Soaring

by Jassy Mackenzie

  Even if I had been, the smell coming from that oven would have converted me.

  “I do eat meat,” I told her. Lean chicken or turkey, normally, in rationed portions doled out for me by Dave.

  “Well, I’ve done a beef roast,” she said. “It’s been a cooking day, because I had to make something for the Castle Hill Women’s Guild. They’ve got a home crafts shop in town. Proceeds go to charity, and we all take turns baking. I was going to do scones and cake. Turns out they’ll just get scones.”

  She frowned in the direction of the dog basket near the door, and Guinness thumped his tail.

  “That sounds like a lovely initiative,” I said.

  “Between you and me,” Noreen explained, “it’s a right pain in the backside, and the Women’s Guild members here are a load of egotistical little interferers.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. My gut instinct was to giggle, but I thought that might be unwise, so I pressed my lips together firmly.

  “Do you want a beer?” Noreen asked. “Or elderberry wine?”

  “I’d love whatever you’re having,” I said. Alcohol was forbidden to me for most of the year. I’d practically forgotten what it tasted like.

  “Elderberry wine it is, then,” Noreen said, handing me a glass of pale pink, fragrant liquid. “It’s also from the Women’s Guild shop. Mrs. Miller makes it. It’s better than most of the other shite they sell there.”

  I almost snorted my first sip of wine out of my nose at that comment.

  “It’s very good,” I said, when I’d gotten my laughter under control. Sharp and tasty, I could almost feel it filtering into my bloodstream, making me lightheaded and amazingly relaxed.

  “Can I help you with anything?” I asked. Noreen was dividing her attention between three different pots, including the sizzling pan of beef she’d just removed from the oven, the sight of which was making hunger claw at my belly.

  “Yes,” she said. “There’s a colander in the cupboard on the left. No, not that one, the next. There you go. Could you be a dear and drain the peas?” She pointed to the smallest, steaming pot. “And there’s mint growing in the flower bed outside. The one to the right of the door. If you wouldn’t mind picking some, it’ll go nicely with them.”

  Peas and mint. My culinary repertoire was not large, but I felt confident with managing that. I tipped the contents of the pot into the colander, and then, leaving it in the sink to drain, unlatched the door and stepped out.

  It was fully dark now, and Noreen’s farmhouse didn’t have an outside light. Would I be able to identify mint by feel alone? My luck, I’d end up garnishing the peas with deadly nightshade by mistake.

  I closed my eyes, hoping it would help them adapt to the darkness quicker. When I opened them, it was to see a pair of powerful headlights winding their way up the drive toward me.

  A barking Guinness shot out of the house and past me, and Noreen appeared swiftly at the door, calling him back.

  “Who’s that?” she asked. “Somebody you know?”

  “I think it’s a courier, or a driver from the hotel where I was staying,” I called back. “The Park. They said they’d deliver my bag tonight.”

  As the approaching vehicle curved round the final bend, the headlights shone onto the flower bed. Quickly, I stepped forward and broke off a sprig of mint from the leafy bush I saw there.

  “Posh car for a hotel to use,” Noreen offered doubtfully, before retreating inside.

  I looked up again, to see the sleek, gleaming lines of a silver Mercedes SUV, and had time to think that Noreen was right; it was an extremely fancy car. The Mercedes stopped at the top of the drive, the lights cut, and I saw a gleam as the door swung open.

  I peered into the gloom, seeing a tall man get out, hearing the scrunch of footsteps as the driver went round to the trunk. And then he walked toward me, and as he approached I felt my spine prickle…because he looked somehow familiar.

  Then the light from the open door shone onto his face and confirmed my suspicions, causing me to let out a gasp.

  It was Patrick. For the second time that day, we were standing just feet away from each other. His eyes were fixed on me; his mouth was quirked up at one corner. And he was holding my bag.

  Chapter 5

  The mint slipped from my fingers, which felt suddenly icy.

  “Good evening, Claire,” Patrick said softly.

  “What—what are you doing here?” My voice sounded high and breathy. My heart was hammering. I couldn’t believe this…it was surreal. How had he known where I was?

