She turned from the window. “A house with its own airstrip?”
“It’s a relatively small strip—the company jet doesn’t need as much length as bigger craft. And my grandfather was always fond of cutting out the middleman,” he said, unbuckling and picking up his jacket. He’d discarded the cuff links from his dress shirt and rolled up his sleeves to expose his wrists. Ever since she’d first seen those wrists and hands stirring a pot of chili beans, the sight of them made her breath catch. She knew that was an overreaction to a body part, but nothing about her attraction to Matthew had made sense from the day she’d arrived.
The pilot popped around the door. “You’re clear to disembark, Mr. Kincaid.”
“Thank you, Lachlan,” Matthew said, before sliding his arms into his jacket and guiding Susannah to the door the pilot had opened. They stood for a moment at the top of the steps, looking over toward a grand, two-story antebellum plantation-style house, its tall windows gleaming in the light of the full moon.
She sighed, trying to imagine living in a place so magical for vacations as a child. “Did your father bring you here often?”
“It was my grandfather’s vacation home. My mother often brought us out on school holidays to spend time with the extended family. Dad was usually working.” With the inflection he gave the word “working,” it was clear he now thought his father had been with his second family during those holidays. He rubbed a finger across his forehead. “I don’t think I’ve been out in fifteen years.”
He climbed down the short set of stairs then turned and held out his hand to help her down—help she appreciated since the steps were harder to navigate in her heels.
On the ground, Matthew took her hand and guided her across the private airstrip toward what looked like a small cottage. “I thought since our night was cut short and Flynn is with Mom, it would be a good time to finally check the place out again.”
The night air was cold and quickly seeped through the pink shawl she wore. She shivered and Matthew took off his tuxedo jacket and sat it on her shoulders. His fingers lingered and she shivered again, this time from his nearness.
She looked around at the silhouettes of the trees and stars in the sky, taking in as much as she could discern in the moonlight. If he hadn’t been out in fifteen years, then Grace had never been here. A selfish corner of her heart liked that there was something Matthew was sharing just with her.
Though, that also meant Flynn hadn’t seen the place. “You didn’t come here when you inherited it?”
He shrugged casually. “The will reading was less than two months ago and Flynn was sick with the virus back then. I wouldn’t leave him. My PA rang the couple who had been looking after this place and told them to keep doing whatever they’d been doing in the short-term, and I’d continue their salaries. Once things had settled I’d planned to come out and have a look then decide what to do with it.”
“What about the pilot?” she asked, glancing back to the plane.
Matthew took out his keys and opened the door to the small building beside the strip. “This staff cottage has been used by pilots and other employees for decades.” He flicked a switch and a sitting room was flooded with light. “The couple who look after the house keep it stocked with supplies and entertainments. It’s better than the pilot’s lounge he was at earlier this evening.”
There was a Jeep in a garage beside the cottage, and after taking the key from a hook in the kitchen and snagging a coat for himself from another hook, Matthew guided her to the passenger seat. There was something surreal about coming out to such an isolated spot late at night, and she had to wonder why he’d really suggested it. There must have been other chances for him to check on his inheritance before now.
The short drive, passing the dark shapes of sprawling oaks, was like something from a fairy tale, and when they pulled up in front of an elegant porch, dominated by tall, white Grecian-style columns, she couldn’t contain a sigh of wonder.
“Have you thought about what you want to do with the place?” she asked.
“Not really.” Instead of climbing out, he turned to face her. “I was close to my grandparents, and when Mom would bring us out on vacations, I was in heaven, just running around and playing all day. I thought I could pass those experiences on to Flynn and make it our vacation home.”
He came around to her door and opened it for her and they made their way to the deep front porch. “Then again, maybe I’ll sell it,” he said as he unlocked the front door.
She looked around at the first room they entered, a large reception room with family portraits in dark frames on cream walls and an assortment of trophies and other mementos on the mantel. “You don’t think it’s important to keep it in the family?”
