by Lisa Cach
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” he asked.
“You’re still young. I may be wrong.”
“I’m not ready, that’s all. I’ve got too much to do. I’m still building my firm, and there’s the development project I’m trying to bring together …”
“You’ll be down here a lot this summer, working on that project, won’t you?”
“Ye-es … Why?”
“I don’t want Grace to spend the next three months indoors, waiting on me or writing her ridiculous dissertation. I’d like you to take her out whenever you’re down here.”
“Date her?”
“Do you want to date her?”
“God no!”
“Then just take the girl out, Declan. Show her around. Take her kayaking or rollerblading or whatever it is young people do these days.”
“Rollerblading?”
“Take her golfing. Anything. She doesn’t know anyone here, and she doesn’t strike me as the type of girl who’s going to zip into Carmel and find herself a pack of friends to go do things with.”
“I don’t think she likes me. She may not want to spend any time with me, however innocent my intentions.”
“She’ll go,” Sophia said.
Declan helped Sophia up the stairs to the terrace, feeling the weight she put on his arm. A cold trickle went through his heart as he remembered that she was eighty-five. Her vibrance usually made age irrelevant, but in this moment at the edge of night, he realized there was no guarantee she would make it through her surgery.
He felt a shot of hatred for Andrew Pritchard. Who was he to badger Sophia into a hip replacement? It could very well do more harm than good.
He took Sophia into her library, a small room with a large flat-screen TV square in the middle of a wall of books. A laptop and a phone sat on a small desk beside a well-worn velvet couch with mismatched pillows. The fireplace was surmounted by a life-size portrait of Sophia in her prime. Red hair fell in waves to her bare shoulders, and a dark green strapless gown hinted at abundant cleavage, while the waist nipped in, accentuated by a black belt with a diamond buckle. She was posed half lying on a recamier with a leopard skin tossed over it, and the invitation in her eyes said that she would either purr for a man or devour him; it was his choice.
Sophia eased down onto the sofa, then saw where he was looking. “A few pounds less and in the right clothes, it could have been Grace who sat for that.”
“Her jaw’s different, and the expression in her eyes would give her away.”
“I suppose you’re right. The posture, too.”
“How much do you really know about your niece?” Declan asked, leaning against the mantel.
“What a suspicious question to ask! You make it sound like she’s here to murder me and steal my riches. I don’t suppose it will make you feel any better to hear that I know next to nothing about her, will it? Of course I plan to write up a new will and leave every earthly possession to her, and then tell her about it right before I put her in charge of my medications.”
Declan scowled. “Very funny.”
“Don’t be an ass. She’s as innocent as she looks. Her mother is one of those ‘natural’ women with underarm hair and a unibrow. I don’t think much evil grows from composted ground.”
“People are people, even the ones who act whole-wheatier than thou.” A thought hit him. “Grace would be a good match for Andrew! She’s got him half hooked already. Why not ask him to show her around instead of me?” The two would be a punishment for each other.
Sophia tapped her bottom lip with her fingertip, thinking. “He wouldn’t be an easy fish to land. Almost as difficult as you, in his own way. He’s the type who will nibble at the bait but never bite.”
“And what do I do?”
“You steal the bait and swim away.”
“You make me sound like a cheat.”
“Perhaps no one’s had the right bait to make you forget the hook.”
Declan looked again at the painting. Since he’d met Sophia, he’d compared every woman he dated against his imaginary vision of what she’d been as a young woman. From the age of eighteen, he’d been looking for someone with the beauty, intelligence, and raw sexuality of that imagined Sophia.
He tried to imagine Grace in Sophia’s place in the portrait, sitting awkwardly upon the leopard skin, her brow wrinkled in worry as she pulled up her bodice to cover more skin. That puritan Dr. Andrew would probably like her self-consciousness. It would give the weasel courage.
Declan was suddenly sorry that he’d made the suggestion to throw the two together. He could see it: self-righteous Grace married to puritanical Andrew, Sophia dying, and all her assets ending up in the hands of two life haters who were the complete opposite of everything Sophia had ever stood for.
Declan had no interest in Sophia’s money for himself—frankly, he hoped she’d take care of her household staff and then leave the rest to charity—but he didn’t want Andrew to get his lily-white paws on it. The young doctor’s air of benevolent omniscience had always annoyed him, like a rough tag in the back of a pair of jockey shorts. He thought Andrew would have made a better priest than doctor.
“I’ve been worrying about Andrew finding a woman almost as much as I have been about you,” Sophia said.
“Admit it, you think he’s gay.”
Sophia rolled her eyes. “He’s not gay. And even if he was, I’d still be worried that he didn’t have a partner.”
“It’s not a mystery as to why he’s alone. The guy’s a downer.”
Sophia shook her head. “He’s shy and introverted, and he takes both life and his work much too seriously. If I handle them correctly, I think Grace could be engaged to Andrew by the end of the summer.”
“Why would you want that?” Declan asked, appalled.
“For their mutual happiness, of course.”
“I don’t think their sort can be happy.”
“What nonsense. Love makes everyone glow. It would bring joy into both their lives.”
“Well, I wish you luck,” Declan said.
