“Ditto, Mrs. Sinclair-Pierce.”
She bit his earlobe friskily. “Don’t you dare ditto me ever again, Owen.”
“Bossy,” he kidded as he set her down in the middle of the living room.
She came to her feet beside him in a space so large, it could have been an airplane hangar. They had taken open concept to a new level with one entire wall at the back of the house that was nothing but glass. She could understand why.
The home sat on a small inlet off the Navesink River, and beyond the water were acres and acres of woods. In the far distance, the light from one of the towers of the historic Twin Lights lighthouses glimmered, and even farther away, the tips of some of the Manhattan skyscrapers and the glow of the city were visible. Looking southward, she could see the bridge over to the other side of the river, Barley Point, and the start of the Jersey Shore beaches in Monmouth County. Immediately outside the glass was an infinity pool surrounded by a brick patio, manicured lawn, and flower beds in full bloom.
Inside, the home paid homage to its coastal location with the same kind of vibe she had in her Gramercy Park brownstone.
“This is gorgeous. Who owns it?” she asked as she slowly pivoted to take in everything in the space.
“A friend of Jon’s who’s away for the summer. I was here years ago for a party, and I thought this place would make you feel at home and at ease after the craziness of the last few weeks.”
It did.
She faced him and laid a hand on his chest. “You’re really very thoughtful, Mr. Pierce. Thank you.”
“There’s more,” he said and wrapped an arm around her waist. He guided her over to the dining table placed next to the wall of windows and off the kitchen area. Fine china, crystal, and cutlery graced the distressed oak tabletop, and a bottle of champagne was nestled in ice in a standing bucket. In the middle of the table sat a centerpiece that matched those that had been at their wedding.
“Lovely,” she said and ran her hand along the thick wood of the table.
Owen pulled out a chair and said, “Take a seat and relax.”
Since he seemed to be big on her relaxing, she did just that, making herself at home since the place was both inviting and luxurious.
Owen picked up the dinner plates from the settings and headed into the kitchen. The rattle and clank of plates followed, and within a few short minutes, he returned and set a plate piled high with spaghetti and an immense piece of chicken parmigiana. Then he popped open the bottle of champagne and poured them both glasses.
The smell from the meal was heavenly, and her stomach rumbled noisily in response. “I didn’t think I was hungry, but I really didn’t get to eat much of the delicious meal that Carlo prepared.”
“I didn’t either, and Carlo was kind enough to make this and have his staff warm it for us. There are cannoli for dessert.”
Just like their very first meal together.
She picked up her knife and fork and cut a piece of the chicken. She ate the bite and said, “You’re very romantic, and this is very, very good. Dare I say—”
“Better than at our favorite place, and yes, I am romantic.”
“Really romantic and sexy and handsome and funny. Really funny,” she teased, recalling that first dinner.
He grinned and shoved a healthy forkful into his mouth. Murmured a pleased, “Mmm. Delicious.”
But after that, all conversation ceased while they satisfied one kind of hunger and another built quickly. They finished eating, and he swept the plates up, but she laid a hand on his and said, “I think dessert can wait for later. Don’t you?”
“Much later,” he said and dropped the plates back onto the table. He took hold of her hand and urged her up into his arms. He whispered against her lips, “Much, much later.”
His kiss was hard and possessive. It demanded surrender, and she melted into his arms with that demand. She held on to his shoulders as her legs grew weak with desire and her core pulsed in anticipation of making love with him.
Her head whirled as he swept her up again, but she didn’t break away from his kiss, meeting his lips over and over. Opening her mouth to his while he climbed the stairs and strode to a room on the second floor.
He set her down gently, her body slipping along his until her feet touched the ground. He eased his hands to her waist, kept her close, and laid his forehead against hers. “I love you, Maggie.”
“I love you, Owen.”
He cupped her cheeks in his hands and locked his dark, hungry gaze on hers. “I want you, Maggie. I need you unlike anything I’ve ever wanted or needed before.”
“I want you too, Owen. I need you,” she echoed and, in a flurry of action, undid the buttons on his shirt and yanked it out of his pants.
But as she reached the waistband of his pants, he took hold of her hands and stopped her.
“Slow, Maggie. Nice and slow,” he said, his voice as smooth as the fine bourbon he liked.
She smiled and ran the backs of her hands up his body as leisurely as he had asked.
“Is this slow enough?” she asked with a knowing smile.
“It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”
He kissed her tenderly, unhurriedly, making her feel precious. Cherished. Unlike their first impatient and rash lovemaking, this time, they went as slowly as they wanted. Removing each item of clothing with a lingering kiss and caress. They ambled to the bed pressed tight to one another until he urged her down onto the mattress and covered her body with his. He nudged her legs apart and surprised her by sliding down her body to kiss the pulsing nub at her center.
She moaned and rocked her hips against his mouth. Against his gifted mouth and tongue that could bring so much pleasure. Rouse such incredible passion as he was doing now with the press of his mouth. A lick of his tongue and the slide of his fingers deep into her.
