by Linda Cajio
“Neither do I,” Rick muttered, running his fingers through his hair. He was getting nowhere fast with this crowd.
“The lad couldn’t live without me.” Grahame took Jill’s hand and kissed it in a flourish of chivalry. “This hall has never been graced with such beauty before.”
Jill smiled, a slight rosiness returning to her wan complexion. An odd envy shot through Rick at the other man’s action.
“By the way,” Grahame added, turning to Rick, “that bleedin’ idiot of a farm manager just rang up. The fancy tractor’s broke down again. Nobody never needed more than a scythe and a hand plow for centuries around here.”
“Great,” Rick said. Just what he needed, another crisis. In spite of Grahame’s comment about manners, he would never turn his grandmother out. And Jill clearly needed to rest from the trip. It had been years since he’d had real company; he was making up for it now with a vengeance. “Grahame, we have guests, so get the bags from the car and show the ladies to their rooms.”
“What do I look like? A bleedin’ servant?”
Rick grinned. “That’s what a majordomo is and what you hired on for.”
“Fool that I was.”
Grahame retrieved the car keys from Jill and stomped out the open door.
Rick was about to demand explanations from his grandmother again, when he noticed Jill lean back against the wall and close her eyes. Her face was once more the color of eggshells, and she looked as if she could break apart just as easily. He sensed it was more than exhaustion upsetting her. Something else had drained her, and he was eager to find out what it was.
Realizing the path his thoughts were taking, Rick abruptly stepped back. Jill Daneforth was a tempting distraction, but he had a working farm to run. He didn’t have time to be distracted.
“If you will excuse me,” he said, nodding to his grandmother. “I have an emergency to attend to. You and I will catch up later, Grandmother.”
Lettice smiled, looking just like a cat who had swallowed a canary.
Rick grimaced. He had no idea why his grandmother seemed so smug, or why the lovely Jill Daneforth was so hot to see his father, but he was damn well going to find out.
“Well, plan A just got tossed out the window,” Jill said to herself. A few hours ago she would have killed for a bath and a bed, and now that she had had the first and was in the second, she couldn’t relax.
“No wonder,” she muttered, tossing back the covers and sitting up. In her job, she’d always advised people to stay awake on their first day in a foreign country, to adjust more quickly to the time difference. She might as well follow her own advice, though her head was spinning from the lack of sleep. It had been days since she’d slept for more than an hour or two at a stretch.
Lettice had suggested they fly immediately to London to talk with her son, Edward, so Jill would be right on the spot for whatever authorities he dug up to help her. She hadn’t given a thought to whether Lettice had discussed the matter with him. At transatlantic distances, who the heck wouldn’t? Lettice obviously. It had been a nightmare arriving at the former ambassador’s locked and empty house in Wimbledon early that morning, then discovering no hotel rooms were available in the height of the tourist season—at least none Lettice would deign to stay in. There had been the further nightmare of getting to a car rental and driving to her grandson’s house. Three hours. Jill shuddered. Good thing she had done some driving in England before, otherwise they’d be sleeping on a bench outside Buckingham Palace. After driving with Lettice as navigator, that still sounded like the better deal.
She shook her head. “I can’t believe it. Moscow!”
Her short talk with Lettice after they’d come upstairs hadn’t reassured her, despite the older woman’s promise that she would call Moscow and get some long-distance help—even if her son had to be dragged out of his summit meeting.
All Jill had had before was hope; now all she had was helplessness. What would she do for a month, until Lettice’s son returned to London? She only had six weeks before her new job started.
Dammit! she thought, lightly pounding the bed. There they were in Fitchworth-Leeds country, and she had no way of retrieving the necklace and extracting justice. She could only hope Lattice’s son could help her long-distance.
Her head was clearing, and she stood up, slipping a cotton robe over her nightgown. Grahame thoughtfully had brought up a pot of weak tea and some biscuits after showing her to her room. She took a bite of a biscuit, then walked over to the window and unlatched the intricate wrought-iron clasp. Leaning out, she let the afternoon breeze cool her perspiring skin.
