Future Perfect

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “I was expecting you last night, Mr. Donovan,” she said disapprovingly, trying hard to regain control over a conversation that was rapidly galloping away from her.

  “I was expecting to be here last night,” he said. “But I had car trouble. And, please, my friends call me Web.”

  “I see.” Juliana pulled an extra place setting from the neatly stacked cabinets. “As long as you’re here, Mr. Donovan—” she stressed the formal use of his full name “—why don’t you join us for breakfast?”

  “I had an Egg McMuffin in Stockbridge,” Webster said.

  “I can assure you,” Juliana said, somewhat haughtily, “fast food can’t be compared to the meals at this bed and breakfast.”

  He laughed. It was a low chuckle, a soft, sexy, lethal sound that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. She kept her eyes carefully averted, not daring to look up into his handsome face.

  “To tell you the truth,” he said, “I’d much rather skip breakfast and get right to the bed part.”

  She did look at him then, more than slightly shocked.

  There was nothing in the tone of his voice that implied the double entendre, but his smile and his eyes were so unmistakably suggestive, his stance so masculine—

  “Your room isn’t ready,” she said abruptly, putting the dishes on the counter with a clatter. “And I have to join my guests. Please feel free to use the sitting room or the front parlor until I’ve finished breakfast.”

  And with that, she turned on her heel and went out into the dining room.

  Web stood staring, long after she had disappeared. He must be more tired than he’d thought. Why else would he be feeling so bothered by that encounter?

  Yeah, okay, so she was beautiful. Big deal. He knew more than his share of beautiful women. But he closed his eyes, remembering the feel of her body against his.

  For a moment, he’d actually believed that he’d finally met a woman he could fall in love with. For a moment, he’d actually believed that he could fall in love, that he’d even want to.

  Hell, for an earth-shattering moment, he’d even believed in love at first sight.

  He drew in a deep, shaky breath.

  Shaky?

  He frowned. He was exhausted, and the fatigue was really throwing him off center. No sir, love had nothing to do with—God, he didn’t even know her first name! Miss Anderson, she’d called herself.

  He pushed open the door to the dining room. She was sitting at the end of the table, at the far side of the room. She glanced up only briefly before she looked away, pink tingeing her fair complexion.

  Web’s chest tightened sharply just at the sight of her. He forced himself to turn away, to walk slowly out of the room. But he stopped at the doorway and looked back. She was watching him, her greenish eyes apprehensive.

  The same tight sensation gripped him as their eyes met again, and instantly he knew what was making him feel so odd. It was desire, lust, animal magnetism. He wanted her.

  And he might not have believed in love at first sight, but he sure as hell believed in lust at first sight.

  Chapter Two

  Juliana quickly put the milk and other perishables into the refrigerator and untied the apron from her waist before she went looking for Mr. Donovan.

  The sitting room was empty, and the front entry hall held a large battered suitcase and three huge computer boxes, but no sign of Webster Donovan.

  She opened the heavy front door and stepped out onto the wide, wraparound porch. The air was still chill enough for her breath to hang in front of her. No, he wasn’t out here either.

  Back inside the house, she started up the curving staircase, heading for the library. When Juliana had first started this business, the library had been her fifth guest bedroom. But she’d soon found that she didn’t need the extra money once a dent had been made in the improvement loan payments. And the difference between having eight potential guests and ten was immense when it came to cooking and laundry. Besides, she needed a place to keep all of Alicia’s books.

  Alicia was going to turn eighty in two more years, and Juliana was convinced that her great-aunt hadn’t thrown a single book away since she learned to read at age three and a half. It had been Alicia who’d opened up the world of literature, of books, to Juliana. Alicia had opened up a great deal more than that, Juliana knew, but the gift of reading was the most precious to them both.

  And who would’ve thought, she mused, still impressed by the walls of shelves that started at the floor and led all the way up to the high tin ceiling, filled with books of all topics, shapes and sizes, who would’ve thought that she would ever own a house that held a library this size?

