by Sarah Andre
“She’s not dying, Han. She was just diagnosed.”
“It’s metastasized to her lymph nodes.”
“And she’ll have surgery and then go through treatment and recover. You being here or being in New York won’t change what’s happening in her body. It’s me who can’t live without you.”
A bolt of lightning descended like an exclamation point. Her desperate attempt to hold off hyperventilating, and using the roar of thunder to claw for oxygen. “Why can’t you wait, Devon? Why does it have to be tonight?”
He swept the plastered hair from his forehead. “Because the sonofabitch just kicked me out tonight!”
“You can stay here.”
“I’ll never set foot in Chicago again.” He patted his jacket pocket. “I have two tickets on a Greyhound bus, fifty-three dollars, and you. That’s all I need.”
“Where would we go? How would we live?”
“My cousin lives in Brooklyn. He said we could flop with him.”
“But how would I get home to visit Mom?”
Silence.
Devon accepted the picnic basket and said something to cause the maid to smile shyly. Hannah stared overtly at the man he’d become: self-assured, hotter than fire, and sporting a physique worthy of a men’s magazine. On occasional sleepless nights, she imagined the life she’d be living had she chosen him. After her father had been shot writing a speeding ticket, her mother had either been too wrapped up in her grief to notice Hannah or worse—noticed and actively disliked her. From age five on, life had been miserable because of her mom’s bipolar disorder. But cancer was a game changer, and Hannah had sacrificed the love of her life to be at her mother’s bedside until the last anguished breath.
At the time the decision was easy, because she’d fully expected Devon to return for her. But the years had slipped past. Time healed the grief for her mother, but the what-ifs for Devon had sharpened to razor wire, slicing her each time her thoughts skimmed close.
Devon strode back; his crooked grin causing butterflies to shimmer and swoop in her stomach. He reached her side and held out his hand. “Turn sideways and take it slow. The stairs can be slippery.”
When she clasped his warm palm, he immediately linked fingers. The intimate contact tasered every nerve in her body. He misunderstood her hesitation and squeezed her hand, anchoring her with his braced bicep. “I’ve got you.”
She descended the first step. The worn stone was so narrow that the outer part of her shoe was suspended in midair. Sweat broke out on her brow. She glanced at the sand far below, huffing out a breath. It’d be so easy to fall… “Holy baby—”
“Let’s go to the gazebo,” he said quickly, and she immediately shook her head.
“I—I’ve got this.” Ten geriatric steps farther, the boathouse came into view. It had indeed been carved into the side of the cliff. The façade, created by giant stones and grout, resembled a miniature castle. The arched wooden carriage doors were framed by stone turrets on each side. Best of all, the entire area was set back ten feet, which gave them room to step onto wide flagstones. Immediately her shoulders loosened.
“This is…charming,” she breathed, allowing a glimmer of regret to surface. She’d dated him for ten months and never been to this place. Never even explored the whole mansion.
“Looks like no one’s been here in ages,” he murmured, and it was then that she noted small patches of rot in splintered russet doors that had clearly once been fire-engine red. The majestic brass doorknockers were covered by a pale green patina. Dandelions and clover weeds flourished between the flagstones at their feet. Except for the soft whoosh of waves rolling ashore, life down here stood timeless and still, a relic of the family’s happier days.
He handed her the basket and yanked on the metal rings. The doors squeaked and lumbered on rusted tracks; the dark interior releasing strong odors of dust and mildew. He coughed. “Maybe this wasn’t such a hot idea.”
“Oh no, this is wonderful.” She peered into the depths, where the bow of a tarp-covered speedboat loomed out at them. “But how do you get the boat down to the lake?”
He showed her the slots where metal rails were housed. “We had to manually haul these rails out, hook them to the boathouse, and use a winch to raise and lower the boat. About a year before I left, the old man had it all remote-controlled.” And yet by the looks of it, the boat and beach toys were now rarely used. Before she could remark on that, he muttered, “There used to be a little table and some chairs in here.”
