Future Perfect

by Suzanne Brockmann

  She watched him steadily, her face expressionless.

  “Talk to me,” he said, quietly. “Please? I want—I’d like to know more about you.”

  Juliana saw naked honesty in his blue eyes. Honesty and fear. Fear of what? Loneliness, maybe. Whatever it was, he wasn’t being glib or smooth, and the end result was one hundred percent charm. Juliana walked back toward the bed and was rewarded by a flare of hopeful pleasure on his face. She leaned against the footboard.

  “Over the past two and a half days,” she said, a glint of amusement in her eyes, “you’ve done nothing but question me about where I grew up, how long I’ve lived here in Benton, how long I’ve had my horse—that is, when you weren’t, shall I say, otherwise engaged …?”

  He laughed. “No fair. Now you’re trying to embarrass me.”

  “Do you always ask so many questions?”

  “I used to be a reporter,” he said. “It’s in my blood.”

  He was quiet for a moment, looking down at the floral pattern of the bedspread. “You know, either I don’t remember, or you didn’t answer my questions.”

  “I answered some of ’em,” she said with a smile. She crossed to the chair and sat down, pulling her feet up on the seat, tucking them under her long skirt, resting her chin in her hand as she looked at him. “Let’s see, you asked me how old I was. I’m almost twenty-eight. You asked how old I was when I had my first kiss, and who the lucky guy was, and I said fourteen and Emilio Cardonza. You asked me where I was born, and I said Springfield. You asked if I had any brothers or sisters, and I said no. You asked me a million questions about where I went to college and what my major was. I didn’t answer them. I also didn’t answer when you asked me how old I was when I lost my virginity.”

  Webster groaned. “I didn’t really ask you that, did I?”

  “You did. How old are you?”

  “Thirty-four.”

  “Where were you born?” she asked.

  “Ocala, Florida,” Webster said. “My parents owned a ranch. We raised thoroughbreds and some not-so-thoroughbreds. Good horses, though.”

  “You must’ve had a great childhood,” Juliana said, envy in her voice.

  “Too many people assume that,” he said.

  She looked at him, her eyebrow raised. “You didn’t?”

  “My parents didn’t win any prizes,” he shrugged. “And my childhood pretty much ended when they sent me to boarding school. I was only home in the summers.”

  “Still, even to spend your summers on a ranch, with all those horses …” Juliana said. “You must be an excellent rider.”

  “I am.”

  She smiled. “Careful—don’t be a jerk. The correct response is to smile modestly and say, ‘I’m not bad.’ ”

  Webster grinned, not at all modestly. “But I’m not ‘not bad.’ I’m excellent.”

  “Maybe one of these days, when you’re feeling better,” Juliana said, “we can go out riding, and you can prove it.”

  “I’d like that,” he said. “I don’t get to ride much these days. There aren’t too many stables in downtown Boston.”

  “Is that where you live?”

  He nodded. “I have an apartment on Boylston Street.”

  “I lived in Boston for a few years,” Juliana said. “Brookline, really. I was seventeen. It was when I first went to live with Alicia.”

  “Alicia?” Web asked.

  “My great-aunt,” she said. “You spoke to her on the phone, remember?”

  Webster shifted his weight, trying to get comfortable. “Yeah, I remember. Is she really your great-aunt? She sounded so young.”

  “She is young. She’s only seventy-eight,” Juliana said.

  “Only seventy-eight …”

  “She’ll be back in a few days,” she said. “She’s spending a couple of weeks on St. Thomas, visiting an old friend. She likes to travel. She lived in Africa for years. She took me there once. We went on a safari.”

  “You mean … hunting?”

  “No guns, only cameras,” Juliana said. “It was wonderful. Alicia is an amazing woman.”

  Webster pulled one of the pillows out behind him, lying flat on his back. Maybe that would help. “So why did you live with her when you were a teenager? Were you going to college in Boston?”

  He turned on his side to look at her, grimacing as his back twinged.

  “Do you want me to rub your back?” Juliana asked suddenly.

