by Ruth Langan
“You have a very light touch, by the way.”
He grinned and lifted her hand to his lips. “Thank you. I aim to please. But I’ll remind you that next time it’s your turn. And I don’t want you using one of those sissy girlie poufs on my back. I prefer plain old soap and a wash cloth.”
“You’ll take whatever I feel like giving.”
He stopped at the door and turned, hauling her into his arms. Against her lips he murmured, “You got that right, Ms. Sullivan. And I do like everything you’ve given me so far.”
She absorbed the quick rush of heat and realized that even after a night and day of loving, he was able to melt her bones with a single kiss.
“And if I haven’t told you yet,” he murmured against her mouth, “I really love those girlie things you wear. Those soft clingy sweaters.” He ran his hands down her back, up her sides, adding to the heat. Then lower, to her hips. “And those long, sexy skirts.”
“You do? I thought you hated the fact that you couldn’t see my legs.”
“Yeah. I thought so, too. But now I’ve decided that they add just the right air of mystery. It’s probably part of your devious plan to drive me slowly mad.”
“Is it working?”
He kissed her again, lingering over her lips until she felt her blood heat by degrees. “You had me hooked with one look. And everything that followed was just foreplay, Ms. Sullivan.”
“Oh.” She rolled her eyes in mock embarrassment. “If only I’d known. I could have saved us both so much time.”
“Yeah. Not to mention frustration.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “If you had any idea of how much I was suffering, you’d have taken pity on me and ended my misery.”
“And why would I have done that?”
“Because you have a tender heart for all nature’s creatures.”
“And you’re definitely one of nature’s finer ones.”
He grinned. “Thanks. I think. Now.” He turned and opened the door. “Come on. I’m taking you to dinner.”
“Where?” She followed him out on the porch and down the steps. “The Village Pub?”
“Not this time.” He unlatched the gate and waited until she’d walked out, then closed it behind him. “I noticed a little Italian café and thought we’d give it a try. Have you ever eaten there?”
She nodded. “They have great food. And I’m crazy about Italian.”
“Good. Me, too.” Instead of catching her hand, he draped an arm around her shoulders.
As they made their way along the lane it occurred to Lizbeth that it felt so easy and comfortable to be walking like this. As though they’d always been together. Scant days ago she’d have been embarrassed to have her neighbors see her in such an intimate pose. But right now, this minute, she wanted to shout her joyful news to anyone who would listen.
Could they see it in her eyes? she wondered. She waved to the Lassiter twins, Alfreda and Winifred, who sat together on their front porch. They waved back, then bent their heads together, obviously excited to have something new to talk about.
She called out a greeting to Seth Simpson as he jogged past, huffing and sweating. He nearly stopped in his tracks. But to his credit, he managed to keep going, though he’d clearly lost his stride.
She smiled at Vicky Carter, the grocery cashier, who was just stepping out of the Main Street movie theater with Amy Mullins, who worked in the cleaners. The two returned her smile, before turning to watch as she and Colin strolled past.
If Colin was aware of their reaction, he seemed not to notice. “Here we are.” As soon as he opened the door of Villa d’Italia, he breathed in the delightful perfume of garlic and spices.
The dining room had been decorated like someone’s cozy, comfortable home, with framed wedding photos on the walls, and lace curtains at the windows. The lighting was dim. The music of a mandolin played softly in the background.
A pretty, dark-haired hostess led the way to a private booth in a corner of the room. A candle, placed in an empty wine bottle, flickered invitingly.
Colin ordered their drinks, then caught Lizbeth’s hand between both of his. “What do you feel like eating?”
“Pasta.” She said it instantly, without any hesitation. “A mountain of it. Smothered in meat sauce.”
“You’re hoping to load up on carbohydrates, aren’t you?”
She laughed. “Am I that obvious?”
“Uh-huh.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “Not that I’m complaining. I want you to have lots of energy. I’ve got plans for later tonight.”
She looked up into those laughing blue eyes. “Sounds interesting.”
“Oh, I think you’ll be entertained.” He kept her hand imprisoned in his while the waiter opened a bottle of wine and poured two glasses.
When they were alone again Colin touched the rim of his glass to hers. “Here’s to us, Lizbeth.”
“Us.” Her eyes were as soft as her voice. “I like the sound of that.”
“So do I.”
They sipped.
Colin winked. “Though we really ought to drink to Loretta Mayfair. After all, she did everything she could to get us together.”
Laughing, Lizbeth touched her glass to his. “Then here’s to Loretta.”
“And to red dresses,” he added. “I like them on you. And off you, as a matter of fact.”
They were both laughing when the waiter returned to take their order.
“The lady would like a mountain of pasta smothered with meat sauce.” Colin handed oven the menu and added, “I think I’d like the same.”
“You won’t regret it. We consider our pasta at Villa d’Italia a feast.” The waiter walked away, recognizing their desire to be alone.
“I remember the pasta and sauces of Sicily.” Colin sipped his wine. “So different from the taste in Rome.”
“Have you lived in both places?”
