Bad Blood Collection

by Various Authors

  Not that she should be so achingly aware of his nearness, Mollie told herself, or tempted to close that tiny distance. It would be so easy to shift in her seat so he was actually touching her—barely, but she knew she’d feel it. She’d feel it right down to her toes. Just the thought sent a blush firing her body. She was so amazingly, agonisingly aware of him, her body attuned to his in a way that was both pleasure and pain.

  Despite this aching awareness the hours passed in a happy haze; it was so pleasant to be speeding along in a fancy car with a gorgeous man at the wheel. Mollie decided to enjoy the moment—and the whole weekend—for what it was. Something surreal, out of time, and certainly wonderful.

  They arrived at the Grand Wolfe, and an officious-looking concierge showed them to their suite himself. Sebastian, he told Jacob, was out of town with his new wife, Aneesa.

  Mollie noticed the speculative and envious looks a few women in the lobby slid her way, the respectful deference of the entire hotel staff towards Jacob. He strode through the lobby unaware of the admiration, yet clearly accepting of the respect. Mollie was suddenly conscious that Jacob was a Wolfe, the head of a noble English family, and she felt a swell of pride that she was on his arm.

  Once in the hotel suite Mollie took in the set of elegant rooms, all of which looked to be equipped with every imaginable luxury. She peeked into an en suite bathroom that had a huge, sunken marble tub, glanced at the wide private terrace that could easily hold fifty people and marvelled at the living room with its plush sofas and hidden widescreen television; the concierge showed them how the painting that hid it folded back at the press of a button.

  And of course she noticed the bedrooms—two of them—positioned at either end of a hallway so they could both have adequate privacy. Even so, the sight of the canopied king-size bed with its smooth, silken sheets made something in her bump unsteadily, for there could be no question that this luxury suite was also romantic.

  Yet neither of them was here for romance.

  ‘You can change if you like,’ Jacob said once the concierge had left them alone. ‘And then we can head off to the expo.’

  Mollie nodded. ‘I’ll freshen up and be right out.’ She disappeared into the bedroom; her suitcase lay on a luggage rack, already opened, her cocktail dress hanging in a huge walnut wardrobe. Mollie hesitated, because she hadn’t actually brought enough clothes to change after just a few hours. Were you supposed to change on arrival at a place like this? She had no idea. She’d never stayed in a hotel like this before. The closest she’d come is when she’d splurged on a pensione in Florence that actually had its own en suite bathroom, a tiny cubicle with peeling lino and a leaky tap.

  Shrugging this aside, Mollie pulled a brush through her hair which had, of course, become unbearably tangled during the drive. She washed her hands and face and reapplied her lipstick, finishing off with a spritz of perfume. She gazed at her reflection in the mirror with critical glumness; her hair was still wild and her cheeks were pink from the sun. So was her nose. She had more freckles than usual, and if not for the fact that she was no longer gap-toothed she could have passed for herself when she was eight years old, going the entire summer with bare feet and skinned knees.

  Sighing, she turned away from the mirror and slipped on the fitted jacket she’d worn that first night Jacob had seen her. She added a scarf in primrose yellow, deciding this constituted enough of a wardrobe change, and headed back out to the living room.

  Jacob was opening a bottle of champagne as she came into the room. ‘Compliments of the hotel,’ he said with a flicker of a smile as he reached for two crystal flutes. ‘I thought we could toast the weekend.’

  Mollie felt that unsteady bump inside again. She was afraid it was her heart. ‘That sounds lovely,’ she said, and took the proffered glass.

  Jacob clinked his flute lightly with hers. ‘To a change of scene,’ he said, and Mollie nodded.

  ‘Hear, hear.’ She drank, and as she did she saw that Jacob’s dark eyes were fixed on hers, and despite the apparent lightness of the moment his expression had turned brooding. So many hidden thoughts. So many unspoken memories.

  She put her glass down on a side table and gave him a bright smile. ‘Shall we?’

  ‘Yes indeed.’ Jacob set his glass down next to hers, and Mollie noticed that he hadn’t drunk any of his champagne. Then she watched with relief as he smiled, the brooding expression replaced by something far lighter, and holding out his arm so Mollie could—all too naturally—slip hers into his, he led her from the room.

