Bougainvillea

by Heather Graham

  “Let’s be honest—she should stay that way,” Kaitlin said. She rose, walking to the buffet and drawing a cigarette from an old humidor.

  “Don’t light that in here—Seamus will go through the roof,” Josh warned.

  “Whatever, I say that Seamus wants Kit Delaney here, and he’ll get her here, and she’ll stay, no matter what it takes,” Martin said. “Trust me, I know the man. Whether it’s guilt or what, he hasn’t been his usual self since David brought him the news that Mark was dying.”

  “Thank God he at least let the man die in peace!” Shelley said softly. The others stared at her. “Well, for good reason, Mark hated the place. He wouldn’t have wanted to know that his daughter was going to return.”

  “We don’t know that she will return,” Eli said.

  Kaitlin let out a long sniff. “If she’s anything like her mother? You bet she’ll come. She’ll sniff out the money in this place in seconds flat.”

  “And if she’s anything like her mother, old Seamus will fall for her, and we might just find ourselves all out on our little rumps in the cold, huh, Kaitlin?” Josh said lightly as he stood up. “Good night, one and all.”

  He kissed his mother on the forehead, lifted a hand to Michael and the others, and left.

  “How on earth do you let him get away with talking like that? Honestly!” Lenore said to Michael.

  He couldn’t help but smile at his wife. “Because maybe he’s speaking the truth, hmm? Martin, Eli, anyone for a brandy?”

  “I’d love one,” Kaitlin said. “Eli, be a dear, and bring it to me on the porch? I’m dying for a cigarette.”

  Dying for a cigarette.

  Those were the last words Marina Delaney had said in this very room, before she had run out of the house.

  Dying…

  And she had done just that.

  Michael felt a chill sweep through him, and he knew why.

  He didn’t want Kit Delaney back here. The very idea of it all but caused his limbs to gel. He was afraid.

  Very afraid.

  And he knew, as well, he wasn’t the only one.

  * * *

  “It’s not as confusing as it sounds,” David said, leaning back on the sofa, sounding somewhat affectionately amused. He and Kit had opted for dinner in the room—quite impressive, since the suite came with a butler and the food was excellent.

  “There were the three original partners—Seamus, my grandfather, and your grandfather. Seamus has a son, Michael, there’s his wife, Lenore, and their son, Josh. My grandfather had my father, who had me. Your grandfather had your dad, who married your mother, and had you.”

  “And everyone but me lives at Bougainvillea?”

  “That’s not as weird as it sounds, either,” he assured her. “It’s not just one house. There’s the main house, Seamus’s place, and then all the cottages around the lagoon. Don’t you remember?”

  “Actually, I do,” she murmured. “I remember the lagoon well, and the paths around it that head down to the beach. And there was a darling little bridge that connected the land where the lagoon went on out to the sea. Is it all still there? I was thinking that, after all these years, a storm might have altered it somewhat.”

  David shook his head. “It’s all still there. So, when are you coming down? You could fly home with me after the convention.”

  She smiled and laughed. “Wow! That would be fast.”

  “Fast is good.”

  She sobered somewhat. They’d shared an incredible bottle of Cabernet.

  Fast is good.

  And it would be.

  Ah, well, Jen would be proud of the sensations sweeping through her, if no one else. The mood in the suite was far too relaxed. She was sitting on her own side of the sofa, but she wasn’t immune to temptations of simple pleasure. He had changed into a pair of soft, worn blue jeans and a long-sleeved knit shirt. Very casual. She had changed, too, but in the opposite direction. Not knowing he had decided to order in, she had gone for a business dinner staple, a sleeveless black cocktail dress. At least thirty minutes ago, however, she had shed the heels she’d been wearing. Her stocking feet were curled beneath her. They’d talked about art and photography, boats, weather, the construction projects in Boston, the wonders of Chicago, and gone back to Bougainvillea. It had been a long day filled with trepidation for her, at first. She would love to lean back…actually, she would love to lean against his shoulder, or stretch out with her head in his lap.

  She sat straighter.

  “There’s no time like the present, or something like that,” David said.

  A slow smile curved into her lips. “Actually, there is. I have to go home to Chicago.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I have a cat.”