He disappeared into the musty boathouse and returned almost immediately with wrought-iron furniture, gritty with disuse. After dusting the chairs with an old T-shirt he found hanging on a hook, he held the back of one and gestured for her to be seated.
Hannah placed her bag lunch at her feet and emptied the picnic basket that could easily have fed ten. The oddly comforting smells of Lake Michigan in Indian summer—warm seaweed and dead fish—mingled with freshly baked bread and tangy slaw. Yet instead of the growls of hunger she’d endured earlier, her stomach kept flip-flopping. Any minute now they’d talk about that night, and suddenly she wanted to put it off as long as possible. The words she’d needed to hear might give her closure, but what would life be like afterward, when he returned to his fiancée? Or maybe it was the fear he’d say the wrong words. Justify his behavior. What if she’d wasted her life mooning over a boy who grew up to be an asshole? Jeez, how could she delay this until she psyched herself up? “Why did you come back, Devon?”
The serving spoon he’d picked up hovered over the coleslaw. “I had some papers to sign.” He gestured with the utensil. “Technically I could’ve done it through express mail and notaries, but I had some idiotic idea of returning in triumph.” He stabbed the spoon into the slaw. “You know, show the family I’d done well? Even hold out an olive branch, adult to adult.” He emptied an enormous serving onto her plate. “It didn’t go as planned.” The hard glint in his eyes almost made her shiver.
“When are you leaving?”
“Are you married, Hannah? Kids?”
The question stung on many levels. Either her question was unimportant, or the answer she sought was none of her business. The fact he even asked meant that he clearly hadn’t cared enough to Google-stalk her. She shook her head.
“Dating anyone?”
“I’m too busy with the company.” Which was true. And more face-saving than admitting that her rare Internet dates ranged from dismal to colossal failures.
“It’s beyond amazing running into you here of all places,” he remarked.
“Right back at you.” They laughed, but the awkwardness persisted. She rubbed a corner of the coral linen napkin in her lap and frantically searched for something to fill the silence. “Your father’s secretary called us on Wednesday, after the insurance adjusters toured the gallery and provided a quote he thought was insulting. He’s made it clear our documentation of the damage and restoration cost will probably be used in a civil suit against them. Of course, we’re thrilled at this opportunity to work in his private galleries. Our bread and butter is actually conservation, not restoration. We’re one of the vendors that serve the Chicago Art Institute.” Jeez, she sounded like a company brochure!
He nodded. “I heard your company discovered the Rubens forgeries.”
“I discovered them.” Ah, the price of defensiveness. Here came the blush.
“I forgot how easily you do that.” His eyes gentled, which only turned her flush up a notch. “How’d you find out they were forged?” He kept up the eye contact as he stuffed half a thick sandwich in his mouth and bit down.
She picked up her own and put it back down, wishing she could delve into her lunch sack for her carrot sticks and apple. This heavy food would make the afternoon drag. “The red ochre Rubens is known for was not the right hue. And there were hesitation brushstrokes in the tiny details. You wouldn’t see that in a Rubens.” She leaned forward. “As a matter of fact, he copied other masters himself.�
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A wide brow quirked. “You’re saying Rubens was a forger?”
“Gosh, no. He was commissioned to copy other artists or repair their damaged works. He was proud of how authentic his copies looked.”
“Fascinating.” He spoke the word as if to himself. They ate a few bites in silence, but Devon wasn’t looking at his forkful of slaw or the lake or anything else in this serene setting. He was looking at her. Raptly. With that deep, all-consuming, you’re-the-only-person-in-the-universe intensity.
Hannah’s stomach clenched. “Do you like art, Devon?”
“Hate it.”
The emphatic tone startled her. “But the little picture you painted—”
“I was a kid, Hannah. These days, I work. That’s my passion. If I go to a MoMA exhibit, I can assure you it’s because I’m being dragged there.”
Her opening! “Tell me about your fiancée.” Hearing him gush about Nicole Tucker meant Hannah would finally know that the love of her life had found the love of his. No more hope. No more fantasizing. It would be over. Sweet baby Jesus, how many nails could you drive into a coffin before it finally sealed?
