Just one kiss (The Ashcrofts Book 1)

by Anderson, Poppy J.

  Amy took a startled breath. “And you thought I would be like that?”

  “No!” He shook his head wildly. “I didn’t think that at all!”

  “Then why didn’t you tell me the truth?” She felt queasy. “You should have said something yesterday, at the very least, Patrick.”

  “But it doesn’t matter.”

  If she wasn’t careful now, she would start crying, overwhelmed with exhaustion, confusion, and mortification. She’d never expected her marriage to begin like this.

  Her eyes were blurry, but she noticed the first pieces of luggage coming through the mouth of the carousel. She nodded half-heartedly in that direction and murmured, “The suitcases are coming.”

  “Amy …”

  She slipped from his grip and went over to the carousel, wrapping her arms even tighter around her own body. When she sensed him stepping closer, she kept staring at the conveyor belt, scolding herself for being an idiot, as the first tear rolled down her cheek.

  “Amy,” his insistent voice came from behind her. “Please, love, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “But you did,” she whispered back. “How could you think I was interested in your money?”

  He groaned and shifted his weight. “I didn’t!”

  “Then I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me the truth.”

  “The truth is that I was sick of never once knowing whether someone liked me because of me, or because of my money.” He sounded weary. “And yesterday, I didn’t say anything because it truly isn’t important to me, Amy. We got married. Do you think I could think about anything but our wedding? About how happy I am to have you by my side?”

  Slowly turning her head, she looked into his face, which appeared just as full of hurt as she felt. She swallowed. “I don’t care about money, Patrick.”

  “I know.” He seemed to grit his teeth and stuck out his chin. “I don’t know anyone who cares less about money than you do.”

  “Did you marry me because of that?” she asked, sounding scared.

  His eyes widened in shock, and then he cupped her face with both hands. “You have no idea how amazing these last three weeks were for me. In case you still haven’t realized, love, I’ve fallen head over heels for you. And that has nothing to do with the fact that you don’t care about money.”

  From the corner of her eye, she noticed the curious looks of a few of her fellow passengers, and immediately turned beet red. “I don’t want to be mad at you …”

  “Then don’t be,” he suggested with the hint of a smile on his face.

  She sighed and chewed on her lower lip. “What else should I brace myself for? You’re not the next president-elect, are you?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  Still stunned, but already half disarmed, she slowly loosened her arms around herself, only to wring her hands. And that, in turn, made her remember the ring Patrick had put on her finger the day before. Amy froze. “My ring, Patrick.”

  “What about it?”

  She gave him a serious look. “When you left to go buy it, I told you not to get me a fancy ring and not to spend too much money on it.”

  “And?”

  She remembered how her eyes had widened at the sight of the giant stone that graced the pretty setting. She had no expertise with jewelry or precious stones, so she’d assumed it was some sort of crystal. But now …

  “Admit it,” she blurted, “the ring was expensive, wasn’t it?”

  When he didn’t answer, merely smiled a little, she wrinkled her nose. “You shouldn’t spend so much money on me!”

  “And you shouldn’t make a big deal of it,” he murmured, amused.

  “Patrick …”

  “Ah, there’s our luggage,” he interrupted before she could launch into a scolding. He released her to lift their suitcases off the carousel.

  Amy held out her arm to study the ring on her finger. It glinted in the light of the bright overhead lights. She had thought it absolutely beautiful, simply because Patrick had picked it out and put it on her finger with shining eyes.

  But when she looked at it now, she felt a strange sensation of it being far too heavy for her.

  ***

  Even though she’d sworn earlier that she was so tired she could fall asleep standing, she was now lying in a gigantic bed, wide awake, at two a.m. Staring at the ceiling overhead, she couldn’t even blame her jet lag for her sleeplessness.

  Next to her, Patrick was sleeping like a baby, apparently without a worry in the world.