  Webster smiled ruefully. “Yeah, I’d love it. But do you really want to, or are you just trying to avoid answering my questions?”

  She rose gracefully from the chair and crossed to the bed. Nudging his hips with the back of her hand, she said, “Roll over.”

  Webster rolled onto his stomach, shrugging out of his loose shirt. He pulled a pillow up under his arms and rested his chin on his hands, then closed his eyes as her strong, cool fingers began to massage the tight muscles in his shoulders. This was the stuff fantasies were made of.

  Juliana moved her hands down his broad, strong back. His skin was sleek and warm and so smooth beneath her fingers. She liked touching him. She had wanted to touch him from the moment she woke up this morning. But that was nothing new. She’d wanted to touch him from the first moment she set eyes on him.

  The big surprise was realizing that she liked Webster Donovan. She really liked him. Maybe too much.

  But he was rich. He’d grown up the rich son of rich parents, just like Dennis. And just like Dennis, he would condemn her when he found out.

  She might as well tell Webster the whole story, she thought. She had to tell him in order to stop wondering what he would think if he knew. She should tell him now before she really, truly cared what he thought.

  “You asked me why I went to live with Alicia,” she said, her voice low. “It wasn’t because of college. I didn’t go to college. I didn’t even finish high school.”

  Webster heard her pause and realized that she wanted him to say something. “This feels really great,” he murmured. “Please don’t stop.”

  It wasn’t what she expected him to say. There was another long pause. Then she asked, “Aren’t you shocked?”

  Webster didn’t answer right away, and when he did, he spoke carefully, as if he were considering each word he said. “I don’t shock easily,” he said. “So what if you didn’t finish high school? It’s a shame, but only because you didn’t get a chance to experience college life. You certainly seem well-educated. In fact, you’re probably better read than most college grads.”

  Juliana was silent, her hands traveling back up toward his neck. She slipped her fingers under his soft, dark curls, feeling him relax underneath her, wishing that she could get rid of her own tension as easily. She had to tell him the rest.

  She spoke again, her voice still low, but clear. “I lived with Alicia because … she was my only relative who wanted custody of me after I got out of reform school.”

  It was said so matter-of-factly that Webster had to replay her words in his mind at least twice before he understood what she had said.

  Reform school. After she got out of … reform school!

  He rolled over, looking up at her. “Congratulations,” he said, pulling himself into a sitting position. “You’ve shocked me. Why were you in reform school? For how long? When? How old were you?”

  She folded her hands carefully in her lap. “I was sixteen. When I was charged with breaking and entering and grand theft, larceny, I came really close to being tried as an adult. But I was a first-time offender. I’d run away so many times the judge didn’t want to send me back home, so …” She shrugged. “If Alicia hadn’t petitioned for custody, I would’ve ended up inside until my eighteenth birthday. As it was, the five months I spent in there was way too long.”

  Juliana risked looking up at Webster. He was watching her steadily, but his eyes held no accusations, no revulsion, no pity—only warmth. “It must’ve been awful,” he said.

  “It scared me to death,”
she admitted. “Being locked up like that, constantly watched …”

  “Were you guilty?”

  She nodded, yes, unable to speak the word. “I was living on my own, in the street. I had two options when it came to surviving, besides going back home, that is. I chose stealing.” She looked at him, waiting.

  Webster just watched her. He didn’t say anything.

  “Well?” she finally asked.

  “Well what?”

  “This is where you’re supposed to say something clever to get me out of the room so you can count the money in your wallet, make sure it’s all there,” Juliana said.

  Webster laughed, then stopped as he realized she wasn’t kidding. “Oh, come on. When was the last time you stole something?” he asked.

  “It was only that one time,” she said, “and that was only because I was so hungry.”

  “When you were sixteen,” Webster said. “Twelve years ago. God almighty, Juliana, I hope you don’t intend to judge me by the mistakes I made twelve years ago.”

  Juliana looked down at her hands, willing away the tears that had somehow leapt into her eyes. “No,” she said softly. “I’d never do that.”