  “Where is he—she?—now?”

  “He’s at a neighbor’s who has to leave on a sales trip this weekend.”

  “Hmm. Maybe we can send for the cat.”

  “I have to work as well. It’s a syndicated strip,” Kit reminded him.

  “On day-to-day life. Imagine what new fuel you’d have for the machine, coming to Bougainvillea.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, there’s Seamus, who is the real deal. Old South. A ramrod. All courtesy and graciousness—while he’s gripping the neck of his competitors. Michael, who works in the business end of the company, but hates it. He wants to take off in a sailboat and write the great American novel. He should, too—he’s good. Then there’s Lenore, who wants to be the great lady of the South, which is funny, in its way, because the community is so very Latin American, very progressive. Still, you know, she belongs to all the right clubs, hosts charity events, and plays the grande dame. Josh is about my age, and pretty much deep into the business as well. I’m better at money and naturally, any legalities involved, while he’s better at design. Kaitlin could fill you in on the what and where of the Miami club and dating scene—she’s Seamus’s assistant. We’ve great neighbors, by the way. I think you actually went to school with Shelley Callahan.”

  “Shelley. Sounds familiar,” Kit told him.

  He laughed. “Maybe we are a bit of a weird group, because Eli and Shelley still live at home, too. It’s an old place on the property, much smaller than Bougainvillea, but it had a carriage house, which is Eli’s now, and a garage apartment, which is where Shelley lives. She’s your age, and getting her master’s degree in literature at the university. Eli became a cop. Their father, Martin, is a retired cop, and just does a lot of fishing now. They’re actually more like family than neighbors, since we’ve shared holidays, dinners, and what have you ever since I can remember. Oh! We’ve also got one of the most wonderful and fascinating women you’d ever want to meet living on the property. Mary is a hundred and one.”

  “Mary!” Kit swung her feet down. “She’s still living! My, Lord, she seemed ancient when I was a child.”

  “You remember her?”

  Kit nodded. “She was a sweetheart…wow, I remember more and more, actually. Lenore was this glorious, rather imperious beauty who…didn’t particularly like me. And…” She paused, frowning. “I don’t remember my mom being there in the afternoons. After school, kindergarten, whatever it was. So I would sneak out of the main house as soon as I could, and go to the cottage. And Mary always smelled like gardenias, and she’d make me tea and give me little sugar cookies. I would love to see her again, thank her.”

  “She’s a hundred and one,” he warned. “You can’t wait too long.”

  Kit grinned. “I won’t. I’m curious as all hell about the place. Except that…hmm.” She fell silent. How could she explain to him that there was something in her memory that disturbed her about the place?

  “Except that what?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Did your father say something negative about the place?”

  “No. He never talked about it at all.” She realized that her words were only a minor lie. He had never talked about it at all. Not until
he had spoken that final word. Bougainvillea.

  “You miss him a great deal, don’t you?”

  “Of course. I adored him. He was an incredible person. Wise, funny, always helping me, encouraging me. Even when he was in pain, he could make jokes about the hospital, his doctors, and all the little ironies of life—and death. He thanked me for being such a great daughter, and he gave me all the strength and peace I needed to go on. Of course I miss him.”

  “I am so sorry.”

  “Thanks,” she said lightly, not wanting to grow morbid. Then she stood resolutely. She was going to go to bed before she spent any more time with him. Jen would be disappointed, of course, that there wouldn’t be any details. But she wasn’t as trusting as Jen. Not that her friend could be called promiscuous, certainly not by current standards, but Jen was a big believer in chemistry. It was there, or it wasn’t. You trusted, or you didn’t. Knowing someone a great deal of time couldn’t change any, either.

  “Would you mind if I crashed?” she asked. “It’s been a really long day for me.”

  “Not at all.” He stood, not to stop her, but merely in a polite gesture.

  “Good night,” he told her. “By the way—what time do you need to be back at the convention center in the morning?”

  “Nine, nine-thirty, somewhere around there.”

  “I’ll see that the butler has breakfast here by eight.”

  She couldn’t help but grin. “Mind if I invite Jen over? I told her where I was. She wants to see the place.”

  “Absolutely. Bring her.”