He nodded. “There was a U.S. base in Sicily. My father was commander there for a couple of years.”
“Did you and your sister go to American schools?”
“For the most part. They always made American schooling available for the children of servicemen. But often my mother would see to it that we attended local schools, so we’d master the language. She wanted us to get the most out of our travels, so we could learn about the culture and make friends with people other than ourselves.”
“She sounds like a smart woman.”
“She was.”
Was. Lizbeth looked up at the finality of that single word. “How long ago did she pass away?”
“It’s been almost ten years now. Both my parents went down in a plane crash just outside Paris.”
“I’m sorry.” She placed her hand over his. “It must be so hard to lose both parents at once, and to lose them so suddenly and tragically.”
“It was harder on my sister. Serena was still in high school. I was out of college by then, and traveling all over the world. I had no way to make a home for her.”
“Where did she go?”
“I think I once mentioned my aunt Betty. The one who used to bake the terrific date nut bread.”
Lizbeth nodded.
“She lives in Colorado and took Serena in until she finished high school.”
“I’m glad she had someone there for her, to give her a sense of her roots.”
He shrugged. “I guess it was too late for Serena to put down roots. When it came time for college, she chose the other side of the country and headed east. And even before she graduated, she started traipsing around the world again.” He shrugged. “Maybe being an army brat does that. There’s just not that desire to settle down.”
Lizbeth felt a little chill at his words. Was he warning her that he was doomed to be a rolling stone? She kept her tone light. “I guess it’s the same for my family. My parents have been all over the world, wherever Grandpa Sully asks their help in taking over a new hotel or inn. And they never seem to tire of it. They love starting over in a new place.
”
“What about your sisters? Do they still have the itch to move on?”
She shook her head. “We’re all so different. Once Alex took over my grandfather’s old hunting lodge, she knew she’d found her life’s work. She recently married the new chief of police in Snug Harbor, a former New York City policeman. They’ve found their own snug harbor. I doubt either of them would ever consider leaving.”
“How about your other sister? Celeste, is it?”
She nodded. “I don’t really know if she’ll stay in Libertyville. Right now she’s immersed in the challenges presented in making the Old Liberty Tavern a success. But she seems much more suited to Paris or Rome or San Francisco.”
“A bit of a sophisticate?”
Lizbeth laughed at the description. “Much more than just a bit. She’s so polished and perfect she puts the rest of us to shame.”
He caught her hand and lifted it to his lips, sending the familiar splinters of fire and ice along her spine. “You’re no slouch yourself, Ms. Sullivan. A woman who grows her own herbs, cooks gourmet meals and could teach a thing or two to most interior decorators.”
She shook her head. “I can’t hold a candle to Celeste.”
He fixed her with that piercing look. “You can light my candle any time.”
She laughed. “That’s just because you’re so easy.”
“I am where you’re concerned.” He looked up as the waiter returned.
Through course after course they feasted. There was thick, homemade minestrone, served with crusty garlic bread. The dressing on their salads was so light, Lizbeth had to pause again and again, in an attempt to guess the ingredients.
“Extra virgin olive oil.” She closed her eyes. Tasted. “Basil. Shallots. A dijon mustard, I think. And a wonderfully tart vinegar that defies description. I’ll have to remember to ask the chef for the brand name.”
Colin leaned close to kiss the tip of her nose. Her eyes shot open.
He grinned. “I love it when you talk like that.”
“Really?” Her eyes widened. “You should have told me that sooner. I promise you, tonight I’ll bring my recipe cards upstairs to bed.”
“No need.” He waited until the waiter removed their salads. “Just whisper a few ingredients in my ear and watch what happens.”
“I can’t wait.”
His eyes darkened. “Neither can I.”
By the time they left the Villa d’Italia, the sun had disappeared and the street lights cast a soft yellow glow over the town.
Colin caught her hand. “Good choice, Ms. Sullivan. That spaghetti was the best. I’m feeling very satisfied.”
“So am I. I couldn’t eat another bite.”
“That’s too bad.” He motioned toward the ice cream parlor. “I was thinking we could get a couple of cones for the walk home.”
“Why didn’t you say so? I always have room for ice cream.”
They were still laughing as they entered the parlor and made their choice.
Minutes later they started for home, Lizbeth happily licking strawberry ice cream, and Colin indulging his love of chocolate by having three scoops, one of chocolate chip, one chocolate cookie dough and one double chocolate.
By the time they reached Stafford Cottage they were savoring the last bites. Colin unlatched the gate, and waited until Lizbeth stepped through, before closing it behind him.
“Let’s sit on the porch awhile.”
She nodded.
They settled themselves on the glider. It occurred to Lizbeth that it was so much more pleasant now that all the tension and discomfort between them was gone. She tucked her feet under her and leaned against his shoulder, loving the feel of his arms around her.
“Oh.” She closed a hand over his. “This feels wonderful.”
“I was just thinking the same thing. I don’t know when I’ve felt more at peace.” He pressed his lips to her temple. “This has been a special day.”
“For me, too.”
“I’m glad.”
