by Lisa Kleypas
“They’ll be gone after tomorrow. There are some repairs and alterations that had to be done.”
“From what I’ve seen so far, the house is lovely.”
“We don’t have much yet as far as furniture goes, except for a bed, some tables, a few chairs and this . . .” He tore his hungry gaze away from her and looked ruefully at the chest of drawers. “This—”
“Monstrosity?”
“That’s putting it kindly.”
“Eyesore?” she offered, taking a step closer to him.
“Better.”
Would it be inappropriate to kiss him before he made a move towards her? She decided it wouldn’t be. Impulsively she put her hands on his chest, stood on her toes and pressed her lips against his clean-shaven cheek. “How has everything gone for the last two days? Have you been dreadfully busy?” she asked. His arms went automatically around her waist. It was the first time she had ever approached him without having been coerced. As Heath stared into her upturned face, the memory of his own words interfered with his enjoyment of the small ritual.
You’re going to play the part of Mrs. Rayne for me as well as for everyone else . . .
Heath regretted those words more than anything else he had ever said. He knew she remembered them just as well as he did. But as he looked into her soft hazel eyes, he saw nothing but sweet guilelessness. He would have liked to allow himself to believe in it. What game was she playing? Apparently the one he had demanded of her.
You’ll act the part of Mrs. Rayne for me . . .
Frowning, he bent his head and sought her lips hungrily, searching the depths of her mouth with his tongue until he was absolutely certain that her response was genuine. A magic sweetness stirred between them, more intoxicating than wine, and Heath’s tension eased as he felt Lucy relax in his arms. Her face was flushed and her eyes were dazed as their lips separated. “My . . . my father is downstairs . . . ,” she said, “with the dishes, and the boxes, and . . . the wagon—”
“He can wait five more minutes.”
“But—”
“He’s not going anywhere.” Heath ducked his head under the brim of her hat and found her mouth again. Sliding her hands around his waist and over his back, Lucy molded every inch of her body to his, returning his passion measure for measure until Heath pulled away with a groan. “It’s so good to hold you,” he muttered, framing her face with his hands and stealing light kisses from her lips. “Dammit. It’s going to be a while before we’ll have any privacy. After getting rid of your father and everyone else around here, there’s dinner—”
“We could forget about dinner.”
“Why, Mrs. Rayne . . . ,” he drawled, affecting shock, and she blushed as he gave her a beguiling, riverboat-gambler smile. “I wish we could. But I mentioned to Damon that we’ll be eating out for the next few days until we can organize a household staff, and he insisted that we meet him for dinner tonight at the Parker House.”
Sighing heavily, Lucy felt genuine regret as she pictured the long evening ahead of them. It would be hours and hours before they would be alone together, and she discovered that she desperately wanted to be alone with him. She was anxious to find out exactly how far this new beginning was going to go.
“We’ll have to go,” he said, tapping her under the chin with a gentle forefinger, his eyes gleaming with a teasing light. “But I’ll make it up to you later—I stake my word on it.”
“Your word as a gentleman?”
“Of course.”
“I’d prefer something more reliable,” she replied, giving him a flirtatious glance that elicited a delighted smile from him.
“Later,” he murmured, and let go of her reluctantly.
Damon Redmond was more or less what Lucy had expected. She got her first good look at him as she and Heath were brought to a discreet, well-placed table in the Parker House dining room. Parker’s was the meeting place for people of means and influence, one of the few places in the country that served à la carte at any hour of the day, on the premise that its customers had the right to eat their meals at times other than the regularly scheduled hours.