  I was unable to look away. I watched the way his delicious mouth was curving up in that half-smile. The manner in which he was looking at me was just as intense…that green-gold gaze taking in the detail that my clingy jersey offered before fixing steadily on my own eyes.

  “I’ve come to bring you your bag,” he said. He stepped forward, coming closer to me, and at that point, the light from the open kitchen door was shadowed as Noreen appeared, once again, in its doorway.

  “Excuse me, but who are you?” she demanded of Patrick, striding over to where we were standing. She was bristling with righteous anger, which made her seem taller than her five-foot-nothing. She stood next to me, her hands on her hips, her chin jutting. “Because this lady here is running scared, and she’s obviously afraid of something. And if you’re that something, I suggest you get the hell off this property right now, or I’m calling the police!”

  Patrick’s eyes widened at her words. Noreen’s anger was an elemental force. Her irate expression barely softened as he turned the full force of his charm onto her.

  “Good evening, ma’am,” he said. “I hope I’m not the reason why Claire decided to leave the hotel. But I’ve brought her bag to her, and I wondered if I might have the chance to speak to her for a minute.”

  My body wanted that chance. My body was begging for the opportunity to be alone again with him. My mind wasn’t quite so sure.

  “I don’t understand why you’re here,” I said, faintly. “How did you know where I’d gone? Did—did someone at the hotel tell you?”

  “Yes, how?” Noreen echoed fiercely.

  Patrick blinked, looking briefly confused.

  “Claire, I own the hotel,” he said gently. “I was standing in reception when your call came through.”

  His words silenced me. Luckily, they did not have the same effect on my ally.

  “You own the Park?” Noreen sounded incredulous.

  “I do, yes.” Patrick gave her a courteous nod.

  “But it went bankrupt in January last year.”

  “That’s when I bought it.”

  “So you’re…”

  They spoke the words at the same time, Patrick extending his hand to her.

  “Patrick Maguire?”

  “Patrick Maguire.”

  I hadn’t known his last name till now; had not known who he was. Now I knew something about him…a fact that seemed to have mollified Noreen.

  “So you took over the Park?” she said. “I haven’t been there, but I heard it’s very nice now. Refurbished, and all. It’s brought a lot of business back to the town.”

  “My team’s done a good job,” Patrick nodded.

  Noreen sighed. Then she turned to me.

  “Do you want to speak to him?” she asked me.

  “Yes,” I said in a low voice. “Yes, I do.”

  “Five minutes,” Noreen said, in a voice that brooked no argument. “Then dinner’s ready.”

  She bent down and picked up the sprig of mint that had fallen onto the gravel. Then she took my carry-on from Patrick, refusing his offer to bring it inside. She hefted the bag in her right hand and marched back into the kitchen.

  Patrick watched her go, and the corner of his mouth twitched upwards again.

  Then he turned to me. He stepped closer.

  He’d changed out of his smart clothes and was wearing jeans and a soft leather jacket. I could smell a hint of musky spice
from the jacket; or maybe that was from his skin. I could feel my cheeks growing warm, my mouth parting slightly as I stared up at him; my body’s responses betraying the flood of lust that was consuming me.

  “Claire,” he said again. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

  I nodded. “Likewise,” I said. I didn’t actually know what to say. I had the feeling nothing that came out of my mouth would make much sense. I wanted so badly to touch him, it was scary. I could feel the tension sizzling in the air, the electric thrill of attraction between us. It seemed safer to keep my hands behind my back.

  I couldn’t stop looking at him, though. My eyes wanted to make up for lost time. I couldn’t get enough of staring at the perfect planes of his face. The sweep of his brows, his straight nose, firm jaw—all hard, angular, masculine, softened only by the warm sensuality of his mouth, and the golden fire in those unusual eyes.

  “I’m sorry you left the hotel,” he said. “I think I understand why.”

  He understood why? How much about me did he know?

  “You don’t need to say sorry for anything,” I said. My mouth felt dry. The words came clumsily from my lips, as if they would rather not be speaking, but instead, kissing his own.