“I recently discovered that my father had a different view of what family means than I do.” His shoulders rolled back. “So, no, I don’t feel a whole lot of obligation about keeping his family’s traditions.”
The betrayal was still obviously raw for him and she wished there was some way to ease that ache, even though she knew it was something he’d have to work through on his own.
As they walked through the rooms, she was surprised how sparkling and fresh the house was. She’d expected something a little more rustic.
“Your caretakers keep it looking like this all the time?” she asked, turning in a circle.
“Much of it looks the way it did when Grandpa was alive. Since it was only a vacation home, it’s always had someone coming in once a week and keeping it ready for the family to drop in.”
But one question replayed in her mind. She stopped him with a hand on his forearm. “Matthew, why did you bring me out here tonight?”
“I’m not sure,” he said, looking down at her hand as it lay on the dark fabric of his tuxedo coat. Then he laid his large, warm hand over hers, sending sparks dancing across her skin. “I wanted to see it again. And to share that with you.”
She bit down on a smile. He genuinely wanted to share this part of himself, of his history, with her. Yet, she could see he was conflicted about his inheritance by the lines that appeared around his eyes. He had a deep attachment to this place, and wanted that for Flynn, but was resisting it because he was still angry at his father. The complexities of this man called to her.
He lifted her hand from his forearm and turned it over, then kissed her palm gently, slowly, and the sweet pressure began to build inside her. He smiled into her eyes—he knew the effect it was having, then he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm.
“There’s a sitting room through here with a fireplace,” he said. “I’m hoping part of the caretaker’s duties was to keep it ready.”
They found the sitting room, with its buttery-yellow walls and dark wood furniture, and Matthew went over to an old wood-burning fireplace that was already packed with kindling and split logs. He found the matches on a nearby ledge and hunkered down to reposition the twigs and scrunched newspaper. The fabric of his black trousers pulled taut over his powerful thighs. As he struck the match, it hissed then caught, and he threw it into the kindling. In the glittering light of the new fire, his cheekbones were accentuated, his profile becoming darkly mysterious.
She moved closer and put her hands out in front of the small flame, welcoming the heat it already generated, wanting to be closer to Matthew’s heat, too.
“The house was mainly used in the summer, so fireplaces are all we have for heating,” he said, holding his hands out to the warmth, as well.
“You realize I can’t see the rest of the house now.” She turned, giving her back a chance closer to the flames. “I’m not moving from this fireplace.”
The look he gave her heated her skin, even from a distance. “I could be happy with that arrangement.” He moved a few paces and took a thick blanket from the back of a chaise longue, then an armload of cushions.
He sauntered back and dropped the cushions haphazardly on the floor and held up the blanket. “I take it that you’ve heard about the best
way to keep warm in the cold?”
“Central heating?”
His mouth twitched. “When there is no central heating.”
“Then you might need to explain.”
“Body heat.” He took her hand and slowly kissed each finger in turn, then the palm. “Clothes off, skin on skin, wrapped in a blanket.”
“Are you making a pass at me, Mr. Kincaid?” she asked a little breathlessly.
“No, ma’am.” His mouth scorched a path down the inside of her wrist. “I’m solely concerned for your comfort and health.”
Her skin flared hotter under his mouth than from the fireplace and, without thinking, she thrust the fingers of her other hand through his short, silky hair. But it wasn’t enough. She wanted more.
She tugged her hand away from under his mouth and brought his face up to hers. Pulse soaring, she kissed him hungrily, her lips, her tongue urging him to take what he wanted. He seemed to understand. One hand slid up from her waist, cupping a sensitized breast, gently massaging his way until he found the peak, then brushing it with the back of his hand through the fabric of her dress.
A surge of need overtook her and she shrugged out of his tuxedo jacket, letting it fall to the mess of cushions at their feet and his coat quickly followed.
