the good part.
It didn’t matter, of course—couldn’t matter. Edeena had sounded sufficiently desperate on the phone and in her subsequent emails, and if she’d allowed that much emotion to leak through, she was probably getting a significant amount of pressure from their father’s legal team. The last thing Caroline wanted was one of those fussy, sneering elitists tramping into Pinnacle House, demanding their due.
Ugh. With any luck, she could wrap up her discussion with the Wetheringtons soon, and be out of their lives for good.
Frowning at that idea, Caroline stood and scooped up the clothes Simon had left for her, a long powder-blue pair of knit trousers and a long-sleeved top, that somehow seemed a little young for Belle, but was also soft and worn from many washings. Clearly a well-loved outfit, and she slipped it on with gratitude, keenly aware that her only pair of underwear was now in Simon’s possession.
A fresh wave of mortification overtook her, and she rolled her eyes. The sooner she went downstairs and faced the man, the easier this would be. She couldn’t hide up here forever, after all.
After dashing off several quick text responses to the Marxes, Prudence, and Marguerite, Caroline made her way downstairs, attracted by the rich, hearty aroma of what had to be soup. “What is that?” she demanded, grateful for anything to use as an opening line.
Simon stood at the stovetop topped by an industrial-looking kitchen hood, and he turned and gave her a smile. He’d dressed in loose, frayed khakis and an equally worn tee-shirt, and he’d slung a kitchen towel over one shoulder. His hair appeared freshly washed as well, the curls tousled and wet. He looked impossibly domestic, and Caroline halted halfway across the kitchen as his gaze met hers.
There was a moment of inexpressible desire between them, so vibrant it practically hung in the air, and the breath stalled in her lungs.
Simon recovered first, of course. She wondered if she’d ever catch him off guard.
“A local recipe, okra soup—beef, okra, tomatoes, onions. I tend to make batches of things that store well, then heat them up as I need them.” Simon said the words automatically, forcing himself not to stare at Caroline. She was utterly soft and feminine in the knit outfit, the fabric thick enough to cover up the fact that she wasn’t wearing anything underneath it.
But he knew she wasn’t, of course. His entire body was painfully aware of that fact. And his brain was already firing with ideas of exactly how he could exploit it—in ways that would guarantee he’d never be able to walk into this room again without his knees going weak.
He refocused on the soup, stirring it harder than was strictly necessary, willing the images from his mind of Caroline at the counter…on the table…against the wall…
Stop it.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever had okra,” she mused, coming around the large island to stand next to him. “It smells wonderful.”
He somehow managed a response, and even to get the sandwiches cut and on the table without tackling her to the floor, which considering the circumstances, merited him a medal of honor. But when he eased into the seat opposite her, he felt suddenly awkward, as if they were having a first date…only backwards. He lifted his wine glass to her, and she followed suit.
“To thunderstorms,” he smiled, and she nodded, seeming to relax a notch.
“To thunderstorms—especially the ones I underestimate,” she said. He felt the unaccountable desire to reach out and hold her hand, but he contented himself with taking a small sip of wine.
Both of them ate quickly, whether because they were truly hungry or simply tongue-tied, he didn’t know. It felt like something was hanging between them, though—and that didn’t feel right. Had he shocked her with…but no. She’d been as eager as he had, he was sure of it.
Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. “You’re not…” he began, then cleared his throat, shaking his head ruefully. “I feel the need to apologize for—well, for surprising you in your room, after your shower. If I’d simply left the clothes outside…”
She colored, but her gaze met his directly. “You’re absolutely allowed to acknowledge that you surprised me,” she said, her lips tilting into a small smile. “But after that, nothing that happened was your fault, so no apologies. I was the one who…well, who…”
“Offered me your towel. Which was very kind of you.”
“We pride ourselves on kindness in Garronia.” Her smile deepened a little, into a more lascivious grin. “Of course, you did push it a little, with asking if you could take my robe as well.”
“Only seemed fair,�
�� Simon countered. “I felt completely naked, standing there.”
“Well, you were naked.”
“More naked,” he insisted. “And you looked.”
“Of course I looked,” she said primly. “In Garronia, we pride ourselves on our intelligence, too.”