“Owen,” she pleaded, clutching at his shoulders. She lifted her hips to urge him for more. To provoke his possession.
* * *
Owen shuddered at her summons, his body more than ready to both receive her passion and give her the pleasure he knew he could.
He eased into her wet warmth, claiming her body and her heart. Gifting her with his heart as he bent and kissed her, giving her all of himself. Losing himself in her.
He moved, pumping his hips and building the passion between them. Watching as her eyes darkened to the deep blue of the sapphire ring that proclaimed their union. Seeing the glitter of joy as bright as the sparkling band of diamonds that said she was his.
His and his alone.
Maggie cradled his jaw, her hand trembling as she swiped her thumb across his lips. “Come with me, Owen. Be one with me.”
“Always, Maggie. Always,” he said, and with a few sharp strokes, he made them one.
* * *
The morning view out the wall of windows on the second floor was just as stunning during the day as at night. The deep blue of the river and ocean beyond, glittering with the first rays of sun. The vivid green from the forest across the way in Hartshorne. But nothing was better than the sight of Owen lying beside her, a dimpled smile on his face even in sleep.
She didn’t want to wake him, since they’d barely slept all night. Heat filled her face with the memory of what they’d done all night long and what she still wanted to do with him all day long. Somehow, she found the strength to leave the bed, throw on a robe, and go downstairs to make them breakfast.
The dinner remnants were still on the table along with the empty bottle of champagne. She cleaned up, went into the kitchen, and looked in the fridge that someone had stocked with enough food for the weekend and beyond, tempting her to think about taking Monday off as well, only they both had obligations to fulfill.
Yanking coffee, eggs, bacon, and English muffins from the fridge, she prepped a quick breakfast for them. She loaded it on a tray and took
it back up to the bedroom. As she entered, Owen slit open one eye, and his sleepy grin broadened.
“I don’t know what looks more delicious. Breakfast or you.”
She chuckled, and after he sat up in bed, she placed the tray over his lap.
“That was so not smooth, Owen. I am way better than breakfast.”
He smirked and eyed her. “I don’t know. This breakfast looks pretty damn good. Probably tastes pretty good, since you’ve really taken to this whole being domestic thing.”
She quirked a brow. “Is it really better than me?”
“I may need another taste to find out,” he said, set the tray on the floor beside the bed, and took her lips in a fierce kiss.
“Well?” she said as they both came up for air.
“You win hands down,” he said and pressed her down onto the mattress.
By the time they were ready for breakfast, the eggs were cold and the bacon limp. Neither one of them complained as they went down to the kitchen together to make lunch.
Chapter 29
His father hadn’t made an appearance in Owen’s office since their argument weeks before the wedding. All communications between them in the three weeks since his nuptials were done by either voicemail or email. For a man who had been technologically challenged before the wedding, his father had suddenly gotten all twenty-first century.
Part of Owen was glad that he hadn’t had to deal with his father’s bitterness and hate up close. But the bigger part of him worried that, like a pot filled with water slowly coming to a boil on the stove, it was just a matter of time before the pressure blew the lid off and caused a mess.
Owen didn’t want to deal with any kind of mess, especially since the last three weeks with Maggie had been incredible and amazing. Loving and passionate. He honestly didn’t have enough words to describe what it was like to be married to her.
Dishonest, the little voice in his head added, sounding way too much like his father.
He hadn’t found the courage to tell her yet, and with every day that passed, he prayed that he would never have to tell her. He hoped every day that his father would realize that tossing him out of the company would be like selling their best performing property for a dime. At least he told himself that. The same way he told himself that everything would be fine and that the loan deal they’d made as their prenup would never need to happen.
He’d made the deal in part because he truly hoped Maggie could turn the stores around. The prenup had just been a way for him to help her make it happen. So far, it seemed like a real possibility that Maggie’s plans would succeed. The mid-September launch of the Italian designer’s knit collection had sold out virtually overnight. The preliminary sales numbers Maggie had received had indicated that the business might actually be in the black for the month, since the rush of people into the stores for that collection had yielded lots of sales in the other departments. Especially since each person buying one of the designer items got a special coupon for additional purchases that day and a second one for a future purchase.
The beep of his smartphone pulled him from his thoughts and reminded him that he had to get over to the Fifth Avenue store for the official opening of the Savannah Courtyard. The press had been invited to the event along with select dignitaries and celebrities in the hopes that the exposure would bring even more attention to the changes Maggie was making.
He bolted from his chair, raced out of his office and the building to where a limo was waiting for him at the curb. As he approached, the driver opened the door, and he stepped in to where his wife sat, perfectly groomed for the special event. Her hair was done up in some fancy little knot that was more formal than usual and yet still not too fussy. In lieu of a suit, she wore a dress that wasn’t either black or blue but somewhere in between and made her crystal-blue eyes pop. Smoky eye shadow hinted at something secret in her gaze while her full lips were painted in a cherry red that made him want to lick it all off. He held back from that taste, because she needed to look perfect for today.