  He remained standing while she walked to the stairs. As she ascended, she heard him ordering breakfast for three. Before retiring, she tried calling Jen’s room, but her friend was out. She left her a message to join them in the suite at eight.

  That night, she dreamed of Bougainvillea. Not so much of anything in particular, but just of being there. She could almost feel the breeze, damp sand beneath her feet, and see the riot of color caused by the bougainvillea creeping over the walls of the main house and cottages. The sensation was at first incredible, sweet as the clean sea air. Then, it was as if shadows fell, darkening everything around her.

  * * *

  When she came down in the morning, Jen was already there. She was enthusiastically talking to David about his home, his photography, and her own work. She greeted Kit with her back to David, brows arched with excited curiosity. Kit shook her head.

  Later that day, at the convention center, Jen grilled her. “Nothing? You two did nothing?”

  “We talked.”

  Jen let out a disgusted sigh. “It’s so obvious, the chemistry between you! It’s just so right—I can tell.”

  “Jen, would you sleep with a guy you’d only seen once before?”

  “If it was right—you bet.”

  “Well, he didn’t make any moves.”

  “You make a move!” Jen suggested.

  “What, just say, ‘excuse me, we’ve got chemistry going here, let’s sleep together’?”

  “If all else fails,” Jen said seriously. “Are you supposed to fly out tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get him tonight, then.”

  “Jen, I don’t want to ‘get’ anyone.”

  “Then you’ve been celibate far too long,” Jen said sagely. “What, are you going to turn your comic character into a nun? Get out there, live, give yourself something to work with!”

  That night, David took her to dinner at a wonderful, intimate little restaurant in Little Italy. Every time his arm brushed hers, or his hand reached out as he escorted her in or out of the car, into her seat, into her jacket, she felt as if electric jolts ripped through her. The man was undeniably sexy, and sensual, with his dark eyes often seeming to hide a wry amusement with himself, with her, and with the world around them.

  He told her more about his education, and how Seamus had insisted he not just slide into the business, but work hard in school and find a serious profession as well. He had liked practicing law, but discovered later that he was equally fond of business, and, when the demands of the company had begun to take more and more of his time, he’d been ready to leave his practice behind, and take all that he learned with him into the family company.

  Kit realized that as the meal progressed, they were leaning closer and closer to each other as they talked and laughed and shared the wine. She was aware that she was breathing in his delicious aftershave, a scent that was inextricably linked to him and extremely evocative.

  Back at the hotel, they lingered for a few minutes in the parlor, sipping a last brandy. Their conversation turned again to Bougainvillea, and his life there.

  Kit could admit to feeling a slight buzz from the wine, but she definitely had not overdone. Still, she found herself smiling ruefully and asking him, “I have to admit it—I don’t quite get it.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The fact that you’re not married. I mean—you’re not, right?”

  He laughed. “No, not married.”

  “Not even involved?”

  “Certainly, I have been at times over the years. But not now. What about you?”

  She grinned. “Well, there was Ray Leone in high school. We were the hot item for a while. At Northwestern, there was Mason Rigg. Law student. But very old-fashioned. I found that out when he became annoyed by the amount of women in his classes. The place for a woman, in his mind, is in the home. Supportive, you know. Taking the kids to school and doctor appointments and arranging business dinners. Not that I wouldn’t want to take my kids to doctors’ appointments and the like.” She fell silent, wondering why she was explaining herself that way. “Sorry. Wow. How embarrassing. I didn’t mean to give you a list.”

  He was smiling, moving across the room to where she sat on the couch. The lights of Boston swept gently into the suite. Muted. He sat down beside her, took her glass, set it on the table, then held both her hands in his. “I like your list. It’s wonderfully honest. Like you.” On the last, his voice was low, soft, husky. This close, the scent of his aftershave was pure intoxication. When his mouth touched hers, she was immediately aware of a melting sensation. She was equally aware that he was very experienced, a practiced lover, lips moving hers, fingers threading into her hair, tilting her head at a perfect angle for his tongue to do the most incredibly seductive things inside her mouth. Instinct, or maybe it was Jen’s chemistry, reigned, and she moved against him, wishing nothing more, it seemed, than to sink right inside him, flesh, bone, heart and soul. Yet he drew back, not too far, dark eyes on hers. “I should slow down,” he said gently.