  Normally Amy had no problem falling asleep in unfamiliar places. She often dozed off as soon as her head touched a pillow. But now she’d been lying awake at Patrick’s side for several hours, unable to organize her thoughts. Of course, it wasn’t really that surprising that she was far too anxious to relax. After Patrick’s revelation at the airport, the shocks had piled up. Not only had they been picked up by a veritable limo, but after an hour’s drive, they had reached his “house.”

  Which was really a mansion.

  She might have laughed about it if she hadn’t been trembling when they’d pulled up at the palatial building. The driveway had begun with a wrought-iron gate, followed by a seemingly endless avenue lined with ancient trees, which had really driven home the point that Patrick was certainly not living in a two-room apartment or a cozy little house.

  No, his house was a magnificent century-old folly consisting of a three-story main building with two wings and three outbuildings. Amy had felt as if she was in a trance, taking in the marvelous stone façade, the giant fountain in the center of the driveway, the wide flight of steps, and the countless shiny windows. She had concluded that someone was most definitely playing an elaborate trick on her.

  What person called such a place home? With its neatly groomed gardens, the white gravel in the driveway, and the tall, ancient trees, the “house” was a lot more imposing than the White House, which Amy had toured once on a school trip many years ago.

  While she was still marveling at the dizzying façade, Patrick had greeted the housekeeper with the casual air of familiarity, before grabbing Amy’s hand and leading her inside. She had only a hazy memory of the brief tour through a few of the rooms. All she had taken in were chandeliers, precious carpets, beautiful old furniture, and elegant walls.

  When she’d spied a Renoir above the mantel of the fireplace, she had almost fainted.

  Now, she was afraid she would never find her way through the maze of rooms and corridors and floors. If you dropped her off somewhere random in the house, she wasn’t sure she would be able to find Patrick’s rooms on the second floor.

  She didn’t normally think of herself as a coward, but she was secretly afraid she would never be brave enough to venture out of his rooms without him by her side. And the weirdest thing about that was, there wasn’t even the need to leave his rooms at all. The area consisted of a giant bedroom, a dressing room, a bathroom, and an office, plus a living room with a balcony, which in turn afforded a view of the gardens and the sprawling terrace below.

  The prospect of meeting his family felt like a heavy rock in her stomach, for his mom lived in the same house—though in another wing, which might as well have been another city. Still, what would the matriarch think of a penniless artist without job or family marrying a man who seemed to own half of Connecticut after knowing him only three weeks? She couldn’t shake the thought that they must consider her a gold digger.

  A sudden noise from beyond the bedroom door startled her from her thoughts.

  When the door was ripped open and bright light flickered to life above the bed, Amy let out a small cry.

  A blond-haired man stumbled into the room, threw up his arms as if to cheer a sports team, and cried in a slurred voice, “Dude! You’re back! Finally!”

  Patrick had also been awoken by the surprise nocturnal visitor. He sat up next to Amy with a groan and wiped his hand across his face. “Stuart! Are you out of your mind?”

  �
��Is that the way to say hello to your little brother?” The younger man laughed loudly and threw the door shut with a flourish, almost pivoting on his heel with the momentum. He was drunk, which was obvious from the stench he emitted, his slurring, and the crumpled state of the elegant suit he was wearing.

  Amy’s heart began to race. She pulled the covers up to her chin and watched the man who had to be her brother-in-law stumble and sink down on the foot of the bed with a relieved sigh.

  “You know you missed the most interesting summer in a long time,” the young man said, still slurring. He didn’t seem to have noticed that his brother wasn’t alone in the huge bed. “First, Daniel Rutledge came out as gay at Senator Hastings’s party—involuntary, of course—and then at the weekend at the Mitchells’ house in the Hamptons, a few of us witnessed old Willoughby have a major fight with his wife, who, as you may remember, is fifty years his junior. She caught him cheating, can you believe that? Him!” Stuart Ashcroft chuckled. “I thought I was going to choke on my laughter! I mean, she’s a Vegas boob bombshell! And she used Sandra Mitchell’s ice sculptures as projectiles to attack old Willoughby like a fury. Half of New York is placing bets on how big a settlement she’ll get when they divorce.”