  She took another step into the room, then stopped.

  There was a sound. She paused, listening. It was the slow, steady sound of breathing.

  It was Webster Donovan, and he was lying on his back on the couch that sat underneath the window. One arm was up over his handsome face, his eyes buried in the crook of his elbow. His other hand rested on his broad chest. Both of his feet were still on the floor, as if he had been too tired to pull them up.

  Or as if he knew his worn-out cowboy boots didn’t belong on her antique furniture, Juliana grudgingly admitted. So maybe he wasn’t entirely mannerless, although sleeping like this in one of her public rooms didn’t win him any points. The way he was dressed, he looked little better than a vagrant, and his presence would keep the rest of her guests out of the elegant library. And that certainly wasn’t fair.

  “Mr. Donovan,” she said, her voice low but clear.

  He didn’t move.

  Juliana took a step closer. “Mr. Donovan.” Louder this time. “Please wake up.”

  His hand twitched very slightly.

  Why was it that Alicia was always off on one of her trips at times like these? Juliana sighed. All right. She was going to have to touch him. So she’d touch his arm, wake him up, then quickly jump out of range.

  Another step, and Juliana was close enough to breathe in his masculine scent. Sweet heavens, he smelled good. But she wasn’t just an animal in heat, she reminded herself. This man may have been handsome, but he was also conceited, rude, and extremely forward. Even if she wanted a man around—which she didn’t—she’d never pick this one, not in a million years, despite how good he smelled.

  She touched his shoulder tentatively. “Mr. Donovan?”

  The man was asleep.

  She shook him slightly. No response.

  She shook him harder.

  His arm came down, but his eyes were still closed. “Aw, honey,” he mumbled, turning onto his side. “C’mon back to bed.”

  Juliana felt her cheeks start to turn red. “Wake up,” she said, shaking his shoulder again.

  He reached out and caught her hand, pulling it toward his mouth. His lips caressed the delicate pulse at her wrist. Then his tongue tasted the palm of her hand in a wildly intimate gesture. “Babe, you smell so good,” he murmured. His voice was low and raspy from sleep.

  Juliana pulled her hand away as if she’d been burned. “My name isn’t babe. Or honey,” she said crossly, wondering how on earth she was going to wake this man up. A cold bucket of water in his face would do wonders for her soul, but the antique couch he was sleeping on and the Oriental rug underneath wouldn’t fare quite so well.

  “What else am I supposed to call you?” he said softly, and quite lucidly. “You never told me your first name.”

  He was awake. His blue eyes were open, with more than a touch of amusement in their crystalline depths.

  “I would appreciate it if you didn’t sleep in the public rooms,” she said. Her voice was crisp, businesslike.

  He pulled himself into a sitting position, and she took an involuntary step backwards. Which, of course, he noticed.

  “I don’t bite,” he said, then smiled that lazy, infuriating smile of his. “At least not too hard. What is your name?” His movements were stiff as he got to his feet.

 
Suddenly the room seemed much too small. Sweet heavens, the man was tall. “Miss Anderson,” Juliana replied. Her soft grey skirt swept behind her as she moved swiftly to the door. “I’ll show you your suite.”

  “You’ve gotta have a first name,” he said, following her out onto the second floor landing. “Everyone’s got a first name. What do your parents call you?”

  She turned to look at him, her face calm, serene. “I do have a first name,” she said, her voice level and emotionless. “But I prefer the guests to call me Miss Anderson.”

  Web felt a flash of annoyance. God almighty, if she didn’t tell him her name, he was going to have to go snooping around that little office he’d seen downstairs. Or spend the next few weeks, not writing as he’d planned, but guessing and imagining her name. Damn, it could be anything. Agnes. Maryanne. Penelope. It could be Jane, for all he knew.

  Miss Mystery Name Anderson stopped before an ornate wooden door, pausing to look back at him before she turned the knob.