This beat the heck out of her Rittenhouse condo, she admitted, taking a deep breath. Devil’s Hall was a small cozy mansion, built of gray Cotswold stone, with tall, narrow windows. She remembered her glimpse, before her personal chaos had erupted, of the huge nail-studded door and the tricolored shingled roof, its peak running from side to side. Real sheep nibbled the front lawn, keeping it as trim as any modern lawnmower. Devil’s Hall was about as undevilish as it could get.
In the distance, she could see the little village of Winchcombe nestled in the center dip of a circle of hills. Hedgerows everywhere squared off the slopes, with the occasional low stone wall thrown in for good measure. Sheep and cattle dotted the verdant pastures. The scene was soothing, but it reminded her of who had the view every day.
Rick Kitteridge.
When Lettice had mentioned her grandson, Jill hadn’t thought of a virile man in his prime mid-thirties. She wished she had. Then she might have been better prepared.
Her first glimpse of him was still indelibly etched in her mind. He was tall and fit, though not bulky with muscles. He had the lean compact frame of a tennis player. His features were sharply defined, and his face was deeply bronzed, affirming how much his work kept him outdoors. Sun-streaked brown hair curved over his collar, clearly two weeks behind in a visit to the barber. Somehow, his shabby clothes and the odor of animal hadn’t detracted from his commanding presence. Rick Kitteridge wore his clothes, they didn’t wear him.
It had been his eyes, though—blue-green like his grandmother’s, and yet not like them at all — that had kept her spellbound in those first moments of meeting. His gaze held an intensity that made her feel vulnerable, all her secrets unsafe yet all her desires fulfilled. Her heart had slowed and her blood had pulsed through her veins like hot lava. She had forgotten everything in that moment. Yep, he was definitely a far cry from the paunchy nearing-forty grandson she’d envisioned.
She must have looked like a jerk, she thought ruefully, hanging on to that umbrella stand for dear life while shock and jet lag took their tolls. She had tried for a little poise and some normal conversation. A humiliating flush heated her cheeks as she remembered how close she’d come to throwing up. And now she was in his house, in his bedroom. Well, one of his bedrooms, she amended, thinking of the flower-print curtains and spread, with the reverse pattern on the wallpaper. Hardly a man’s room—especially a man like Rick Kitteridge.
In the year and a half that Jill had been divorced, she hadn’t met any man who interested her beyond a few dinner dates. And now, when she needed to concentrate fully on the problem at hand, she met a man who made her think about a lot more than dinner.
“Don’t get distracted,” she muttered to herself, forcing away the image of Rick’s intriguing eyes. At least Lettice didn’t think they should tell him the real reason for their visit. Jill was grateful for the older woman’s reticence. It was one less humiliation of the day, and it wasn’t any of Rick’s business anyhow.
But all of this was so typical of what often happened to her whenever she took life by the horns. She felt like the Murphy’s Law of Philadelphia. It could only go wrong for Jill.
Now she had nothing to do except play tourist for the moment. She supposed she ought to let her mother know she had arrived safely. It must be mid-morning in Philadelphia. She’d use the extension in the bedroom and bill t
he call to her card.
Only a few moments after speaking to the operator, Jill heard her mother’s voice on the other end.
“Hi, Mom!” she said, cringing at the forced cheerfulness in her voice.
“Jill, is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me,” she replied, wondering how her mother could recognize a voice and still have to ask who was speaking.
To her horror, Caroline burst into tears.
Jill gripped the telephone. “Mom, what’s wrong? Is someone hurt? Sick? Is it Dad?”
At the mention of her father, the wailing increased. No amount of prompting could force Caroline into giving a coherent answer, and Jill finally gave up in favor of waiting for the storm to pass.
“Are you …” Her mother hiccupped. “Are you in England?”
“Yes, I’m here safe and I’m sorry I haven’t been able to call sooner. Now, what is wrong at home?”
“Your father … our anniversary next month … he wants me to wear the necklace. He’ll be so angry. All our friends. He wants to give me a party. He’ll think I … What do I do, Jill?”