He barked out a laugh, and his own nerves unknotted a little. He leaned forward. “I do owe you an apology in all sincerity, though, from the first time we met,” he said. “I hadn’t intended to single out any particular belief in that talk. It was supposed to be an overview only, entirely general in nature.”
She tilted her head. “Did you know then I was a Saleri?”
“Not at all. I knew you weren’t American, of course—your accent was too fresh. But it was muddied, indistinct.” He eyed her as she winced. “You disguised it purposefully.”
“You can’t imagine I wanted you to know I was Garronois when I was asking about your characterization of my country, can you?”
He considered that. “I suppose not. But I assure you, I hadn’t intended to embarrass you in any sort of personal way.”
“How exactly could you not embarrass me—or any of the royal families you lampooned?”
“Not lampooned,” he insisted. “Superstition isn’t a tenable belief system. Surely you don’t believe it is.” When she didn’t answer, he pushed the point. “You’re an intelligent, modern, capable woman.”
“I appreciate the characterization—”
“Whose family believes you had to marry a prince in order to escape lasting ruin.”
Irritation flared in her eyes. “A belief that has been handed down for generations, Dr. Blake,” she said tartly. “No more unreasonable than believing that certain fish pooling together presage a bad winter or that your groundhog seeing its own shadow can accurately predict the coming of Spring.”
“Exactly,” Simon said. She was proving his point for him. “But while we appreciate the romantic notion of a superstition in America, most of us don’t live our lives in terror of them. Certainly, there’s a twinge of apprehension when someone cracks a mirror, but the idea that seven years of bad luck truly follows doesn’t send sane people around the bend with worry.”
“And yet your newspapers are filled with horoscopes and ads for Tarot card readers, and your bookstores are filled with vampire tales,” she shot back. “How many stars in the sky are people wishing on this very night? And why is that bad?”
“That’s not the same thing at all,” he protested. “Wishing on stars or on coins in a fountain is a harmless moment that you may never think of again. Reading your horoscope is entertainment, and telephone psychics represent a form of therapy as much as anything else. You and your sisters were categorically prepared to change the course of your lives over the strength of this superstition.”
“Perhaps,” she argued back. “But how many generations of Saleris weren’t?”
He blinked, but instantly saw the truth of what she was saying.
She pushed on anyway. “The Saleri curse was brought about over a thousand years ago, so long ago that it doesn’t matter what first caused it. But there were countless opportunities in subsequent generations to set things right by following its strictures. Princes aren’t that hard to come by, if you search hard enough—or princesses either. Yet generation after generation, century after century, it didn’t happen. Our family continued to exist, even prosper, but always with the knowledge that we could be so much more. All for want of anyone willing simply to try to pay attention to the curse, to honor and validate it and seek to end it.”
He scowled. This wasn’t at all where he’d planned on this conversation going. “You’re telling me that it’s not the Saleri family that’s ridiculous, but simply your generation of it?”
“You’re making a mockery of us again,” Caroline snapped. There wasn’t actual heat in her voice, though, more intellectual curiosity. “Why do you insist on belittling the idea of following a straggling star versus walking a path lit by the same light that guides everyone else?”
“Because you can’t assign supernatural ability to a star, any more than you can to a lightbulb, or a house, or a thunderstorm,” Simon snapped. “At least a school of fish behaving in an atypical way can show some early-warning survival instinct that may not be immediately obvious to those of us who walk on dry ground. But that’s not mythology. That’s animal patterns—the effect of environment on behavior.”
“Spoken like a true anthropologist,” Caroline said with a twist to her lips.
“I don’t mean to be obnoxious,” Simon held out his hands. “I truly don’t. I simply think that it’s…remarkable that a family would wish to make any decisions based on a curse or a prediction or a dream wrapped inside a vision sprinkled with fairy dust. That your sister found Prince Rallis and they fell in love is a worthwhile story on its own. That they were brought together in part because of a curse…damages its credibility somewhat.”
“Well, you’re really going to like this new little wrinkle, then,” Caroline said derisively. She drew in a deep breath to speak—
And his phone rang.