Damon took her hand, lifted it to his lips in a practiced gesture and politely uttered all of the appropriate remarks. His breeding and arrogant self-confidence, carefully developed through several generations of Redmonds, would have been evident even if he had been dressed in sackcloth. Clad as he was in perfectly tailored clothes, immaculately shined shoes and a narrow necktie, he possessed a certain glamour that held its own against Heath’s polished charm. He was tall—another two inches and he would have matched Heath’s height—and his coal black hair and hard-featured face gave him an aloof but handsome appearance. When he smiled, he was doubly attractive, but not once during the entire meal did his smile ever seem to reach his snapping black eyes. Although he had an appealing sense of humor, there was something calculating about his manner, as if he were constantly weighing, judging, and assessing, which, Lucy decided, was an unsettling quality in a dinner companion, but not a bad quality in a newspaper editor.
After they had exchanged small talk about Boston and ordered from the menu, Damon turned to Lucy. “I hope that moving from Concord and establishing residence in Boston has not been overly taxing for you, Mrs. Rayne.”
“Not at all. It has been very easy, as a matter of fact.” Throwing Heath a teasing smile, she added, “I only hope the two of you will be able to put the Examiner in order as quickly as I intend to put the house in order.”
“Unfortunately it’s going to take some time,” Damon said dismissively, taking a sip of wine and casting a disinterested glance around the room. Lucy realized that he had no intention of discussing business matters in front of her or talking about anything at all concerning the newspaper. Belatedly she remembered Heath’s earlier warning on the way to Parker’s, that Damon had a tendency to regard women as empty-headed creatures. She turned to Heath, who gave her an almost unnoticeable shrug and an “I-tried-to-tell-you” look.
“Has it been necessary to fire many of the former employees so far?” she asked, now determined to pursue the subject of the Examiner.
Heath smiled slowly before replying, aware of what she was attempting to show Damon. “Mostly on the editorial staff. And we’ve had to let several of the reporters go. We need to find new ones, who won’t be afraid to take a few risks.”
“Where are you going to get them?”
Damon seemed uncomfortable with her questions. “Here and there,” he said evasively.
Heath was amused. “There’s no need to keep anything from my wife, Damon.” His gaze slid to Lucy’s expectant face. “Reporters are usually dug up from backroom printing shops, Cin. But I have a feeling we’ll have more luck finding the kind we want if we look in other places.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially and winked at her. “If we’re lucky, we’ll manage to steal a few from the Journal and the Herald.”
“Really? Isn’t that unethical?”
“Very. But cheaper and less trouble than training someone ourselves. There’s no such thing as formal training for reporters . . . just experience. The more we can get who already have experience, the further ahead we are.”
“What are you going to offer them to leave the newspapers they’re already working for? More money?”
“That and reasonable working conditions. And also a few challenges.”
“What kinds of challenges?”
Damon cut in smoothly. “It’s a long list, Mrs. Rayne. I’m certain that you don’t wish to be bored with it.”
“On the contrary, Mr. Redmond.” She met his dark eyes squarely. “I am interested in everything pertaining to my husband’s business—”
“An interest,” Heath said, “which I am happy to encourage.”
“Apparently,” Damon murmured, and withdrew into a cool silence.
“About the reporters . . . ?” Lucy asked Heath, who grinned in approval of her unabashed questions.
“The first thing w
e’re going to do is to tone down this elaborate prose that somebody decided to make fashionable. I don’t want anything to be fancy or elevated . . . I’m just after something that the average reader won’t have trouble understanding. And reporters in general aren’t skeptical enough—they take down notes on what they hear and see without asking questions, digging deeper, analyzing. There are a lot of readers who don’t know how to interpret what they read, and part of a newspaper’s responsibility is to help them understand the news.”
“But how do you know that you’re interpreting it the right way?”
“Well, that will always be a matter of opinion. Theoretically, we’re supposed to be objective and non-partisan—but few papers are. The Examiner is going to set new standards in that respect. And we’ll either be a stunning success or go bankrupt in a few weeks.”
Lucy laughed. “Such optimism. It’s only my first night in Boston and already you’re warning me of bankruptcy.” She looked at Damon. “Do you agree with these new policies, Mr. Redmond?”