Jill gritted her teeth, feeling as though she were drowning in a morass of tension. “Tell him the truth, Mom. What else can you do, under the circumstances?”
“He’ll hate me. He’ll want a divorce!” her mother cried. “And he said he was feeling bad about neglecting me. I was only trying to make things right. Everyone will think I’m so stupid!”
Jill sighed. She loved her mother, but sometimes she felt as if they had reversed roles. “Mom, be sensible. You can’t hide this away forever—”
“I thought that since you were in England, you could talk to the Colonel and get it back.”
“Talk to the Colonel!”
“Get it back, Jill. You have to. It’s yours, you know, really. Or it would have been—”
“Then why the hell did you give it away?” Jill snapped in exasperation.
“I don’t know, I don’t know.” Her mother started crying again. “It seemed so right at the time. Your father … This would hurt him so much. And I wouldn’t want to have him hurt for anything. Jill? Jill?”
“I’m here.” She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t help remembering again how her mother had been there for her during the divorce. She’d been thankful to know someone cared for her at a time when she was being called a failure as a wife and lover. Fluffy as Buffy Daneforth could be, she had come through. Reluctantly, Jill said, “I had been planning to see Lettice’s son for some help—”
“I knew it! I’ll tell your father I’m having the necklace cleaned for the party while you get it back, just in case he asks to see it or something.”
“Mom—”
“Jill, you’re wonderful, absolutely wonderful.”
“Mom, there’s a problem here,” Jill said forcefully.
Unfortunately, her mother had great faith. “You’ll work it out. I feel so much better now. I knew I would after I talked to you. I love you, Jilly. Have a nice time and give my regards to Lettice. Goodbye, dear.”
“Mom!” Jill shouted, but the line on the other side of the Atlantic clicked dead. She slammed her own receiver down and stared at the ornate telephone in complete disgust.
The Jill Daneforth version of Murphy’s Law was back in action again.
Now she had to get the necklace back before the party and before the Colonel disposed of it to a fence—if he hadn’t already. She wouldn’t think that, she decided. She hadn’t gone through all this for nothing. She wanted it to count. And she needed her heritage back if she wanted to help her mother. But she was out in the middle of the countryside with no resources available and no time. And worse, no plan!
Except …
She turned around and stared at the small makeup case she had clutched all the way over on the plane. The first glimmers of an idea formed in her head. Fishing a small key out of her purse, she opened the case and dug deep under the “necessities.” Her heart beat a little faster when her fingers closed around a velvety soft pouch. She lifted it out and walked over to the bed. Her head spun lightly as she undid the string and spread the glittering necklace on the comforter. The green stones winked like the real thing in the copy of the Daneforth necklace. Twenty-three emeralds set in an intricate design with pearls, or in this case, faux stone with faux pearls. But even a jeweler would be hard-pressed to tell the difference.
Then she spread a second necklace out on the bed. This one sparkled with true carbon life. Her father had once said diamonds should be worn in the sun to bring out their luster. Seeing the stones sparkle in the natural light, she agreed with him. She didn’t know why she had brought the diamond necklace; it was nearly as precious as the emerald one. But when she had gotten the paste copy out, there it had been, almost calling her. She stuffed it back into its bag, cursing her foolishness.
She held the copy, feeling the weight of it, seeing the sparkle of it … and knowing it wasn’t real. She hoped Lettice got through to Moscow and got some answers. Otherwise, this entire trip would have been for nothing, and she would have to go home without the necklace.
And, an impish voice inside her whispered, without getting to know Rick Kitteridge.
Jill told the voice to be quiet. She refused to be distracted, and Lettice’s grandson was the sexiest, most appealing distraction she’d ever seen. She’d simply have to be coolly polite when she was with him, and forget about him when she wasn’t. And she would get her legacy back, by hook or by crook.
She wasn’t going home without it.