He reached behind her and unzipped the dress. “You took my breath away in this dress tonight.” He pressed an openmouthed kiss to the bare shoulder he uncovered. “But I can’t wait another second to see you out of it.”
As he slid the fabric down her body and his darkened eyes followed its path, her skin quivered. The desire in his eyes hadn’t dimmed from the first time they’d made love. If anything, it increased every time, matching her own growing need for him—each time together offered new opportunities to explore, to create responses, to feel. She couldn’t imagine ever tiring of touching his body, of being touched by him.
She worked his shirttails free then unbuttoned the white dress shirt, pushing it over his broad shoulders and down muscled arms. The firelight flickered patterns on his chest, accentuating the ridges of muscle, making the skin shimmer like gold. She ran the pads of her fingers across his collarbone, scraping her nails lightly down his sternum.
“Don’t move,” she said. “Just give me a few minutes.” Matthew was usually so intent on his mission to give her pleasure, and she was normally so absorbed in the sensations he evoked, that she didn’t get enough time to tease him the way he teased her.
“Anything you want,” he said.
She unbuttoned his trousers, lowering the zipper extra slow, watching his face—his eyes drifted closed and the ridged muscles of his abdomen clenched tight. He held himself completely still, though he was vibrating with the effort of doing it. She hooked her thumbs under the waistband of the trousers and boxers beneath, and lowered them at a leisurely pace, going down on one knee as she took them to his ankles. He lifted one foot then the other so she could slide the shiny shoe and sock off then tug each leg of his trousers away. Still he didn’t move.
Her ascent was just as slow, her hands stroking over the rough hairs of his legs, tracing the strong muscles. When she reached the top of his thighs, she wrapped a hand around him and kissed the velvet skin. As he groaned, she felt him sway a little then his knees locked.
“Damn, Susannah,” he said through gritted teeth. “You’re killing me.”
She smiled up at him and found his wallet in the trousers then located the protection she knew he’d have hidden inside. She tore open the wrapper then rolled it slowly over him, placing another delicate kiss at the top. She continued her progress up his body, kissing his abdomen, shaping the curve of his buttocks with her palms, until she was again standing straight.
“I’m all yours,” she said with satisfaction, leaning into him.
His eyes flared and, with hands on either side of her head, he kissed her with a primitive hunger. Her heart thumped an erratic beat; her body was drugged by his essence, completely at his mercy.
When he drew away, his breathing was labored and he rested his forehead on hers. “Thank heavens you were done, because my control was on its last threads.”
He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her again. The passion built impossibly fast, and she tugged at the shoulder straps of her bra, wanting, needing his touch across all of her skin. Sensing her urgency, he discarded her bra and panties with efficiency, then wrapped the blanket around them both. The musk of his naked skin filled her head, his dark taste was on her tongue, his hard body pressed against hers—he was assaulting her senses on every level. And she wanted everything he had to give.
He pulled her down to the cushions, readjusting the blanket to keep her covered, every movement causing their bodies to slide against each other, driving her to the edge of sanity. Her breath was erratic, too fast to control.
He shifted, pinning her on her back, pressing her into the cushions with a heavy, delicious weight. Desire tugged deep inside her and she arched to meet him, tucking her ankles at the back of his hard thighs. The blanket fell away, but there was no need for it anymore—the heat they were generating rivaled a bushfire. In one long movement, he slid inside her, filling her lusciously, completely, and a deep, wrenching groan was torn from his throat. Yet, as he leaned over her, he stilled, his green gaze locked on her eyes.
“Matthew,” she whispered, “this wanting, it’s…” She didn’t know how to finish, how to describe the overwhelming need she felt for him, all the time.
He flexed his hips and squeezed his eyes shut. “I know,” he said in a pained voice. “It’s more—you’re more—than anything.”