He inclined his head in a short nod. “Insofar as it will be profitable to produce a paper more directed towards the common masses.”
“I’m sure the common masses will be very grateful,” she replied, just a little too sweetly, and closed her mouth as she felt the warning nudge of Heath’s foot underneath the table.
Chapter 8
“What a snob Damon Redmond is!” Lucy exclaimed, climbing into bed and folding her arms across her chest in a disgruntled attitude. “I’m surprised he didn’t insist that I ask permission every time I wanted to speak! Do you think you’re going to be able to work with him? He’ll drive all of the employees away in a week, with that insufferable attitude—”
“He won’t be dealing with them as much as I will.” Heath turned the lamp down and unbuttoned his shirt. “I’ll be able to work with him. He does have his good points—”
“Such as?”
“Damon’s got a sharp mind, and he’ll keep a cool head in an emergency. His editorials are what I need for the paper—clear, analytical, thought-provoking. And to be blunt, he has a circle of friends and acquaintances which might come in handy sooner or later.”
“Why is he bothering with all of this, anyway? If he’s a Redmond, he doesn’t need to worry about money.”
“That’s kind of a sensitive point.” Heath discarded his shirt and sat down on the edge of the bed to remove his boots. His weight caused the sheet to pull tighter over her hips, causing Lucy to shiver lightly at the snug, tucked-in feeling, the coziness of the dimly lit room, the comforting presence of the man beside her. “The real reason he’s bothering with all of this is that he and his family are—as he put it—‘financially embarrassed.’ If the paper can’t be made into a money-making venture, the Redmonds won’t have enough financial resources to keep their high standing in Boston. Not many people know about it, so—”
“I won’t mention it to anyone, of course.” Thoughtfully Lucy plucked at the sleeve of her nightgown. “I guess if he weren’t so arrogant, I’d feel a little sorry for him. His whole family’s depending on him to save their fortune? That would be difficult for him to deal with all the time.” Eyeing her husband mischievously, she made a clicking sound with her tongue. “And to think . . . his success or failure depends entirely on some radical Southerner and his crazy ideas about the newspaper business—”
“I’ll get you for that!”
Suddenly Lucy was pinned flat on her back, and she squirmed and giggled as he reached under the covers and extracted his revenge. “Don’t! Don’t! I can’t stand being tickled!” She shrieked with laughter and protest. “Heath . . . if you don’t quit . . .”
“You’ll what?” he asked, rolling onto his side as he grinned down at her.
His smile was beautiful. She caught her breath as she met his warm blue eyes, and then she chuckled throatily. “I’ll tickle you back.”
“It won’t work on me.”
“I bet it will!” Experimentally she pattered her fingers lightly over his tawny-skinned side, near his armpit. He didn’t flinch.
“See? My hide’s been toughened up with too many battle scars.”
Her face fell. “Is that true?”
He laughed softly. “No, I was joking. I wasn’t ticklish before the war, either.”
“I don’t like to joke about that.” Her gaze swept over the marks that battle and combat had left on his skin. Long-ago hurts, too late for her to tend and soothe them. The thought of him wounded, bleeding, made her stomach wobble and her heart ache. Tentatively she looked over him, cataloging the healed-over marks on his body, finding that there weren’t quite as many as she had thought before. There was a long, thin scar that trailed from his neck down to his collarbone, and much smaller ones across his muscle-patterned midriff, and a line that extended from the side of his abdomen down into the waistband of his trousers. Slowly Lucy reached out and touched his shoulder, first stroking over the faded evidence of a bullet wound, then gliding her fingertips to the scar over his collarbone. Her hand was small and white against the burnt-in tan of his chest.
“Why are there so many?” she wondered aloud.