He twisted the cap off an Orange Crush—the soda his great-grandfather had invented, the start of their epic family wealth, and, naturally, the Wickham drink of choice. “I’d rather keep talking about you,” he said. “How’d you get into this…art thing?”
She pressed her lips. So vintage Devon—automatically deflecting any personal questions that involved feelings. He hated art, but would rather talk about it than his personal life. Maybe he hadn’t changed after all. She’d answer him, but she’d keep it short and turn the subject back to him, damn it.
“I majored in graphic art at Northwestern,” she said in a clipped tone. “My junior year, I interned at Mannix Conservation and Restoration lab, and something just ignited in me. There’s power in restoring a damaged piece to its full beauty.”
“But when I left, you were waiting tables at Bakers Square. You weren’t even considering colleges.” The implication hung in the air like skunk spray. You were too poor.
“During the last months of Mom’s life, her best friend, Bernice, moved in and took care of us. When Mom passed, I got a healthy sum from her life insurance. Bernice convinced me to use it toward college. She’s also the one who got me the internship. She was a conservationist there. Now she works for me.” And now she’s ill, too.
“When did your mom pass away?”
“Seven months after you left.” Crap. She bit the inside of her lip. She’d emphasized the last word too harshly. And now they were right smack in the middle of the topic she wanted to avoid. Her stomach churned as he studied her, his eyes a deep cerulean blue in this bright light.
“I’m sorry,” he said bluntly. “The stuff I said that night…the way I left things. I was a complete shithead.”
She waited for more—like how it’d taken years to get over her, how he still thought of her once in a while…
But no, he was done. Her hope for emotional maturity fizzled. Some things never changed. Genuine regret showed in his warm eyes, though, and damn if a little part of her torn heart didn’t start stitching up. So stupid. She nodded her acknowledgment and searched for surer footing. “So how is your company doing?”
“It’s all good.” His expression didn’t mirror the statement.
“How did you go from fifty-two dollars to”—she gestured at him up and down—“someone who has the world at his feet?”
A grin split his face, broadening those wide brows and etching grooves in the sexy brackets around his mouth. “Fifty-three dollars.” He sipped his soda, but good-natured resignation remained, and when he put the can down, he said, “Remember that cousin I used to talk about like he was a rock star?”
She nodded, afraid any interruption would shut down the sharing.
“He was rising through the ranks at Langton Investments and took me on as his assistant. I learned everything I know about business, finance, sales, and work ethic during those years. No one works harder than him. No one plays harder either.” He laughed, and she studied his beautiful mouth, the even, white teeth. Dear God. If only her stomach would settle down. “Guy will turn impulsive on a dime, invite a few girls to a suite in the Bahamas, and stay up for days.”
“So…” She blinked to attention. “You didn’t go to college?”
“Took some night courses. Mainly focused on clawing my way up the ladder.”
“How did you meet your fiancée?”
He hesitated, and she smoothed the napkin, as if it were Boots on her lap. She had a right to know. Something shifted in his face, surrendered. “Eric took me to a country club he was thinking about joining, and she was coming off the golf course with her father. Eric knew him and introduced us…”
He stuffed in another giant mouthful, and she folded her arms, waiting for him to swallow and provide just a tad more information. Instead, he swigged the soda, his stubbled throat working up and down. Through the gaps in the wrought-iron tabletop, it was hard to ignore that rigidly flat stomach, and how he spread his thighs with such innate masculine confidence. “Come sit on my lap,” he used to say, with a smoking-hot look in his eyes. And he hadn’t meant sidesaddle.
She mentally shook herself. This wasn’t helping. “How long will you be in Chicago?”
He swallowed the enormous bite. “I have a meeting tonight. I’ll head out afterwards.”
As he spoke, Hannah caught sight of a stunning woman over his shoulder. She stepped down the same stairs that had terrified Hannah and onto the wide flagstones as lithely and soundlessly as a cat.