  “I’ll give you a key to the room,” she said. “You can keep it locked if you want. Most guests don’t. But most guests also don’t bring their computers on vacation with them.”

  “I’m not on vacation, Miss Anderson,” Web said. She looked away from him as he stressed the formality of her name a little too much. “I’m here to write.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” she said, opening the door. “Miss Dupree told me that you were a writer.” He followed her into the room, wishing he could get close enough to her again to breathe in her sweet natural perfume.

  What was wrong with him? He wasn’t going to get anywhere with this woman by following her around like a lost puppy. And he was going to get somewhere with her, he vowed, even if it took all six weeks of his stay.

  His eyes fell on the huge bed with the heavy, carved wood headboard and footboard. That was exactly where he wanted to end up. In that big bed. With her.

  For a moment he could picture her, golden-red curls loose around her face, her body sleek and naked, unfettered by the heavy, restrictive clothing she wore, her lips parted, eager for his kisses. He’d kiss her slowly, drinking her in, taking his time. He’d trail his lips across her face, her neck, her jawline, and he’d pause at her ear, taking the delicate lobe into his mouth. His breath hot against her, he’d whisper her name—Miss Anderson.

  Web laughed out loud, the splendor of his fantasy broken by the sad truth of reality. He really was going to have to find out her first name, he thought, pulling his eyes away from the promise of that big, beautiful bed.

  She was looking at him expectantly, waiting for something, her big greenish eyes watching him carefully.

  “What sort of things do you write, Mr. Donovan?” she said, obviously repeating the question.

  Terrific. Now she thought he was an imbecile.

  “I’m trying to write another New York Times best seller,” he said, “and to live up to the expectations of the critics.”

  But he still hadn’t answered her question.

  “Fiction,” he finally said. “Is there anything else? No, don’t answer that. Dumb thing to say, particularly for a guy who used to be a journalist.”

  A journalist. Juliana felt a flash of uncertainty. There was supposed to be a reviewer from the Boston Globe coming out to review 31 Farmer’s Hill Road, and his review would be included in a book about New England bed and breakfasts. A good review was worth big money. If Webster Donovan was the reviewer, they’d already gotten off to a shaky start.

  But what kind of reviewer would come and stay for six weeks? No, it couldn’t be Webster Donovan. Besides, he was obviously prejudiced toward writing fiction.

  “I’ve laid towels out in the bathroom,” Juliana said, feeling the silence in the room drag on a bit too long as she stood there examining him from the tips of his scuffed boots to the top of his curly mop of dark hair. “Let me know if you need extras.”

  She crossed to one of two closed doors and opened it. “Bathroom’s here,” she said. She opened the other door. “Here’s your sitting room.”

  The second room was as large as the bedroom, but the wallpaper was a green print. Even the ceiling was papered with a matching design. The curtains were cream lace, and they let in the bright October sun. There was a table in front of the bay windows, just the right size for his computer.

  Yeah, he was going to like working here.

  “Both of the fireplaces work,” she said. “If it gets cold enough, I’ll light a fire in the evening, if you plan to be in.”

  There were two easy chairs in front of the green tiled fireplace, a huge, ornately framed mirror above it. The rug, the antique furniture, the wallpaper, everything about the room was right out of the late nineteenth century. It was perfect.

  “You did a good job decorating,” he said, looking back into the bedroom. That big bed had caught his attention so totally, he hadn’t even noticed the color of the walls until now. It wasn’t quite pink, but it was close. Dusty rose, he guessed it would be called. The spread on the bed matched the wallpaper, and the wall was papered in the tripartite style—divided into three sections with three different patterns of the same colors. The bedroom ceiling, too, was papered, in a different, lighter print. The woodwork in the room had been painted white.

  A quick glance back at the sitting room, his office, he already thought of it, revealed natural colored woodworking, polished to a high shine. “This house is a real gem.”