Heath remained still under her ministrations, his eyes half-closing as she followed the pattern of faint ridges down to his abdomen. “That’s what happens when men are put on a battlefield, honey. They all try to . . .” He paused as he felt her unbuttoning his trousers, and when he continued, his voice was slightly unsteady. “They all try to stick each other full of holes. Cinda, what the hell are you . . . oh, God, that feels—”
“Well, I know a few wounds are only to be expected,” she said, leaning forward and kissing the base of his throat. Her tongue darted into the hollow, while her hand delved deeper into his trousers. She felt the ripple of his hard swallow against her lips, the rapid awakening of his masculinity under her palm. “But you look like you were one of the main targets.”
“They . . . they fire at whoever they see first. I was just a bigger target than most—”
“Much bigger,” Lucy agreed demurely, and he gave a strangled laugh, taking hold of her wrist and pulling her inquisitive fingers away.
“Little devil. You’re full of pepper tonight, aren’t you?”
“I was comforting you and your wounds—”
“They’re well healed by now, thank you, ma’am. I’m just glad you weren’t around at the time to tend me—your brand of comfort would have finished me off. Near the end of the war, just the thought of a pretty woman made stars dance in front of my eyes.”
“Ah . . . so you missed the company of all those beautiful Virginia belles.” Lucy’s slight smile disappeared as a new thought struck her. “Was there . . . was there one in particular that you missed?”
There was a brief hesitation before he answered. “Never a special one.”
Her curiosity sharpened. “Heath . . . about the women you knew before you married me . . . did they ever—”
“I don’t remember.”
“What?”
“I don’t remember anything about them.”
“You mean you don’t want to tell me. But I really want to know if they ever—”
“Honey, don’t bother asking anything about women from my past. A gentleman doesn’t talk about that with his wife.”
“But you’re not a gentleman anymore. You told me so.”
“We’re not going to talk about it.”
“Heath . . .” she said in a wheedling tone.
“You’d feel the same way if I started asking you about what you did with Daniel. You’d say you didn’t remember—”
“I do too remember!”
He gave her a mock scowl, raising himself up on one elbow and looking down at her. “Oh? And what do you remember? A moonlit stroll down Main Street and a kiss or two? It couldn’t have been much more than that.”
“Well . . .” she said, peering up at him through her lashes, “I have to admit, no one’s ever kissed me the way you do.”
Slightly pacified, Heath began to toy with the ribbons of Lucy’s gown. “That’s because all you knew were cold-blooded Yankees.”
“Heavens, you do like to generalize. I’m a Yankee, and I’m not cold-blooded!” She pronounced the last words coal-bludded, imitating his drawl perfectly, and then she grinned at him. “Or do you give yourself credit for that?”
“You’re getting mighty sassy, Lucy Rayne.”
“Guess you’ll have to take me down a peg.”
“Damned if I won’t.”
Over the next few weeks, their new beginning fulfilled some of Lucy’s wildest hopes. They both had their own worlds to conquer, and they each plunged enthusiastically into the work that lay ahead. The days were short and busy; the nights were filled with passion. In some ways, it all seemed perfect.
But there were still walls between them, and the walls were all the worse because they were never spoken of. They were always there, undefined, unmentioned, and Lucy would find herself running into one when she least expected it. Whenever she tried to find out more about Heath’s life before the war, he would use dozens of different ways to avoid answering; teasing her, making love to her, sometimes even starting an argument in order to change the subject. The same thing happened when she asked him questions that were too personal and probing. He would give her meaningless answers, or he would not answer at all. She was hurt by the realization that he didn’t intend to let her into his innermost heart, to share his secrets, share his pain. Yes, he would allow himself to enjoy her, comfort and protect her, but it was clear that he didn’t want to love her.
She didn’t know why, and there was no one to help her understand him.
In sheer self-protection, Lucy put up her own walls. If he wouldn’t yield any part of his heart to her, she would keep him outside of hers as well. She was sweet and affectionate, laughed and talked with him, responded to his lovemaking without reservation. But she never mentioned her secret thoughts and her private longings. She never let him get too close.