  “Can I see you tomorrow?” he asked, and the question took me completely by surprise.

  “T-tomorrow?” I stammered out.

  “If you have time, I’d like to take you out. For lunch.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. He was inviting me out? This was…well, it sounded to me as if I was being asked on a date.

  There was a resounding silence as if the world around us was as stunned as I was by his question. Then sounds filtered back in. I could hear the faraway barking of a dog. A car purred slowly down the lane, its taillights glinting red as they retreated into the night.

  “I do have time.” I told him.

  “Well, then,” he said.

  I suddenly picked up that he was feeling as awkward as I was; knocked way off-center by the rollercoaster of emotion we were riding.

  “One o’clock?” he asked.

  “That’s good for me,” I said, and saw his mouth soften in anticipation, or perhaps relief.

  “I’ll pick you up here, then.”

  I nodded. “That’ll be fine. I—I look forward to it.” This formality was killing me, but I didn’t know what else to say, or how to say it. Perhaps it was killing him, too. I had no idea.

  “Well, have a good evening.” He turned and started back to the car.

  He got only a few steps before he said, under his breath, “Oh, fuck it.”

  He turned and in three giant strides, he was back, and I could see the intent in his eyes, the abandonment of the control he’d been battling to maintain.

  His arms crushed me close. He pulled me against him, groaning in pleasure as our mouths found each other once again. This was no Hollywood kiss. It was raw, rough, and desperate. We were insatiable. Our teeth knocked together as I parted my lips, wanting him, no, needing him to devour me. I felt the hot, urgent friction of his tongue on mine and let out an audible moan, sliding my own deep into his mouth. I locked my arms around him and dug my fingers into his back and closed my eyes as I kissed him back, as hard and hungrily as he was kissing me.

  The spicy smell of his skin, the ravishment of his lips, the taste of him. I remembered how it had been, as clearly as if it had been imprinted on my senses. I was amazed to realize nothing had changed. Time had not lessened the astonishing, visceral attraction between us. Whatever chemistry had sparked our reckless behavior back then, ensconced in that luxury airline cabin, was still scorching every nerve ending in my body now.

  Finally, we broke the kiss, still holding each other. He was breathing hard, and I supposed I was, too. I wanted nothing more than to mash my face into his own again, to bruise his lips with my own, to thrust my hips against the throbbing hardness of his groin.

  Somehow, perhaps thanks to Noreen’s dire warning about five minutes, which I did not doubt she would enforce, I found the strength to let go, to step back. I stared at Patrick, unable to believe what had just happened. His hair was tousled, his shirt was tugged sideways and pulled half out of his pants in a way that was begging me to finish the job.

  “Tomorrow,” I said. My knees were weak and my lips felt swollen. My face was tingling from the friction of his stubble.

  He closed his eyes briefly, and gave a small shake of his head. “Claire,” he said again, his voice husky. He spoke my name as if he was tasting it. “Claire.”

  His eyes met mine, pinning me in that golden gaze.

  “Tomorrow,” he promised, before turning and striding back to his car.

  Chapter 6

  I’d thought I wouldn’t be able to sleep after the shock of seeing Patrick again, and the anticipation of our date—please, let it be a date—the next day. I’d thought I’d be too excited to eat, either, but I was wrong on both counts. I devoured the plate of tender beef and sweet vegetables, swimming in rich gravy, that Noreen served up. It was as if the taste of sensory delight I’d had with Patrick had whetted my appetite for other physical pleasures.

  After another glass of the elderberry wine, I’d thanked Noreen for her hospitality, helped her tidy away and stack the dishes, and then stumbled upstairs where I’d fallen asleep as soon as my head had hit the pillow.

  I slept for nearly eleven hours. That was unheard of for me. How exhausted had I been? I woke blinking in sunshine, checked the time on the travel clock on the bedside table, and was amazed to see it was quarter past eight in the morning.

  A sensual memory flitted through my mind, but was gone before I could grasp it. The hunger that tugged deep inside me, and the tingling of my skin, told me that Patrick had spent the night with me again, captured in one of my dreams. I couldn’t recall the details now. What a pity.