Two
“Her husband was Mr. Supermacho,” Lettice said as she and Rick strolled along the path through his garden. “He expected her to jump whenever he snapped his fingers. Completely unsuitable, I thought at the time.…”
“Mmmm,” Rick murmured noncommittally, though he was listening intently to his grandmother ramble on. As they waited for Jill to come down for breakfast, his tour of the back garden had turned into a monologue that he was internally driven to hear. Daisy, his favorite border collie, swept silently around his feet like a shadow, as she did whenever he was outside in her domain.
“Jill isn’t some paper doll.” Lettice paused. “And then there were all those affairs—”
“Jill had affairs!” Rick exclaimed, rounding on his grandmother. With a yip, Daisy jumped out of the way. He reached out absently to pet the dog’s head in reassurance.
“Of course not, silly. I’m talking about Brett, her ex-husband.” Lettice frowned. “Well, she could have affairs. She’s a grown woman, after all, and a lovely one.… What is this delightful stalky plant with the purple flowers? It looks like a violet.”
Rick blinked, coming out of a kaleidoscope of emotions at the thought of Jill, eyes half-closed in smoky invitation, as a man leaned his head down to kiss her. The problem was, he wasn’t the man. She had been under his roofless than twenty-four hours—and he’d spent less than an hour in her company—yet he was completely fascinated with her. It was as if his grandmother knew it, too, and was throwing out these tidbits, carrot-and-donkey style. It was working, dammit. He wanted to hear more. What the hell was wrong with him?
“Rick. The plant …”
Forcing himself to attend his grandmother, he said, “It is a violet. Dame’s violet. It’s a crucifer, see how the petals grow crosswise?” He pointed to a near-identical flower. “That’s it again with its white flower.”
Lettice swept her hand around the raised stone banks. “And all these are wildflowers? They’re so beautiful. Not like the usual fat roses and petunias in a garden, but wispy and ethereal.”
“They’re harder to cultivate than the roses and petunias,” he said, watching several bees buzz lazily around a blue sow thistle. He was grateful the conversation had turned to gardening. If Jill had affairs, that was her business. He certainly had no claim. And therefore he had no interest. Satisfied his emotions and libido were in check, he added, “Wildflowers will grow anywhere you don’t want them to, and
nowhere you do. How long has she been divorced?”
He clamped his jaw shut, but too late to stop the unexpected and unwanted curiosity. So much for a lack of interest.
“About a year and a half. No children, thank goodness.” Then she said the words that put him out of his misery. “Jill is a sensible girl. I’m sure men have been few and far between since the divorce. How is the farm doing? Shouldn’t you be working on whatever broke down?”
“That was fixed. I arranged my schedule to spend a little time with you this morning, Grandmother, and now you’re complaining.”
“And how much is ‘a little time’? she asked.
“Breakfast?” he said, thinking of the hapless manager he’d hired. He was beginning to wonder if Grahame was right about the man’s abilities.
She chuckled. “I’ll take it. I ought to complain about your neglecting me, but I know how important this manor is to you, dear.”
Rick raised his eyebrows in surprise. His grandmother usually gave him a lecture about his not pursuing a service career like his father. “Hiding away with the sheep,” was her usual comment. He opened his mouth to ask when the miracle had occurred, then immediately shut it. One should never question a miracle, he thought, just bask in it.
Hearing a noise, he glanced up to see Grahame coming out of the terrace doors, carrying what looked to be the entire family silver. Jill followed with a tray nearly as loaded.
“What the—” Rick bit off the curse and strode across the lawn to the terrace. Daisy followed.
“Thought you might like a continental on the back terrace, Yer Lordship,” Grahame said, “now that you’re around to appreciate it.” He set the tray down on the white wrought-iron table.
“I agree, but you shouldn’t have Jill carrying this.” Rick reached for her tray, intending to take it from her. But his fingers met her cool, slender ones as he grasped the handles. A sudden warmth leaped between them. His blood slowed as he gazed into her incredible eyes, wide now with emotions he couldn’t define. He was tempted to stroke her delicate cheek; to cradle her head in his hands, her slender body in his arms.