  The expo was amazing. Even during her university days Mollie had seen nothing like it: display after display of architectural plans and blueprints, models of houses and buildings, gardens recreated in tiny, exquisite spaces, all innovative, unique and completely wondrous.

  She wandered through the exhibition halls, Jacob at her side, her eyes as wide as a child’s. Her mind buzzed with ideas of new techniques, hybrids and landscaping concepts, and she couldn’t quite seem to help herself from sharing it all with Jacob.

  ‘I’ve never seen an arrangement like that before … There are so many new kinds of water features now … Did you see the use of wildflowers in that exhibit? Most gardeners would consider them weeds….’

  And Jacob listened, and made comments, and asked questions, so Mollie felt like he was genuinely interested. Like he genuinely cared.

  Uh-oh. Don’t go there, her mind warned. Don’t start to believe some nonsense like he is interested in you … could love you….

  Love was not a word she’d ever associate with Jacob Wolfe.

  Yet as they strolled through the various displays and exhibitions, Mollie wondered what word she would associate with him. What kind of man was he? She’d assumed so much, and now she felt those assumptions were being swept away—yet replaced with what? Jacob never talked about himself, never offered any information or preferences or opinions. He was so self-controlled, so self-contained, that the man was practically a cipher.

  Yet then she saw a flash of something in his eyes, something deep and dark and raw—and she knew there was far more to Jacob than she could ever imagine or understand.

  While he was talking to some colleagues—they treated him with a wary, deferential respect—she perused the expo’s programme, noting in its write-up the number of prestigious awards J Design had garnered.

  J Design has always had the unique ability of creating a space with the individual needs of its client first in mind, so that the building takes on the characteristics of the client rather than the architect …

  Even in his business Jacob revealed nothing of himself. The omission, Mollie decided, was intentional. Jacob didn’t reveal anything because he didn’t want to be known.

  Why?

  He joined her again as she stood in front of a

  Japanese Zen garden, admiring the raked sand, the careful placement of stones and the little painted bridge that led into the tranquil scene.

  Jacob gazed at it a moment with her before asking, ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It’s very peaceful.’

  ‘Yes, gardens are meant to be places of stillness and tranquillity in Eastern culture.’ He pointed to an assortment of rocks that had been arranged off-centre. ‘Nothing in a Zen garden is symmetrical, because according to their belief system nothing in life is.’

  ‘Nothing in life is symmetrical?’ Mollie asked, frowning slightly as she considered this.

  ‘Nothing in life is perfect.’ Jacob gave her the ghost of a smile. ‘We must embrace the imperfections in the world as well as in ourselves in order to achieve peace or happiness.’

  She turned to him. ‘Do you believe that?’

  ‘I try,’ Jacob replied wryly. ‘I have no trouble believing the world possesses imperfections,’ he added. ‘Or that they exist in myself. But to embrace them …’ He trailed off, glancing at the garden with a frown, and Mollie wondered what he was thinking.

  ‘You seem to know quite a bit about Zen
gardens.’

  ‘I spent some time in the East. My first building project was in Nepal.’

  ‘Really?’ Mollie had had no idea he’d travelled so far in his years away. She laid a hand on his arm. ‘Thank you for taking me here, Jacob. It’s been a wonderful experience.’

  He turned to her with a smile. ‘Yes, it has. I’ve enjoyed watching you take everything in.’ Mollie blushed with pleasure at this admission. ‘I’d like to take you out to dinner,’ Jacob continued. ‘As a way to finish a wonderful day. Did you bring anything to wear in the evening?’

  Mollie’s blush deepened. ‘Yes,’ she admitted, for the very fact that she had made her think he knew she’d been hoping there would be such an occasion to wear it.

  ‘Good,’ Jacob said briskly. ‘Why don’t we go back to the hotel and freshen up? Our reservation is for eight.’

  Jacob prowled through the living room of the hotel suite as he waited for Mollie to finish dressing for dinner. He felt restless and edgy, and that numbing control he kept around him like a comforting blanket seemed to have slipped away completely.