  She searched out his eyes. “Why?”

  His lips turned in that somewhat knowing grin that seemed to catapult her bloodstream all over again.

  “Because I have a confession to make.”

  “Oh?”

  “I came here specifically to find you.”

  “That’s nice,” she said dreamily.

  Then, he hesitated slightly.

  “You see, Seamus wants you at Bougainvillea. I was sent to get you down there, whatever it took.”

  She withdrew slightly, frowning as she looked into his eyes. “Why?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know the details of exactly why. You’d have to ask Seamus. But I imagine I know what he’s feeling. Your mother died, and your father left. The place was really as much your heritage as, say, mine, or the others. He’s probably always harbored a certain amount of guilt as well that Marina died on the property. He was sorry when your father left—Seamus really liked and admired Mark. He understood, of course. But still…he was nuts about you when you were a little girl. You were Marina—except small, innocent, and completely loving and sincere. I’m not surprised that he wants to see you so badly. Make amends for all the bad things that happened—maybe atone for some of the recklessness and carelessness of his own youth.” He lifted his hands as if his explanation was insufficient. “Only Seamus knows what makes him really tick. But he’s si
ncere in wanting to see you.”

  “That’s nice…I guess,” Kit murmured uncertainly.

  “So…” he said slowly.

  “So?” she echoed.

  “So, where does that leave us?” he asked very softly.

  She smiled. “I don’t know.”

  “I would have come after you myself, no matter what,” he insisted.

  “Say it again.”

  “I would have come after you myself, no matter what.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re fascinating and beautiful.”

  “Such a good reply,” she teased.

  “I mean it. The confession is real, too, though. So tell me, where does that leave us?” he demanded insistently.

  “On the sofa,” she returned, eyes carefully on his.

  “When there are perfectly good bedrooms,” he mused.

  “Perfectly good,” she agreed.

  Kit wasn’t quite sure that she believed her own actions, but she pressed him aside, rising.

  “I’ll be in one,” she told him.

  She walked up the stairs thinking that Jen would be proud. Then she had a moment’s panic as she thought she might be a fool. What a line.

  And what if he didn’t follow? She’d probably remain a burnt crimson called “mortification” for the rest of her life.

  She stepped into the guest room, her heart thundering. She didn’t turn on a light, but for a moment, simply stood against the wall, wondering if he would enter behind her.

  He did.

  She felt herself ever so gently pinned against the wall. And then his hands, on her face, and the huskiness of his whisper. “You’re sure.”

  And in that minute, she was.

  Chemistry was just right…or it wasn’t.

  But it was. There was a second’s awkwardness for her. She’d been out of touch with the real world, so it seemed, for a long time. Out of dating, speaking, laughing, even trusting another person. And yet…there it was, everything just right; he was not out of touch. Again, his touch, the feel of his fingers against her face, the warmth of his breath, the molding of his kiss. Everything that should have been awkward…

  The pressure of his body dispelled all else. She felt that her body fit against his like a glove. They never left the wall, that first time. His shirt was shed, and she inhaled the richness of the scent of his flesh, felt the vibrant constriction of his muscles, and the warmth of him that quickly seemed to enwrap her in an urgency that throbbed within her mind, her blood, her limbs. One touch of flesh and clothing seemed to melt away, easily, so easily. She felt no shyness, only that drumming need to crawl closer and closer into him, become a part of him. Standing, she felt the molten liquid of his kiss against her lips, her cheeks, her throat, down to her collarbone, between her breasts. His fingers moved with brushes of sensuality, teased and caressed. His touch was elusive and powerful. She hungered, wanted, burned. There was no past and no present, no memory of a different life, or even the current one. She was aware of the texture of his hair, and again of the heady scents, of musky cologne, of the man, skin and muscle beneath her touch, the texture of his face, and even in the dim shadows of moonlight, the dark fascination of his eyes. She stood, and for long moments was all but locked in place, simply feeling the brush of his fingers and the hot sweep of his tongue. Where he touched her she was a mass of pure heat, and when that touch left her, the air returned to caress and arouse anew. He moved against her body, lower, lower.