  “Stuart,” Patrick interrupted grumpily. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

  The younger man shrugged and leaned back, scratching the side of his neck. “J.T.’s in town, so we went out.”

  His older brother seemed to see red at that revelation. “Don’t tell me you’ve been kicked out of college! Goddammit, Stuart!”

  “Calm down, dude. I’m still on summer break.”

  “No, you’re not. Summer school?” Patrick reminded him with a sternness in his voice that Amy had never heard before.

  But Stuart seemed unfazed. He gave Patrick a cocky grin. “The professor got sick. Which was my cue to return to Manhattan and call J.T.”

  Patrick looked even more annoyed than before. “Awesome. You and our big-shot cousin together in the Big Apple. What an absolute dream.”

  “Hey,” Stuart laughed. “We won a polo tournament two days ago. We deserved a celebration.”

  “How nice,” Patrick said, his voice rife with sarcasm. “However, in case you missed it, which seems to be the case, we were fast asleep before you barged in.”

  “We?” The blonde blinked and turned in Amy’s direction.

  “Yes, we,” Patrick repeated, scooting closer to Amy. “Amy, this is my brother, Stuart. Stuart, this is Amy. My wife.”

  “Your what?” Stuart almost slipped from the bed in shock, his wide grin dying in an instant.

  “My wife,” Patrick repeated unapologetically, sounding as breezy as if he was just relaying the sites he’d seen on vacation. “We met in Rome and got married there.”

  The younger man shook his head. “You were gone three weeks!”

  Amy stiffened and clutched the covers tightly. This was exactly what she’d been afraid of.

  “I’m relieved the alcohol hasn’t managed to cause permanent damage to your brain,” Patrick snapped. “You can still count, which is nice.” He placed a hand on Amy’s back. “Could you please get out now?”

  It wasn’t meant as a question, but Stuart shook his head and stared dazedly at Amy.

  She had just met her brother-in-law, dressed in nothing but a chemise, her hair a mess and bags under her eyes from lack of sleep. And it was obvious he was racking his brain for a reason why his brother might have married her. The whole situation was nothing she wanted to experience. Ever. She sat there, frozen and dismayed, staring back into a pair of light-brown eyes.

  She swallowed and attempted a shaky smile. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” he replied, returning the smile before trying to catch his brother’s eye again. “Does Mom know?”

  “Stuart, go to your room and sleep off the booze.”

  “Believe it or not, I’m suddenly stone-cold sober.”

  Annoyed, Patrick leaned forward and pointed at the door. “But I need to be at the office in a few hours, so beat it! Tomorrow, you can come back and prove to Amy you’re not as much of an idiot as you seem right now.”

  The young man hesitated, looking thoughtful, but then he shrugged and rose from the bed. He left the room without another word.

  Amy struggled to keep it together, swallowing the tears that threatened to bubble up again.

  “He’s drunk.” Patrick’s voice was soft, and he stroked her back. “Plus, he’s an asshole with the entitled attitude of a twenty-two-year-old king of the world.”

  “He doesn’t like me,” she whispered bleakly.

  Patrick sighed and lowered his head. “He doesn’t know you. He’s actually very cordial and funny. I’m sure he’ll come around and apologize tomorrow.”

  Stuart had not switched off the light when he left, so Amy could see Patrick’s face, could gauge each small shift in his expression. “Your brother thinks I married you for your money. Everyone will think that.”

  “Nobody thinks that,” he said emphatically.

  She remembered what he had told her earlier that day, at the airport. “But you told me you were sick of meeting women who were after your money. What would keep your family and friends from thinking I’m one of those women?”

  “Jesus, Amy,” he sighed and rubbed his face tiredly. “Could you please forget I said that?”

