Something that, deep down, she wanted to share with him.
He released her hand, the absence coming sharp like a physical pain. But he simply circled round to the chair beside her and took her face in his hands. “I know you are a not a victim, Grace. You are a strong, caring, talented woman.”
The way he was looking at her made her chest seize. She reached for humor out of reflex. “You forgot beautiful.”
A smile flickered across his lips and put a new light into his eyes. “Oh no, I didn’t forget beautiful.” He brushed the lightest kiss across her lips. “Or sexy.” Another kiss at the corner of her mouth. “Or tempting.” He pulled back long enough to stare into her eyes, his intensity making her breath hitch and her insides twist with longing.
Without a doubt, she still loved him. And for the first time since her return, she believed there was a chance he could love her again too. She tipped her head to his forehead, breathing him in, embracing the hope that there might be something to salvage from the wreck of their past. And then he was kissing her again, while the stew cooled on the table and the years between them slipped away.
Chapter Thirteen
He was late to work for the first time in years.
Last night he and Grace had finally gotten back to their supper when it became clear how little it would take to reignite the flicker of desire into a full-fledged bonfire. Their reunion was too new and too fragile to endure the temptation. Instead they had stayed up late, music turned on low while they talked with her feet in his lap, as if no time had passed. Then he’d insisted on seeing her home, which led to a rather lengthy good-bye in the hall outside Asha’s flat.
All only tangentially related to his lateness, except that he’d been too distracted to set his alarm. He’d slept through his morning outing and woken at half eight, with just time enough to throw on clothes, comb his hair, and hail a taxi, which had been a mistake considering the London morning traffic. The Tube would have been faster.
Fortunately his morning schedule was relatively clear, allowing him to begin calling Ms. Grey’s references personally. Of all the candidates he’d seen the previous week, she remained the most qualified and the most stable. Still, there was an element of danger in hiring because of Jamie’s celebrity status. It was Ian’s job to fully vet anyone who would have any contact with Jamie, their family, or his finances. But every supervisor he spoke with said the same thing. Ms. Grey was dependable, logical, and dedicated to her work in a way that bordered on obsessive. A creative problem solver, good with people, the type that should have been well on her way to an executive position. What had happened to make her leave a managerial position at one of London’s largest firms without a reference?
He certainly wouldn’t get a straight answer from the firm itself. Instead he sorted through his contacts. He didn’t know anyone at Walker and Brown, but he had gone to university with the vice president of the independent auditing firm that worked with them and every other major financial-services company in London.
“Ian!” Alexander picked up on the second ring in his syncopated London accent. “Long time, mate. How are you?”
“Good. Yourself? Finally made VP, I hear.”
“Long time in coming, that. You calling for business or just to catch up?”
“Actually, I was hoping you could get me some information on a potential hire. Abigail Grey, most recently at Walker and Brown. She left about six months ago and won’t say why.”
“Grey, right. Senior financial examiner. Sharp woman. I worked with her on the last two audits, but I hadn’t realized she left. Want me to see what I can find out?”
“If you would.” Ian paused. “Heard you got married recently. How’s married life treating you the second time round?”
“Good. Hoping this time it will stick, you know? The hours aren’t exactly conducive to romance. What about you?”
Ian let himself smile a little. “Dating someone.”
“Past time you settled down. We’re getting old.”
“Yeah, I’m aware of that. Let me know what you find out.”
Ian hung up, then began to go through his overflowing email in-box. His mobile phone beeped beside him. A text message from Grace.
Lunch today? Miss you already. (Lame, I know.)
He grinned and texted back: Wish I could. Dinner later?
A few seconds later, her reply: Asha’s working late. Come by and I’ll cook.
That was something to look forward to. Grace clearly knew his weakness for her cooking.
He went back to his in-box with slightly more enthusiasm. The weekend’s new mail was about finished when his direct line rang.
“Ian, Alexander here. I talked to my friend at Walker. No one really knows what happened. Abigail Grey was a private woman.”
“Surely there were rumors.”
“Rumors, yes. Sounds like she’s a single mother and her daughter has health problems, so she definitely didn’t leave by choice.”
“So …”
Alexander hesitated. “No one is saying anything, but no female executive has lasted in that department more than two years. Everyone has quit or been transferred. Ms. Grey lasted more than twice that time.”
Definitely suspicious, and it hinted at some sort of harassment. Just because there were laws against these things didn’t mean they still didn’t happen. “Nothing to indicate impropriety or criminal behavior or anything like that?”
“Not remotely. Everyone suspects she was driven out.”
“Fair enough. Thanks for the help.”
“Anytime, mate. Nice to talk.”
Ian hung up the phone. His instincts said she was the right hire, and this information seemed to confirm it. He hesitated over her CV before he picked up the phone and dialed her. She answered on the third ring.
“Ms. Grey, I’d like to offer you the job. I’m emailing you a formal offer letter now, but I’d like to have you start as soon as possible.”
“May I review the offer and get back to you?”