“Oh, hello,” the woman said.
Devon jerked at the smoky voice, twisting around in his seat. Honey. He squeezed the wrought-iron arms of the chair as his teeth instinctively clenched.
She shifted her weight, thrusting a hip out like a runway pose, as if they might miss the stupendous body in a barely there white bikini.
He purposefully ignored the skin and curves and frowned at her wide straw hat, matching beach bag, and two-inch, bling-covered flip-flops. Really? In October? “The pool is that way.” He pointed up and to the left.
“I prefer the beach.” She lowered her oversized sunglasses halfway down her nose and perused him. “Your father has every servant in the house looking for you,” she said in a syrupy tone. “Evidently you were to meet him half an hour ago?”
Shit. There was no way it could be that late. To hide his shock, Devon made a show of sitting back in his chair as if he had another half-hour to kill. “The cook, a maid, and Joseph all know I’m out here,” he said over his shoulder, “but thanks for delivering the message.” He missed Honey’s reaction, but the dismissal in his voice sure straightened Hannah’s spine. She looked back and forth between them, brows knitted.
“Is this your fiancée?” Honey asked.
The false disbelief brought him up short. She knew last night that Nicole wasn’t here, and no doubt she’d seen Hannah working in the house. What game was she playing?
“Of course not,” he responded curtly. Hannah’s fork clattered off the china and bounced onto the flagstone. The racket echoed in the tense silence. As she bent to retrieve it, his words and tone caught up with him and he bit back the surging apology. No way was he giving his father’s fiancée any ammunition on the teenage love affair. “This is Hannah Moore, the art expert,” he said calmly when she sat back up, her face in flames. “Harrison hired her company after the fire.” As I’m sure you know.
“So you’re having lunch with the help? How delightful.”
He tossed his napkin onto the plate and glanced up in warning. A predatory gleam filled Honey’s eyes as she studied his high school sweetheart. One thing about Honey: she wasn’t dumb. She’d want to uncover the reason behind this little picnic.
Before Hannah could introduce herself and offer up their past like a stuffed Christmas goose, he said hastily, “Hannah, this is Honey Hartlett. My future stepmother.�
� His lips felt so stiff, it was a wonder the words weren’t slurred.
Hannah’s smile conveyed her utter confusion, but also that disarming friendliness. A strong wave of nostalgia pulled at him like a riptide. Some things never changed, like her inability to make snap judgments about people with obvious ulterior motives. That openly pleasant face still held naïve friendship. If anything, the woman she’d grown into had an increased belief in the goodness of people. He couldn’t fault her for the very essence he’d clung to during those dark days living under this roof. Like she was the sliver of warmth and light in his isolation cell. He both adored her for it and wanted to shout a warning as she held out her hand. Whether deliberate or not, Honey was already turning away, pointing down to the sand.
“Didn’t your mother commit suicide down there?” she asked.
Through ringing ears, he heard Hannah’s gasp. It took all his will to rein in his expression. Seconds passed where no one spoke and no one moved. He wouldn’t have been able to if he tried. Peripherally, he caught Hannah’s pitying expression, which further fueled his fury. She knew all about his mom. They had no secrets between them back then, but a covered-up murder staged to look like a suicide should not evoke sympathy. It meant Hannah had never really believed him.
Devon gathered his wits about him, drilling Honey with his coldest stare. “Anything else?” His voice came out gravelly.
Completely unaffected by his reaction, or too stupid to realize the danger she faced, her lips curled upward as she flashed her cell phone. “I’d be happy to call your father about your little date, so no one bothers you further.”
“That’s not necessary. We were just leaving.”
Honey shrugged and turned back to the stairs, descending the treacherous steps with fearless grace.
She was something else.
Devon sat back rigidly. The tension in his jaw spiked a shaft of pain behind his right eye. Of course time had flown too fast; it always had when he was with Hannah. But the pleasure of listening to her accomplishments and this impromptu reconnection was so tainted he could taste it. Without looking at Hannah, he scraped his chair back. “We better get back to the house.”