“It’s not luck I’ll need, it’s your help.”
“Mine?”
“I know there are competitive feelings between you and Andrew. I won’t ask him to show Grace around; that duty will remain yours, and I want you to make a good show of it. It will make him jealous, and prompt him to act where he would otherwise dither. He is attracted to her, that much is obvious.”
“If we’re so competitive, maybe I’ll try to keep Grace for myself to prove I’m the better man.”
Sophia’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t play with my niece’s heart, Declan, and don’t touch her. She might believe you care. We both know that isn’t possible.”
The words hurt. Sophia seemed to think he wasn’t even capable of loving a woman. “Isn’t there a danger Grace is going to think I’m attracted to her if I keep taking her out?” he asked.
“Be your worst self with her, as sexist and womanizing as your dark side desires. Your type is anathema to hers.”
He felt insulted, even as he recognized the truth of her words. Somehow it seemed fair that he should find Grace’s personality type repulsive, but not vice versa. He suddenly wondered if Sophia thought he wasn’t good enough for her niece. “Dr. Andrew hasn’t had a girlfriend in all the time I’ve known him,” he said flatly, changing tack. He was increasingly feeling that he didn’t want Sophia’s plot to succeed. “Your plan isn’t going to work, no matter how jealous I make him.”
“Care to put another bottle of Blue behind that attitude? I say that they will be engaged by the end of August.”
Declan laughed. “There’s no way in hell that’s going to happen. Yeah, I’ll take that bet. It’ll be a chance to win back the bottle I’m going to lose tomorrow morning.”
Sophia laid her hands gracefully in her lap and smiled sweetly up at him. “Or not.”
CHAPTER
4
Grace took a sip of chamomile tea
and grimaced. Did Catherine really like this stuff? She shrugged and fished the tea bags out of the mugs she’d prepared and carried the cups out of the quiet kitchen, shutting off the lights as she went. It was almost midnight, and the household had retired for the night. She’d been cooped up with Catherine since teatime, the only relief coming when Lali brought them a dinner tray.
Catherine had refused to eat any of it. “I’m too upset,” she’d said. “I’ve lost my appetite. But you go ahead if you’re hungry.” As if being hungry meant Grace was heartless.
“You know I’m a stress eater,” Grace had pleaded, staring at the gnocchi in brown butter sauce with spinach and bacon lardons. She usually tried to eat vegetarian, but bacon was her tempter in the desert. It was just so savory and salty and good. There hadn’t been consolation in the meal, though, with Cat lying on the bed, facing away from her, her shoulders tight, the room silent.
It had been a long evening of consolation and argument, Catherine’s dramatic distress pushing Grace further and further away until she felt like an actor pretending to care. At this moment, it was beyond her how women could stand to fall in love with each other.
She didn’t know how men put up with them, either. Really, why would any guy bother? Was the sex really worth it?
She felt guilty sometimes for feeling a kinship with men who complained that women talked too much about their feelings. There were times she wanted to yell, “Just get over it, for criminy’s sake! Let it go!”
Cat had been drowsing when she left the room; maybe she’d fallen asleep by now. Grace dawdled in the dark entrance hall, the moon lighting the space in shades of gray. The solitude and emptiness were a relief. She didn’t want to go back to her room, where the air was fuggy with emotions.
She set the mugs on the bottom step of the staircase and wandered into the living room, her feet feeling the cool marble of the hall change to warm, polished wood, and then the soft, rich pile of an Oriental carpet. The shadows were darker in here, the furniture black silhouettes against the moonlight coming through the French doors to the terrace. She saw the outline of a grand piano and walked over to it, sliding onto the hard bench. The keys gleamed dimly in front of her. She curled her toes over the cold metal of the dampening pedal and softly picked out the notes to Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.
She wished that Cat had just dropped her off today and left. Aunt Sophia might still have gone on the attack, but Grace would have weathered it without making a scene. And if tea had continued, she would have had more time to talk to the adorable Dr. Andrew.
She sighed. Now that was the type of man she’d been hoping to meet for years. Educated, caring, so cute she could eat him, and he’d seemed to understand where she was coming from. That was the type of man who would emotionally support her and her goals.
Not like Declan, who would undermine them with his obtuse incomprehension. She abandoned romantic Beethoven and dove into the lugubrious violence of Rachmaninov’s Prelude in C-sharp Minor. Declan obviously had no respect for women, or interest in their thoughts. He’d probably marry someone with implants and a Botox addiction.
He was everything stereotypically male: misogynistic, arrogant, and so sexually attractive that it was embarrassing to look at him. She almost felt embarrassed for him; men weren’t supposed to attract that much attention for their looks. It made her strangely queasy, like seeing male models posing for underwear ads.
She’d read research about what women found attractive in a male face, and it had turned out they liked two types, for different reasons: a macho male face with a square jaw and heavy eyebrows for sex, but a man with softer, more androgynous features to marry and raise children with.
She congratulated herself on being evolved enough never to have fallen for the jock/asshole type of guy. The thought of letting some inconsiderate jerk invade the most intimate places of her body, no matter how good-looking he was, had always made her cringe. The nice guys were undoubtedly better lovers, anyway.