“Of course.” She was cautious, and Ian couldn’t blame her. “I’ll look forward to your decision.”
Which was an understatement, considering she was the only candidate who had a chance of lasting more than a week. Maybe people assumed working for the company of a celebrity chef would be glamorous, when in reality, it was mostly boring, dry business details. Clearly Ms. Grey hadn’t gone into finance for the excitement.
He sent off the letter, then turned to another stack of paperwork, hoping his offer had been aggressive enough to snag her. Alexander was right. They were getting old, and his workaholic tendencies weren’t conducive to maintaining a relationship. He would do what it took not to lose Grace again, and that included getting help in the office.
Once the workday was over, he resisted the urge to skip his workout and forced himself through a grueling weight circuit that made him wish he’d gone straight to see Grace after all. By the time he made it to Asha’s place, he could barely contain his anticipation.
She let him up when he buzzed at the intercom, but he found the door on the latch when he reached the flat. Cautiously he entered.
The low pulsing thrum of electric bass filled the interior as music poured from a small set of speakers in the living room. He paused at the edge of the kitchen, a smile twitching his lips as he watched Grace stir something at the stove while she sang along with “Bullet the Blue Sky.”
“U2, huh?”
She glanced over her shoulder with a mischievous expression that melted his insides. “They’re Irish. Which automatically makes them brilliant.”
He stepped up behind her and slid his arms around her waist. She shivered as he dropped small kisses from her ear to her shoulder. “Hold that thought,” she said. “The risotto’s almost done.”
He leaned against the counter while she added grated parmesan and gave it a final stir. “There. Mushroom risotto with sautéed shrimp.”
He stepped closer. “Am I allowed no
w?”
“No.” She stretched up on tiptoes to snatch a light kiss and then darted out of reach. “Risotto is only good while it’s hot. Take a seat.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He watched her while she served their food, every bit as comfortable in the kitchen as she was with a camera. “You know, a man could get used to this.”
“Don’t get too used to it. I’m not exactly the domestic type.”
“You could at least let me dream.” He dug into the risotto—a touch gummy but still delicious—and asked, “What did you do today?”
“Very little, actually. Had breakfast with Asha and spent the afternoon with Melvin at the gallery.”
“Lady of leisure.”
“Indeed. It was nice. What about you?”
“I found an assistant. Assuming she accepts my offer.”
“Oh? Is she pretty?”
“She’s very professional.” Ian studied her. Was Grace jealous? That was completely unlike her. Then she broke into a grin and he relaxed.
“Just having a laugh. And I’m sure she’s pretty, but I also know that you are far too serious to notice those things.”
“Am I?” He grabbed the support rail beneath the seat of her chair and dragged it over to him to put her lips within reach. Only when she wrapped an arm around his neck to steady herself did he draw back. “Because I noticed that you’ve gone shopping, and you look pretty fantastic in those jeans.”
Pink tinged her cheeks, but she held his eye. “Risotto, remember? Getting cold.”
“Right.” He hid his smile when she scooted her chair to its proper place. “I do love risotto. It’s a little labor intensive for a weeknight, isn’t it?”
“I needed a distraction. I’ve got an interview tomorrow.”
“With CAF? When did that happen?”
“I finally dug up the business card and called Kenneth DeVries today. He wants to see me tomorrow morning.”
“So you’re really doing it.” Even though it was just a preliminary interview, the decision had significance, especially coming on the heels of their tumultuous weekend.
“I’m not entirely sure CAF is the right fit for me, but staying in London? Yes. I’m giving it a go.” She looked at him, breath held, and he realized she wanted his approval, an acknowledgment of the decision she was making.
He reached for her hand and squeezed it hard. “They’d be lucky to have you. If they’re smart, they’ll make as good a case for the organization as you will for yourself. And it doesn’t hurt to be in a relationship with a member of the board of directors.”
She laughed, her green eyes sparkling in a way that made his chest clench. “Is that what this is? A relationship?”
“What do you think?” He lifted her hand and kissed her palm, gratified by the sudden quickening of her breath.
“I think someone is trying to wheedle seconds from me.”
“Well, if you’re offering …”
Grace laughed and took his bowl back to the range. “Any tips for tomorrow?”
“Grace, you’re a shoo-in. You impressed everyone at the benefit—and don’t think winning over their wives doesn’t work in your favor. All you have to do is reiterate what you already told them, and I suspect the job is yours.”
She nodded, but the way she worried her lower lip was a sign of anxiety. Surely a simple job interview didn’t make her nervous. Maybe she wasn’t sure CAF was the right place for her.
It was far easier to believe her nervousness centered on the job rather than on him.
Chapter Fourteen
“Why are you nervous?”
Grace didn’t meet Asha’s eye as she discarded the third blouse of the morning. Ninety minutes until the job interview, and she still hadn’t decided what to wear. She reached for choice number four. “I’m not nervous exactly, just … Okay, fine, I’m nervous. What if I completely muck it up?”
“What if you do? It’s not like you need a job right now. And you can still set up shoots for the autumn if you need to.”