  Coming to London had been a bad idea. No, he corrected himself savagely, bringing Mollie to London had been a bad idea.

  He’d enjoyed it too much.

  Moodily Jacob gazed out at the cityscape laid out before him; the darkened streets twinkled with a steady stream of cars and taxis. He’d fully intended to keep his distance from Mollie; hadn’t that been the point of his sordid little proposition?

  Even if it had, Jacob could not pretend to himself that he’d been relieved when she’d rejected him. He’d been disappointed.

  He’d wanted her. He wanted her still. He wanted her warmth and sweetness, found himself seeking the suddenness of her smile, the lightening of her eyes to amber, the barest brush of her skin, like warm silk. And while he’d told himself he’d brought Mollie to London for her own sake, so she could escape the confines of Wolfe Manor and actually enjoy herself, he knew he was a liar.

  He’d brought her to London for his sake. His pleasure. He’d loved seeing Mollie looking so interested, so excited, so vibrant and alive. He’d loved sharing the sights of the expo with her, of hearing her talk and exchanging ideas and simply being together. He’d been alone for so long, contained, controlled, and yet when he was with Mollie, he didn’t feel alone. He didn’t feel lonely.

  It would be so easy to get used to that feeling, to revel in the companionship, to surrender to the desire. For Jacob knew he didn’t want just companionship; he wanted surrender. Sex, if he was going to be blunt. To bury himself inside the yielding softness of her body, to lose himself in the sweetness of her kiss. A chance to forget who he was and what he’d done and maybe even find something new. Something better.

  And yet he knew that was impossible. There was nothing new or better—not for him. And he couldn’t bring Mollie down with him, down into the darkness and chaos of his own mind, the danger of his memories, and he knew he would if he let himself get close to her. Care for her, and let her care for him. Sex alone would accomplish it, for their relationship had already moved past a soulless sexual bargain. It would mean more to Mollie. It might even mean more to him. He would sully her with his own sin, and the truth of who he was—who he could become if he allowed himself the opportunity.

  He’d already seen the darkness in himself, the darkness that had caused his father’s death and his family’s fracture. He couldn’t bear for Mollie to see it.

  Jacob swung away from the window, impatient with his own maudlin musings. He’d had plenty of time to get used to the darkness of his own soul. He lived with it the way others lived with a more obvious handicap. Constant, endurable. Just.

  Yet in his bleaker moments he felt as if he were filled with nothing but darkness; it seeped out through his eyes, his pores. People felt it. He knew Mollie did; he’d seen her look at him with a sad, puzzled frown, a little wrinkle of distress marring her smooth forehead. And he knew he couldn’t explain.

  How did you tell someone about the blackness of your soul? How did you admit the things you’d thought and done, and how they tormented you still? How did you seek absolution from the one person who could never give it? Yourself.

  He could never forgive himself for what he’d done. He’d relived the moment of his father’s death over and over; he saw it night after night in his dreams. And while he knew that memories were faulty and dreams hardly reliable, what he remembered made him wonder. Doubt. What he remembered made him afraid … of himself.

  ‘I’m ready.’

  Jacob whirled around, blinking several times before he could focus properly on the vision in front of him. Mollie frowned.

  ‘Jacob?’ she said, hesitation in his name. ‘Are you all right?’

  Too late Jacob realised he was scowling ferociously, still in thrall to his memories. He made himself relax, felt his face soften into something close to a smile.

  ‘Sorry, I was a million miles away.’

  She took a step forward. ‘It wasn’t a nice place, wherever it was.’

  ‘No,’ Jacob agreed quietly. ‘It wasn’t.’ He gazed down at her, taking in her slender frame swathed in lavender silk. ‘You look beautiful, Mollie.’ The dress clung to her curves and made his palms ache to touch her. She’d attempted to tame her wild curls into some sort of smooth chignon, and he could see the soft, vulnerable curve of her neck. Her skin was pale and covered with a shimmering of golden freckles. He wanted to touch his fingers to that hidden curve, brush it with his lips, feel its petal-softness as he had that night in the study. He took a step away.