Although, hadn’t there been another study saying that women had more orgasms with the sexier-looking men?
It had been a flawed study, obviously. Andrew would be a far more generous, perceptive lover than smug, arrogant Declan. Andrew might be her Mr. Right. When you found the right guy you knew it immediately, didn’t you? That’s what everyone who’d had true love said; you just knew.
Her fingers moved to a new position on the keyboard, and she sang along in a whisper:
Another bride, another June
Another sunny honeymoon
Another season, another reason
For makin’ whoopee
A throaty male laugh rose from the darkness. Grace shrieked, her fingers crashing on the keys.
A dark shadow moved on the sofa. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to ravish you, no matter how hard you plead.”
Grace’s heart thumped to life again. “D-Declan?”
“Keep playing. I can’t wait to hear the verse about the pussy-whipped groom sewing and washing baby clothes.” He sang in a deep baritone that sent shivers over her skin:
But don’t forget, folks, that’s what you get, folks
For makin’ whoopee
Grace crossed her arms protectively in front of her, feeling naked in her pajamas, her breasts unfettered beneath the thin, well-washed T-shirt. “I wouldn’t have guessed that you’d know the words to a song from the 1920s.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed your hands could elicit such passion,” he said, and paused. “From a piano. Were you thinking of me while you played the Rachmaninov?”
Grace spluttered. “Not in a positive way!”
The shadow laughed. “Good or bad doesn’t matter, only the strength of your feelings.”
“Are you drunk?”
“Maybe.”
She slid off the bench and started toward the door. “I’ll leave you to sleep it off, then.”
“Coward.”
“I’m not a coward for not wanting to hang around with a drunk chauvinist pig.”
“Sure you are.”
She laughed. “You don’t object to being called a chauvinist pig?”
“Your opinion doesn’t come as a surprise. And I still think you’re a coward. Think of all the information you could pry out of me while I’m in this vulnerable state.”
“There’s nothing I want to know.”
“I’m insulted! And wounded. Severely.” She heard him pat the cushion next to him. “Come sit down and make me feel better.”
“Oh, please.”
“Aren’t you at all curious as to why I’ve spent the evening passed out in your aunt’s living room?”
She was, a little. She wavered. “Why do you want to talk to me?”
He was silent for a long moment. “I don’t know.”
If he’d said anything else, she might have left. Instead, she moved toward an easy chair. As she passed by him, his hand shot out and grasped her wrist. He tugged and, caught by surprise, she dropped onto the couch next to him. “Hey!” she protested, scrambling away from him.
Something soft hit her and she squeaked.
“Have a pillow,” he said.
She clutched the throw pillow to her chest, but he made no further move to touch her. She could make out only the barest hint of his features, and he didn’t seem to be looking at her. Reassured, she drew her knees up and leaned against the arm of the couch, watching him. Her bare toes were only a few inches from where his hand rested on the cushion, and she was careful not to let them touch. “Do you often spend the night on Aunt Sophia’s couch?”
“No, never. It’s surprisingly comfortable, though. I probably would have slept till morning if you hadn’t woken me. Has your friend been trying to persuade you that it would be a mistake to stay here?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to listen to her?”
“No.”
“You should,” he said.
“Why?”
“You’re not too bright if y
ou have to ask that.”
“Sophia doesn’t scare me.”
“Liar, liar, pants on fire.”
“How can you know?” Grace demanded.
“Because she scares everyone.”
“Even you?”
“Yes.”
“It’s not very manly of you to admit it.”
He laughed. “I don’t need to prove my manhood to you.”
Grace chewed her lip. She got the feeling that Declan thought she was immature. Naive, even. “You said you were both her financial adviser and her friend. You don’t sound like a friend.”
“‘Friend’ probably wasn’t the most accurate choice of words.”
Grace drew in a breath. “You’re not her …”
“Her … ?”
“Her, you know,” she whispered.
A laugh burst out of him. “Her boy toy? No, Grace, I’m not a gigolo.”
“Oh.”
“You sound disappointed.”
She squirmed, feeling like a twelve-year-old talking to a dissipated adult. “Well, if you’re not her friend, then what are you?”
“I think ‘surrogate son’ might be closer to what I meant.”
She had trouble imagining it. Neither seemed to have enough love in them to spare any for other people. “But you’re afraid of her?”
“What son isn’t afraid of his mother?”
“Most, I should hope! My brother isn’t afraid of our mom.”
“You wouldn’t know.”
“There’s nothing for him to be afraid of. She loves him with all her heart.”
“Exactly!”
“Exactly what?” she asked, bewildered.
“Maternal love is a ferocious thing. It devours men whole and spits them out without their balls.”
“You are drunk. It’s nurturing and supportive, and if that’s not what you get from Sophia, then that’s about you and her, and not about maternal love. And if it’s so horrible, why would you stay with her?”
“Masochism. Addiction.”
She rolled her eyes. “I didn’t figure you for a drama queen.”
“If you stay here, you’ll get sucked in, too,” he said.
“You make Sophia sound like a mob boss.”
“It’s not a bad simile.”