He sat beside her, and nervous energy poured from every cell of her body. He feathered a caress along her cheek and enveloped her hand in his, providing reassurance. “It’s going to go perfectly.”
“I hope so. I don’t want to be pessimistic, but everything is going too well so far.”
“And you’re afraid someone is going to drop the hammer on you soon,” he finished for her, because he’d been feeling the same way. Just like Maggie, he’d been waiting for the cosmos to smash apart their happiness, because it wasn’t fair that two people could be so damn content.
“It’s going to be fine,” he repeated for them and tried to rub away the chill in Maggie’s hand.
“It will be,” she confirmed and twined her fingers with his, squeezing tightly for the nearly thirty agonizing minutes it took for the limo to fight crosstown traffic and then head to the Maxwell’s store in the Thirties.
There were a few uninvited paparazzi swarming like vultures around the main entrance to the store. As Maggie and Owen stepped from the car, the reporters got in their faces with their cameras, and Owen put himself in front of Maggie to protect her until the store’s security guards charged forward to restore order. Even as they were escorted away, the paparazzi snapped photos and shouted out questions about the family feud and the marriage. Their Romeo and Juliet tale had apparently grabbed the interest of the tabloids in a major way, and while neither of them relished the attention, the press surrounding their marriage kept the story of Maggie’s efforts to turn around the stores in the public eye, which was a good thing.
If some of those tabloid readers felt compelled to check out that story for themselves with a visit to the stores, all the better, he thought as they entered and rode the escalators up to the floor with the Savannah Courtyard restaurant and the Winter Wonderland on the other side, which would be ready to open in another month. A temporary wall decorated with all kinds of Christmas pictures and photos of children with Santa had been erected across the floor to keep that area under wraps for the moment.
At the entrance to the restaurant stood Maggie’s father, the mayor, and several Broadway stars along with a half a dozen or so newspaper people and reporters from two of the local television stations. Opposite them was a select group of long-time Maxwell’s customers who had received special invitations to the grand opening and a dozen or so of the most senior Maxwell’s employees.
As they approached, Owen took a spot beside Maggie’s dad but away from the action, wanting to stay out of the limelight.
Maggie greeted each of the guests, the press, and her employees, and then returned to the entrance to the restaurant and offered him an anxious smile.
He laid a hand at the small of her back for support and whispered in her ear, “You can do this.”
She nodded, faced the people gathered there, and forged ahead with her speech. “I want to thank you all for being here with us for the grand reopening of the Savannah Courtyard. This is a project that’s dear to my heart, since I remember coming here often as a child with my mother. Those are memories that I will forever cherish, and I hope that you will be able to make such happy memories for yourselves and your families in this very special place.”
The crowd clapped, and a few louder catcalls came from the back and the group of Maxwell’s employees. Turning back to her father, Maggie held out her hand and drew him forward to help her cut the ribbon. Cameras flashed to commemorate the moment, and as the ribbon fell away, Maggie and her dad invited the guests to enter and sit down for the high tea that had been specially prepared for the occasion.
Owen hung back, waiting for everyone to enter, but when only a few reporters remained, someone called out from the press group, “Mr. Pierce. Rumor has it that your father threatened to disown you for marrying Ms. Sinclair. Is that true?”
Owen peered into the crowd to see from where the quest
ion had come and recognized one of the more determined paparazzi who had somehow gotten past security. Although the guards had now recognized the man and were moving in, Maggie held her hand up and stopped them, a questioning look on her face.
She walked to stand beside Owen, and he laid his hand on her back. She was stiff, her upset apparent. Before she could say anything, the same paparazzo shouted out at her, “You stand to lose the stores and your family homes, don’t you, Ms. Sinclair? So isn’t your marriage just a charade? A business deal so you both get what you want?”
Shock ripped through his gut at the reporter’s words. Lose her family homes? he thought and faced her, incredulous. Her blue eyes were clouded with pain and fear, giving credence to the nasty words.
He shook his head but knew now was not the time or place for discussion. Faking a smile, he urged her closer and brought his lips near hers.
“Mrs. Sinclair-Pierce?” he said, inviting her to respond.
Maggie took up his cue, forced a smile to her lips, and said, “Mr. Pierce, what do you think? Is this marriage just a business deal?”
He loved her bravado and knew exactly what was needed to get past the awkward moment. He bent his head and said aloud, “I never mix business with pleasure, and you, my love, are nothing but a pleasure.”
He kissed her, but it was impossible to ignore the tension in her body, and in truth, he was feeling much the same way. The reporter’s ugliness had done its job, sowing seeds of distrust that he hoped they could weed out before they took root.
Behind his closed lids, he registered the bursts of light that said the moment had been captured forever much the same way the memory of this moment was being burned into his brain and every cell of his body.
As they finally eased away slowly, Maggie’s blue-eyed gaze was slightly unfocused and almost bewildered, as if she didn’t quite know what to make of what had just happened. Despite the unease growing inside him, he tried to kill the nastiness planted within her.
“I love you, Mrs. Sinclair-Pierce. Forever and always.”
One Summer Night Page 22