  Tonight was about control, not only of his body, but his mind. Jacob knew he would need every lesson he’d learned during his time in Nepal, every shred of experience and practice, in order to resist the greatest temptation he’d ever faced, far more than a whisky bottle or a clenched fist: the intoxicating sweetness of Mollie Parker.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘THIS is lovely.’ Mollie gazed around at the restaurant on Park Lane with its heavy linen tablecloths and tinkling crystal glasses. The menu was so heavy she’d laid it in her lap, and when the waiter had brought a basket of rolls she’d actually dropped hers on the floor.

  She felt completely out of her element, inexperienced, nervous, ridiculous. She’d seen the looks women had given Jacob, lascivious and full of longing. Then they’d looked at her, incredulous and envious, and Mollie knew they were wondering what she could possibly be doing with Jacob Wolfe. She was wondering the same thing. The gardener’s daughter and the lord’s son, and she had an awful, horrible feeling that Jacob was taking her out tonight simply out of pity. Perhaps that was what the whole weekend had been about: a mercy mission.

  ‘Do you think so?’ Jacob asked, and he sounded amused. ‘Because you’re frowning quite ferociously at the moment.’

  ‘Am I?’ Mollie felt herself add a flush to the frown and she suppressed a groan. ‘Well, if I am, it’s only because I dropped my roll and I hate doing things like that.’ If she couldn’t be sophisticated, she might as well be honest.

  ‘You’re frowning that much over a roll?’ Jacob said, and he sounded even more amused.

  ‘It’s not the roll,’ she explained. ‘It’s the fact that I’ve never been in a restaurant like this, or had a weekend like this, while you’ve been sipping champagne out of a silk slipper your whole life!’

  Jacob said nothing for a moment. He went still, as Mollie knew he always did. It made him utterly inscrutable—and annoying.

  ‘Sipping champagne out of a silk slipper,’ he repeated musingly. ‘Now, I’m quite sure that’s something I’ve never done.’

  ‘Because you don’t drink champagne,’ Mollie returned, the words slipping out before she could stop them. ‘Do you?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Jacob confirmed quietly. Mollie gestured towards his untouched glass.

  ‘And you’re not going to drink that, are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why did you pour it, t
hen?’ Curiosity, a need to understand Jacob, drove her to the demanding questions.

  Jacob hesitated for a single second. ‘Because I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable,’ he finally said, and colour rushed once more into Mollie’s face.

  ‘Oh.’ She lapsed into silence, and Jacob reached across the table to lightly lay his hand across hers. Despite the gentleness of the touch, Mollie started as if he’d just prodded her with a live wire. The warmth of his hand covering hers flooded through her body, made heat pool deep inside of her.

  ‘Mollie, what’s wrong?’

  Mollie looked at him; all the harsh remoteness had softened into an expression that was both serious and sorrowful, and a sudden, inexplicable lump rose in her throat so she could barely speak.

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose I’m a bit … self-conscious. We’re so different.’

  ‘That’s not a bad thing,’ Jacob said quietly, and suddenly Mollie’s discomfort about the difference in their life experiences seemed ridiculous—and unimportant.

  ‘Don’t say that,’ she said, leaning towards him. ‘It’s not true.’

  ‘You don’t know what’s true,’ Jacob said, his voice light, although his eyes looked dark, blacker than ever.

  ‘Then tell me,’ Mollie said, imploring, and Jacob just shook his head.

  ‘Hardly dinner table conversation.’

  Mollie suppressed a sigh of exasperation. ‘I don’t mean who we are as people anyway. I mean class.’ There. She’d said it.

  ‘Class?’ Jacob repeated in blatant disbelief. He sat back in his chair, folding his arms, one eyebrow arched. He was so clearly sceptical that he made her feel as if she were living in the pages of a Victorian novel while he had a wholly modern outlook on life.

  ‘Yes, class, Jacob,’ she replied a bit tartly. ‘And it’s been my experience that people in the upper classes don’t think such a thing exists.’

  ‘Mollie, we’re living in the twenty-first century. Class constructs are irrelevant.’