Simon started, recognizing the ring tone. “That’ll be Belle,” he said, and he didn’t miss the spasm of emotion that passed across Caroline’s face, equal parts relief and dismay. “It’ll only be a minute.”
“It’s fine,” Caroline said, her tone bright as she stood. “I’ll clear this away while you talk.”
By the time he returned from the call, however, Caroline seemed to have forgotten what she was going to say. The clouds had finally broken, allowing the setting sun to brighten the soaked grass, and all the debris scattered across the lawn.
She pointed. “My clothes are dry by now,” she said. “Let me help you clean all of that up.”
“That’s not—”
“It is necessary,” she said firmly. Then she gave him a wink. “In Garronia, it’s bad luck to be an ungrateful guest. And you know how we are about our superstitions.”
He shook his head, laughing, as he went to fetch her clothes.
Chapter Thirteen
Caroline stood at the railing of the porch, staring out to sea. She held a cup of coffee in her hand, its steam rising in a heady blend of what almost smelled like butterscotch, and the aroma hung fast despite the tiny, whispering breeze that lifted her hair from her head.
It was so heart-stoppingly beautiful out here.
The storm had blown fully out to sea by mid-evening, and she and Simon had continued to interact with each other oddly, a strange mix of shyness and intimacy that she supposed was only to be expected when you had sex with an almost-stranger. She blushed again in the bright morning sunlight, thinking about it, and took another sip of her coffee.
But other than his insistence that her family tree was seeded with utter lunatics, the man had been the perfect gentleman. They’d cleared the yard of debris in short order, then he’d received additional calls, in ever more rapid succession. Each one seemed to make him a bit sad, she thought, but she hadn’t been bold enough to ask why. Those latter calls had seemed as if they’d been from his academic colleagues, though what he could possibly have to talk with them about at eight in the evening Caroline couldn’t guess.
Eventually, feeling ill at ease, she’d returned to her room and put the now dry brick of paperwork back into her purse. The she’d curled up in a chair, and returned another volley of texts from Cindy and Marguerite—she figured they’d tell Prudence the important parts. Yes, she was all right, yes there was a place on the island that had taken her in from the night, yes…
Sleep had come quickly, and she’d woken in her bed, unsure of whether she’d moved during the night or been carried. The only thing to indicate that anyone had been in the room with her was a long linen dress hanging on the inside of her door—a dress she’d put on after a lengthy shower in the antique claw footed tub. It seemed vaguely familiar, and she wondered idly where Simon had found it—another castoff of his grandmother’s? O
r perhaps a past girlfriend who’d left it behind?
She took another long sip of coffee. She knew so little about Simon, had never expected to see him again in truth. Nevertheless, why hadn’t she at least done a Google search on the man before coming out here a second time? Normally she wasn’t this impulsive.
She grimaced. Then again, she hadn’t expected to sleep with the man. She’d not expected to see him here. Only his grandparents.
His grandparents. Caroline’s lips tugged down at the edges. She’d have to face the Wetheringtons soon. Perhaps later today. They weren’t far from the marina on Sea Haven, she suspected. There couldn’t be that many retirement communities on this side of the island.
“How’s the coffee?” Caroline jumped as Simon’s voice interrupted her thoughts. She half-turned, holding up her mug.
“It’s the best I’ve had in months,” she said, quite seriously.
He nodded. “Grown locally, new place I think will do well. Decent coffee matters more than you’d think, especially in the South.”
Closing the door behind him, he walked out onto the expansive porch, but his gaze shifted almost immediately to the grass surrounding the house. Was he trying to avoid eye contact, she wondered?
“There’s more debris, out in the brush,” he observed. “I’ll need to get that taken care of.”
“I can help,” Caroline said automatically, and he chuckled.
“Not in that dress, you can’t. I found it in one of the closets on the far end of the house. It’s one of only two nice outfits we have in the house, apparently, though Belle used to maintain an entire closet filled with emergency clothes for every age and body type. But it’s either that or a jumpsuit from the 1980s, which I think you might want to avoid. Given your penchant for getting caught in rainstorms, I want to play it safe until the ferry arrives.”
Charmed: Gowns & Crowns, Book 6 Page 11