Grace slid a white silk blouse over her head, noting the wrinkles across the front, and slipped her black suit jacket back on. “It’s not that, Ash, it’s just—”
“You’re making an effort for Ian. Isn’t that what this is about?” Asha slid from the bed and came up behind her in the mirror.
Asha was always too perceptive to slip anything by her. “His life is here in London. If we’re going to make a relationship work, it would help to spend more than a few days at a time in the same city. And that means I get a real job. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life shooting weddings. I want to be involved in something that makes an impact. CAF seems to be the best of both worlds.”
Asha put both hands on Grace’s shoulders. “They would be crazy not to take you. But this ivory blouse? It’s not happening. You might as well go in with a noose wrapped round your neck.” She bent and rummaged through the open duffel bag that still served as Grace’s wardrobe and pulled out a plain green T-shirt. “Here.”
The cotton replaced the silk, with the jacket over top. Asha handed her a necklace made of multiple strands of glass beads. “Jewelry, then roll up the sleeves so you can see the watch.”
“Don’t you think I should cover up the tattoos?”
“That ship sailed at the benefit.” Asha grinned and smoothed down the necklace. “There. Now you look like the artistic type who’s going to take them into the twenty-first century. I’d say it’s an improvement.”
Grace glanced in the mirror and blinked. Asha was right. She looked more casual, but still put together, a conservative black suit paired with the T-shirt, Asha’s fashionably chunky watch, and the flashy necklace. She reached out and slid her arm around her friend’s waist. “Thanks, Asha. I probably should go. Being late won’t make a great impression.”
She slid her feet into her single pair of dress shoes, low-heeled patent leather, grabbed her oversize bag and portfolio, and headed for ground level. She found herself praying as the heels of her shoes clicked against the concrete of the road outside.
God, please don’t let me mess this one up. You know how hard I want to make this work. Please, just … help me get through this with my dignity intact.
She chuckled as she descended the stairs into the Tube station, realizing that not once had she asked God to help her get the job. If that wasn’t ambivalence toward the situation, she didn’t know what was. She needed this job, of course. It was an essential step in making a more settled lifestyle work, in making this relationship work. She would not be the bohemian photographer wife of a rich executive—
Wife? Where had that come from? She and Ian had been back together for less than two weeks. They’d done some kissing and catching up, but they hadn’t delved into anything more serious. After what she had put him through, she wouldn’t blame him if he never fully trusted her again.
And yet that single word—wife—could fill her with a longing for something she hadn’t even known she wanted. For a lifestyle she wasn’t sure she was capable of maintaining.
She plugged in her headphones while she waited for the train, the platform filling in around her. At a high enough volume, the Ramones worked well to drown out the thoughts in her head. Before she could think better of it, she pulled out her phone and texted Ian: On my way to interview. Think I’m gonna be sick.
Make sure you sick up in the potted palm, then. Kenneth DeVries wears expensive shoes.
Grace grinned at Ian’s complete lack of sympathy. Thanks so much for the support.
No problem. You’ll be brilliant. I promise. Just tell him why this means so much to you.
She bit her lip against her smile and tucked the phone back into her pocket, his support—flippant as it may have been—thawing the cold lump of anxiety in her chest. When was the last time she’d had someone in her corner? Someone who was as invested in her happiness as he was his own? She’d had relationships over the years, but they’d been more out of convenience and mutual necessity, for
med in the chaos of conflict when the only thing that had anchored her to reality was a warm body in the bed next to her. War photographers could be an odd lot, alternating between solitary and overly trusting, but they were terrible at commitment when they knew each assignment could be their last.
Maybe that’s why Grace made a phenomenal journalist but a crummy fiancée.
She let the flow of people carry her onto the carriage when the train stopped at the platform and wrapped her fingers around a sticky rail as the train jolted forward. Things were going to change. She could get a job that utilized both her experience and her passion and put behind her the nomadic lifestyle that had made attachment so difficult.
At Westminster, she made the change to Jubilee, which dove beneath the Thames and emptied out at her destination, Canary Wharf. As she rode the escalator up to street level, her heart started thumping again. Even now, she thought she would be less nervous in the deserts of Iraq than in this jungle of concrete, steel, and glass that made up London’s second biggest financial district.
But the bright sunlight streaming in through the arched glass canopy of the Tube exit comforted her, as did Jubilee Park’s unexpected swath of green. When she at last reached her destination—an enormous, intimidating skyscraper in Canada Square, topped with a pyramidal glass roof—she was a full twenty minutes early. She took a moment to gather herself on the pavement outside before pushing through the glass doors into the building.
Acres of marble, glass, and brass surrounded her. She didn’t look around, just made her way steadily through the trickle of suited businesspeople to a bank of lifts, where she climbed on and punched the number for her floor. It seemed odd for a charity to be housed in one of the premier business buildings in the financial district, but considering the amount of money that flowed through the organization each year, perhaps it made sense.
London Tides: A Novel (The MacDonald Family Trilogy Book 2) Page 12