  “You should’ve seen it when I first bought it.” Her smile transformed her face, making her even more beautiful.

  She stopped smiling almost immediately, as if she were afraid of giving too much of herself away.

  “If you wouldn’t mind coming downstairs, Mr. Donovan,” she said, “I have some forms for you to fill out.”

  Again, he followed her, this time back down the glistening oak staircase. “The guest rooms are all on the second floor,” she said in a voice like a tour guide’s. “You’ve found the library—”

  “And the kitchen,” he said. “This is a terrific house. Is it Anabel?”

  “What?” The non sequitur caught her off guard.

  He was smiling at her. “Or maybe Briana. That fits your hair.” He reached out to brush a rebellious curl off her face.

  Juliana took a step backward, impatience on her face. “Please respect the other guests’ privacy. As I said before, many of them don’t bother locking their doors when they go out.”

  His grin widened, revealing straight, white teeth. “Yeah,” he said. “No problem. Let’s see, A … B … C … Cassandra?”

  “All of the guest rooms are on the second floor.” She tried to ignore him. “Here on the first floor, I’d appreciate it if you’d restrict yourself to using only the front parlor, the living and dining rooms, and the kitchen. Oh, there is a small water closet down here, too.”

  “What’s on the third floor?” he asked.

  “My apartment,” she said, turning away from him to sweep into the small office.

  Web glanced back toward the staircase. Her apartment. “Oh,” he said.

  “It’s off limits to the guests,” she said, sitting behind a delicate antique writing desk. And I’m off limits, too, bub, she thought darkly, so stop looking at me as if you’re so certain we’re going to end up in bed together. Because we’re not. “Miss Dupree has a room on the first floor. That’s off limits, too. Now, how do you intend to pay for your room?” she asked, her voice pleasant.

  He sat down on the other side of the desk. “Credit card. How about Deanna?”

  She blinked.

  “What are you doing tonight?” he asked. “Emily?”

  “I’m serving dinner to four guests,” she said tartly. “Five, if you’re interested in joining them.”

  “Do you eat with the guests like you did at breakfast?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’m interested,” he said. “Very interested.”

  Juliana met his warm gaze evenly. “Mr. Donov
an, do you always come on too strong?”

  “Miss Anderson,” he said, and his husky voice managed to make the formal name sound like an endearment. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

  Chapter Three

  Juliana looked at herself critically, in the full-length mirror. Her hair was in a traditional Victorian style, swept up into a pile on top of her head, the front puffed out. She’d managed to get it just right tonight, and her hair, along with her evening gown, made her look as if she’d stepped directly from the pages of a history book.

  The gown was a copy of a dress that had been made in 1885. It was a deep, rich shade of blue with a low neckline, large puff sleeves and a tight, well-tailored bodice.

  She had put on very little makeup, just enough to accent her eyes and put some color in her cheeks and lips. Just enough to make her feel costumed and ready for the performance.

  Because, really, that’s what it was. A show.

  She’d always loved acting and theater, and she often regretted that she’d never had the chance to perform back in high school.

  Juliana made a face at herself in the mirror. She’d made an awful lot of mistakes back then, back before she met Alicia. But since that time, she’d learned to forgive herself for all those transgressions. After all, the past wasn’t something that could be changed by fretting. Or by regretting, she told herself sternly.

  But the future … now that was something she could control. And as soon as she stopped staring at herself in this mirror, she would go down all those flights of stairs to where her guests were surely waiting in the front parlor, and make sure her future didn’t start intersecting with Webster Donovan’s. Because she didn’t want that kind of future. She didn’t have room in her life for a man, especially not a man like Mr. Donovan. No way.

  Right now the only future she wanted was the immediate one. She wanted to get through this evening. Tomorrow night she wouldn’t be serving dinner, so after breakfast she would have the entire day for herself. She’d take a ride over to the stable and go for a picnic with Captain. Thinking about it was enough to put a smile back on her face.