  “I also hope that you don’t judge me by the mistakes I made just last week,” Webster said softly.

  She looked up at him, startled, remembering the man she’d first known as Webster Donovan.

  His eyes held none of the crystal hardness she’d seen in that other Webster. Instead they held such sensitivity and warmth she felt she had a glimpse of this man’s soul.

  “I won’t,” she said, then managed to smile. “You know, Webster Donovan, I think we just might be able to be friends.”

  He smiled back at her. “Friends would be a really good place to start.”

  Chapter Eight

  The next few days passed quickly, and Webster finally felt well enough to venture downstairs. The first day he was up and about, he followed Juliana into the kitchen after breakfast, staying and chatting as she cleaned up the dishes. The second day, he grabbed a sponge and helped. The third day, he followed her up to the guest rooms, continuing a running dialog on his favorite books, authors, movies, and musical groups, peppered with endless questions about her own favorites.

  As they went into the second room, and he started to help her strip the bed, she had to laugh. “Webster, I’ve never seen anyone procrastinate as diligently as you.”

  He looked across the bed at her, smiling slightly. “I’m not procrastinating,” he said.

  “You’re not writing,” she pointed out.

  “Yeah, but I’m not procrastinating.”

  She motioned to him, standing there, a pillowcase in his hands. “If this isn’t procrastination, what is it?”

  “It’s just … well …” He cleared his throat, tossing the pillowcases into the laundry basket. When he looked back at her, the softness in his eyes nearly took her breath away. “I just want to be with you, Juliana,” he said.

  She had to turn away, unsure of what to say and equally unsure how to feel. Light, she thought desperately. Keep it light. “Good,” she said. “Then today you can start paying me back for all those days I waited on you hand and foot.”

  He leaned on the bed, eyebrows on the rise. “You want me to wait on you hand and foot?”

  She threw a pillow at his head. He caught it and began stuffing it into a clean pillowcase. “I’ve got five ladies arriving at four-thirty,” she said. “They’ll be here for dinner tonight and tomorrow. If you’re game, I’d like you to help me entertain them.”

  Web’s eyebrows rose even higher. “Entertain? You mean, like tap dance? Recite poetry?”

  “The poetry would be nice.” Juliana smiled. “Look, I’ll show you what I mean. Come with me.”

  Intrigued, Webster followed her out of the room and down the hall. “Curiouser and curiouser,” he murmured as she led the way up the stairs to the third floor.

  He watched silently as she took a key from a long chain that she wore around her neck and unlocked the deadbolt to her apartment. Her long skirt swept after her as she went through the doorway. Webster stood outside, not sure if he should follow.

  After a moment she came back to the door. “What are you waiting for?” she asked.

  “An invitation, I think,” he said, “You told me so absolutely that your apartment was off limits my feet refuse to step over the threshold.”

  Juliana made a face at him. “That was back when you were a jerk,” she said. “But all right, I’ll humor you. Won’t you come in, Mr. Donovan?”

  “Thank you, Miss Anderson,” he said, stepping into the room. “You know, I haven’t changed. It’s your perception of me that’s been altered.”

  “What are you saying? That you’re still a jerk?”

  “Nice place,” he said in admiration, looking around the spacious room. “You’ve made yourself your own little Greenwich Village loft here, way the hell out in the middle of nowhere. It’s so modern I’m shocked.”

  “I thought you weren’t easily shocked,” Juliana said with a smile.

  “I’m not.” Webster crossed the room to get a better look at her exercise gear. “Oh, wow, look what you’ve got! Your own private health club. Could I—? Sorry.” He shook his head, as if amazed at his audacity.

  “Use my equipment sometime?” Juliana asked, finishing the sentence for him, with a smile. “Why don’t I dangle that over your head as additional incentive for helping me out tonight and tomorrow?”

  “Absolutely. Good incentive. I love what you’ve done with the skylights,” Webster said, his eyes following the line of the ceiling. “How many houseplants do you have? Is it four or five hundred?”

  “Not that many.” Juliana laughed.

  “Aren’t you afraid you’ll hyperventilate from all the extra oxygen these monsters give off?”