  “No,” she replied weakly. “I don’t want to come across like a gold digger,” she croaked. “Or like … like that ‘boob bombshell’ your brother was talking about.”

  “Darling,” he argued in a sleepy voice, “please, it’s the middle of the night, and you’re worrying about things that aren’t going to happen. Trust me.”

  “But—”

  “Anyone who talks to you for more than five minutes will know what cloth you’re cut from.” He rubbed his nose against her temple and yawned close to her ear. “It’s impossible to look into your face and not know what you’re thinking. Could we please end this conversation for now, and go back to sleep?”

  She had lots more to say on the issue, but she was silent as she watched him switch off the light. He kissed her on the lips before laying back on his pillow and falling asleep in less than a minute.

  But Amy couldn’t find sleep at all.

  Chapter 11

  Normally, Patrick had the chauffeur drive him to work, because he preferred to brave the morning traffic from the backseat, where he could get some work done. Today, however, he’d driven himself to work, so that Amy would have the limo and driver in case she wanted to go somewhere.

  Patrick had been loath to leave her this morning. He wanted to spend much more time with her, alone and undisturbed. They’d only just been married, and Patrick felt the urge to stay by his new wife’s side. Unfortunately, he could no longer postpone sorting out the chaos that his three weeks abroad had allegedly caused at the office in Manhattan.

  So he went and ignored the guilty feeling, the nagging voice that said he shouldn’t leave her alone on the day after her arrival in New York. In the underground parking garage of the company headquarters, he got out of the car and threw the door shut. Almost immediately, he heard, “Hey, look at the prodigal son!”

  The sarcastic voice belonged to Peter, who had just parked as well, and was now approaching him across the lot. Peter’s hair was pale and his eyes dark, and right now they were narrowed at Patrick.

  “Good morning, Peter,” Patrick called, ignoring his pal’s obviously sour mood.

  Peter cleared his throat and dismissed the friendly greeting. “I called you four days ago! Seriously, how long does it take to fly from Rome to New York?”

  Patrick didn’t want to start his first day back like this. “A direct flight only take nine hours,” he said casually, heading toward the elevator, “but my layover in Amsterdam made it fourteen.”

  “Very funny,” Peter snorted. “The Hanson deal is about to blow up in our faces! Apparently he acquired a different investor, someone w
ho’s ready to honor and continue the labor contracts. But I already told you that over the phone. Four fucking days ago!”

  When Patrick didn’t answer, just continued walking, Peter cried furiously, “Are you even listening to me?”

  “Of course I am.” Frowning, Patrick gave him a sideways glance. “Calm down, will you? I’m taking care of it.”

  “I’m very curious how you think you’re going to take care of this! The board of directors is going crazy, and my phone is ringing every ten minutes.”

  Patrick refused to let Peter’s hysteria infect his mood. He walked silently while Peter continued to berate him with horror scenarios. But as he pressed the button for the elevator, he heaved a sigh. “Peter, could you please leave me alone until I’m sitting behind my desk? I haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

  “Oh, excuse me,” his friend snorted. “I thought I’d ‘left you alone’ quite enough, for three weeks, while the board drove me up the wall! You had all the time in the world to have a blast in Europe!”

  The doors slid open with a soft ding, and Patrick made a face and stepped into the elevator. “You could do with a vacation as well, you know.”

  “We discussed that already,” Peter muttered as he stepped into the elevator after his boss.

  Patrick pressed the button for his floor. “You really should try to calm down, or you’ll end up with a heart attack before thirty. I’m here now, and I’ll talk to Hanson.”

  “But—”

  “Hanson and I have known each other for a while,” he calmly interrupted. “He’s not going to be stupid and violate the deal.”

  “How can you be this calm about it?”

  “How can you be this nervous? You’ve got the nerves of an old man. Peter, you’re twenty-eight.”

  “Don’t you know what’s at stake?” Peter chided him.