He shifted again, and she couldn’t think enough to form more words, all she could do was feel the decadence of having him moving inside her. She gripped his shoulders as he increased the pace, arched her hips to meet his long, fluid thrusts, lost herself in the haze of rising pleasure. Rising higher as if she was floating off the floor. His rhythm sending her higher still, out to the clouds, higher. Then his hand reached between them and found the pulsing core of her and she exploded into a thousand fragments, spinning out into the universe, Matthew’s name on her lips.
Within moments, he followed her, shouting her name, his movements slowing until he slumped above her, spent.
He rolled to his side, taking her with him, and she rested her head on his heaving chest, clinging to him like a life raft while she found her way back to reality.
When her mind cleared, minutes or hours later, she lay warmed by the fire and his skin, and he pulled the blanket up over her shoulders and tucked her head under his chin. It was a moment so perfect that she dared not move an inch, not wanting to spoil the beauty of it.
Then Matthew stretched, and his fingers drifted down her arm. “Stay,” he said against her hair.
The Earth tilted and jarred beneath her as that one word reverberated in her head.
Ten
Susannah stilled. Surely she’d misheard. Misunderstood. “Pardon?”
“Stay with me,” he coaxed, pulling her closer. “With me and Flynn.”
She went a little dizzy at the thought. If Matthew wanted her with him, could she actually walk away? From the man who made her heart leap whenever she saw him, who ignited a flaming passion deep inside, who was asking her to stay? From the little boy she loved more than life, her own son?
“You said this would be temporary,” she said warily. “No illusions, no one would get hurt.”
“But it’s working. You’ve fitted into our lives seamlessly, and,” he said, his voice lowering, “I like you here.”
Her pulse skipped, even though she couldn’t afford to be distracted. He thought she’d fitted in seamlessly? Of course she had—she’d been playing a role. Grace’s role. “Matthew, I can’t see this working out long-term.” For more reasons that she could even name.
“Why not? You couldn’t be more perfect for Flynn—you love him, I’ve seen it in your eyes.” He lifted her chin with a knuckle. “You’re his mother. And thi
ngs between us are pretty damn fine.”
Slowly she sat up, pulling one end of the blanket around her to shield her from the cold—and from the allure of his suggestion. “I can’t stay with a man who’s still in love with someone else,” she said, despite it making her heart ache to say it aloud.
He frowned, then his eyes widened as if he’d realized her meaning and he sat up in a mirror of her pose. “You think I’m still in love with Grace?”
She bit down on her lip, knowing she had to push the point if he was to understand her reasoning. “I can see you are.”
“How can you see it?” he asked incredulously.
“Your house is practically a shrine to her.” The photos on every wall, her bedroom that hadn’t been touched since she died. “And it’s in the way you almost flinch every time her name is mentioned. She affects you.”
“It’s not love,” he said tightly, his gaze flicking to the fire. “It’s guilt.”
Guilt? She hesitated, her brain scrambling to reevaluate everything she knew about Matthew and Grace. “Why would you feel guilty?”
He scrubbed both hands through his hair and turned his face to the ceiling before looking back to her and meeting her gaze. “When Grace died, we were considering a divorce.”
Her breath hitched in her throat. Grace and Matthew Kincaid had been talking about a divorce? She wouldn’t have believed it if she’d heard it from anyone but Matthew himself. “You seemed like the perfect couple.”
“We were college sweethearts and we’d thought back then that what we had would last forever.” He rubbed a hand down his face and suddenly looked weary. “But life doesn’t always unfold the way you expect it to.”
She took his hand. “What happened?”
“Nothing drastic,” he said, glancing down at their interlaced fingers. “We married straight out of college. Grace didn’t want a job because we’d planned to start a family. But when she didn’t become pregnant as soon as she’d hoped, her desire for a baby quickly turned into desperation for one. Maybe not having a job let her dwell on it too much, maybe I didn’t support her the way I should have, but it was all she wanted to talk about, all she could think about.”
What Happens in Charleston... Page 12