  “Watch what you call them. They’re listening!”

  “Oh my God,” Webster said, drawn to another part of the room. “You hypocrite! Your brochure clearly boasts that there are no TVs in your bed and breakfast, but that’s got to be the biggest television I’ve ever seen in my life! I’m crushed! All this time, I pictured you sitting around doing needlepoint in the evening, when really you were up here watching South Park.”

  “Webster, what do I have to do to get your attention?” Juliana said.

  “You’ve probably got a microwave somewhere around here, too, don’t you?”

  “Webster, get over here and take your clothes off!”

  She could see the shock in his blue eyes clear across the room. “Okay,” he said. “That got my attention.”

  “I have something I want you to try on,” she said calmly, opening her closet door and disappearing inside. When she came back out, he was standing by the end of her platform bed. He turned to look at her.

  The clothes Juliana held were covered with a thin plastic from the dry cleaners. She pulled it up to reveal a gentleman’s black Victorian evening coat, complete with tails, a vest, a black pair of trousers, and a frilled white shirt.

  Webster laughed. “Where did you get that?”

  “I have a costume chest.” She smiled. “I remembered there was a suit that no one could ever wear because it was much too big. I almost threw it out last year. Lucky for you, I didn’t. I sent it out to have it cleaned a few days ago.”

  “Lucky for me,” he echoed. He sat down on her bed, pulling off his boots.

  “You can change in the bathroom if you want,” she said, but he had already stepped out of his jeans. “Or not,” she added weakly.

  It hadn’t even been a week since she’d taken care of him, since she’d seen him with less on than the red shorts he was wearing now. But he’d been barely mobile, hardly even conscious. The effect was quite a bit different than seeing him upright and in motion, muscles rippling, as he pulled on the pair of black trousers. If he noticed her staring, he kindly didn’t comment.

  “I get it,” he said. “You want me to wear this down
to dinner, right? Be part of the Victorian scenery?”

  “I think you can probably manage to be more than mere scenery,” she said.

  He fastened the pants easily, then pulled on the shirt. “What the heck …?” he said, holding up his arms. The sleeves seemed to be much too long.

  “Cuffs,” Juliana realized. “You’ll need cuff links.”

  She went back into her closet and came out pulling a trunk behind her. A man’s jewelry box was close to the top, and she took it out, rummaging through it until she came up with several shiny gold cuff links.

  “Better let me do this,” she said, and he held out his arm. Their eyes met as she touched him, and she quickly looked down. They were standing much too close for her to gaze into his eyes for any length of time, she thought. If she did, he might realize that she wanted him to kiss her. Her fingers fumbled and she dropped a cuff link on the floor.

  Sweet heavens, she thought, as she picked it up. She did, she really did. She wanted Webster to kiss her.

  She fastened the metal links through the button holes in the cuff of one sleeve and then the other, realizing that she was exerting an awful lot of energy to dress a man she’d much rather be undressing.

  Glancing up, she found Webster’s eyes on her face. She couldn’t hold back a nervous laugh.

  “What’s the joke?” he said, his eyes so sweetly uncertain.

  Juliana didn’t answer.

  Webster watched her closely for a moment. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, and she wouldn’t meet his eyes. He was dying to kiss her, to pull her back with him on top of her big bed, and make love to her with the sunlight streaming in through the skylight, warming their skin. But for now, she wanted only to be friends, he reminded himself. He was going to take this slowly; it mattered too much to him to rush it.

  Juliana risked a glance at Webster. He was having trouble getting the evening coat off the dry cleaner’s hanger. She moved close to him, unfastening the hidden pins that the cleaner used to keep the garment secured. Webster didn’t take a step backward, and when she looked at him, their faces were only inches apart. This is it, thought Juliana. He was going to kiss her now.

  This is it, thought Webster. She was testing him. But uh-uh, no way. He wasn’t going to risk being a jerk again. But not kissing her took effort. His hands shook slightly as he tried to button the evening coat. And if Juliana noticed, she didn’t say a word.