They sat in companionable silence, listening to the soft sounds of the night. The hum of insects. The call of a bird. An occasional note, pure and clear, of a violin.
“Where’s that music coming from?”
Lizbeth sighed. “Loretta. Years ago she was a concert violinist. Her husband played the piano. Until Henry died, they used to give lovely recitals. Now, sometimes, she plays, though it’s rare. She claims her fingers are getting too stiff.”
They listened until the song ended. Then there was no more music, and Lizbeth imagined the old woman putting away her instrument and carrying on a lively conversation with her cat.
A long time later, when the moon was full and golden, and the sky was awash with millions of stars, Colin stood and offered his hand. “Ready for bed?”
She put her hand in his. “I shouldn’t be, after the hours we spent there. But the truth is, I’m tired.”
“No wonder. We didn’t get much time to actually sleep.”
He held the door and they climbed the stairs together.
In the hallway he paused outside her door. “Does it still look like a disaster in there?”
She laughed. “I actually took the time to hang all those dresses and put away all those shoes and bags. Would you like to come in?”
“It doesn’t matter. Your room or mine.” He drew her close and kissed her, until they both felt the quickening of their heartbeats.
With her head spinning she caught his hand and nudged the door of her room open. “Then I choose mine. It’s closer.”
The little crystal clock on her bedside table said midnight. Lizbeth knew she ought to be asleep. But she was still too keyed up from their lovemaking.
She watched Colin in sleep, loving the way he looked, his hair so dark against the white of the pillow. His breathing so smooth and easy. Even in sleep he kept an arm possessively around her hip, one leg tossed carelessly over hers.
She hadn’t meant for this to happen. She’d thought that she would be able to snatch a little happiness. That was all she’d intended. And why not, when he was so ruggedly handsome he took her breath away? When his kisses were so potent they could melt her bones and wipe her mind clear of all thought. But something else was happening here. She had seen it coming all night. All day. Sneaking up like a thief. And even seeing it coming, she’d failed to lock the door. And now she had no one to blame but herself for this mess. And it was a mess. Because, she realized, she’d never felt so happy, or so at home, with anyone in her life. She hadn’t meant for this to happen. But it had. She’d lost her heart to Colin St. James. She’d fallen hopelessly in love with him.
She squeezed her eyes shut to keep from weeping. Oh God. What had she done? She’d never meant for it to go this far.
Chapter 12
Colin rolled over and reached out, eager for the warmth of the woman he’d held all through the night. It was strange how quickly he’d come to expect to find her there beside him. But the bed was empty. Disappointment washed over him. His eyes opened. Though the room was in darkness, he knew she wasn’t there. Maybe because he’d developed a sixth sense about her. About the way she moved. The way she smelled. The way she tasted.
As his senses sharpened he could hear her moving around downstairs. He glanced at the clock and was relieved to see that he wasn’t rushed for time. With his hand behind his head he lay back, sorting out his feelings. He’d come to Stafford with no expectations other than the opportunity to remodel a wonderful old house. He’d done this hundreds of times in hundreds of towns and cities. But somehow, in a few short weeks, everything had changed.
It occurred to him that he’d begun to think of things that would have once seemed impossible. Of sinking roots. Of making a home for himself, not in one of the world’s great cities filled with classic architecture, but in the tiny town of Stafford, New Hampshire. When had this happened? And how?
The answer came instantly. The first time he’d seen Lizbeth. That first walk throu
gh this cottage. He’d felt…something. As if he’d come home.
He was an intelligent, sensible man. He may be a wanderer, but he’d never thought of himself as foolish or impulsive. But ever since that first day, when he’d come here seeking a place to stay, he’d had the feeling that he’d been meant to come here. And now, weeks later, he had an even stronger sense that he was meant to stay.
He slipped out of bed and headed toward the shower. As he passed the window he paused and opened the drapes. He felt his throat go dry at the scene unfolding below. With his hip against the sill he studied Lizbeth in her garden. What a picture she made, in one of those long, flowing skirts she favored, a bright yellow cardigan over her shoulders to ward off the morning chill. Her hair had already worked free of its pins to curl around her face.
He watched as she bent to snip a flower and place it in the basket on her arm. Her lips were moving. Was she talking to her blooms? He had no doubt.
With a smile he turned and made his way to the shower. He couldn’t wait to get downstairs and taste her lips. Not to mention whatever it was that had those wonderful scents wafting up the stairs.
Lizbeth walked through her garden, still wet with dew, snipping fragrant peonies for a bouquet.
“Oh, you lovely things. One spring storm and you’ll be finished for the season.” Their heavy blooms would drop, she knew, petal by petal, over the ground, too fragile to endure the pounding of raindrops.
The earth was still hushed, barely awake. The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon. The air was so still and silent not a blade of grass stirred.
“You’re up early,” she called to a robin, pecking through the grass. “I bet you have a hungry family waiting for you. All those little beaks to fill. And all hoping to be first.”
Still smiling she continued on until her basket was filled with flowers. She picked her way through the damp grass and made her way inside, where coffee was already perking, and cinnamon rolls were cooling on the counter.