  Tentatively, almost shyly, I slipped my right arm under the covers. I smoothed a hand over my thigh, parting the softness of my lips, and my eyes widened as I felt the slick wetness there.

  “Your body’s turning into a hormone factory,” I scolded myself, even though this evidence of my own arousal made me smile; like springtime after a long winter. I’d have to use all my self-control when I met Patrick for lunch. Imagine if he knew how turned on I could get just from having him visit in my dreams?

  From the focused, hungry intent I’d seen in his eyes last night, I knew I wouldn’t stand a chance, and at that thought, I let out a shuddery breath, and then stretched, languidly, enjoying the smooth caress of the cotton sheets on my skin.

  It was time to get up. Perhaps there would be some chores to do, something I could help Noreen with to pass the time until one o’clock, when that silver Mercedes would scrunch its way up the gravel drive again.

  I hoped we weren’t going anywhere fashionable. I had packed no dressy clothes. I had yoga pants, a skirt, jeans, and one other pair of capris, together with a few casual tops and T-shirts. A pair of sandals and running shoes completed my wardrobe. For now, I pulled on a T-shirt and yoga pants, put on the running shoes, and made my way downstairs.

  There was no sign of Noreen, and Guinness’s basket was empty. The spot on top of the fridge was occupied by the magnificent long-coated tabby I’d seen last night. Standing on tiptoes, I scratched him behind his head and was rewarded with a thunderous purr.

  “Noreen?” I called, but the house was silent.

  A picture of a horse flickered into my mind—a tall gelding with a handsomely arched neck and a gray coat. His ears were pricked forward as he trotted through the short grass toward an outstretched halter. He was followed more reluctantly by a smaller, brown-coated horse that kept stopping to snatch at an occasional dandelion. The image solidified and became real, part of my memory. Animals often gave me clear pictures. I knew Noreen had gone out to fetch these horses. Perhaps she planned to ride them this morning.

  I noticed a clean mug and spoon on the counter, near jars of instant coffee and sugar,
and a china jug with a lid labeled, “Cream.” Clearly, I was invited to fix myself some coffee. I put on the kettle, and while I waited for it to boil, I decided to explore the downstairs area of the house.

  Opposite the kitchen, a glass-paneled double door led into a formal lounge. Here, two brown settees and two floral armchairs were placed around a wooden coffee table, on which were piled some hardcover books. One was a photographic collection of Irish scenery; another was a volume of art through the ages, another was a compilation of Charles Addams cartoons. The curtains were open, providing a view through the French doors of the colorful flowerbeds. Beyond that, a grassy field was dotted with trees.

  The lounge led into a dining room with a table, six chairs, and a Welsh dresser, upon which was a collection of photographs and a number of trophies. Curious, I walked closer to look. Several were of the daughter Noreen had mentioned. She was blonder than her mother, smiling in every snapshot. In one, she was sitting on the grass with her arms around Guinness. In a few of the others, she was mounted on a tall gray horse that I recognized from my recent vision.

  I saw several photos of Noreen with a sandy-haired, cheerful looking man. Her husband? I wondered where he was now. Divorced? I hoped not, from the happiness that was evident in the snapshots; Noreen’s arms wrapped affectionately around him as he smiled down at her.

  I was entranced by the framed artwork on the walls. Two large countryside scenes graced the lounge, while in the dining room, smaller still life portraits of fruit and flowers were displayed. They were skillfully done, with a captivating quality to their design that made me want to keep looking. Were they all painted by the same artist? The signature looked the same—the initials, “CN”—but I had no idea who he or she could be. I made a note to ask Noreen.

  The whistle of the kettle sent me hurrying back to the kitchen. I spooned coffee into the mug, added a lump of sugar, and then opened the lid of the cream jug, which felt cold, as if it had recently come out of the fridge. To my delight, it was half full of real, thick, clotted cream. How sinfully divine. I spooned so much of it into the coffee that if Dave had seen, he’d have bawled me out and banished me to the gym.