Red Clover Inn--A Romance Novel

by Carla Neggers

“As I mentioned, I have a return flight booked. It leaves from Boston but I have to scoot to Washington to see about Max’s house. I thought I’d stop back here on the way. Samantha and Justin will be back from their honeymoon.” She brushed a bit of ash from Evelyn’s letter off her thigh. She was ridiculously self-conscious with Greg right next to her. “I keep calling it Max’s house but that’s only because he lived there alone after my grandmother died. It’s not as flashy a place as Harry’s house in Boston.”

  “Max wasn’t as flashy a guy?”

  “He didn’t care about the limelight. I’m not saying Harry cared, either, but it didn’t bother Max in the least that he didn’t get it. It didn’t affect their relationship. I think he liked his quiet life.”

  Greg watched the fire crackle. “Does having Samantha in Knights Bridge affect your decision making about the house and what’s next for you?”

  “Not really.” Charlotte could feel the warmth from the fire. She liked having Greg sitting close to her, she had to admit. There was more than one way to stay warm. She focused on the matter at hand. “It feels a little strange having Samantha settled. I’m used to her being on the go all the time.”

  “The Bennetts seem to do well as a family even if you are spread out.”

  “We do, surprisingly, maybe. We’re used to hopping on planes to see each other, moving every few years—sometimes every few months.”

  “That kind of lifestyle can be tough on relationships.”

  She looked at him, noticed the fire reflected in those deep turquoise eyes of his. “Unless the two people involved are both on the go, I suppose. Did you like moving to different assignments?”

  “Depended on the assignment.”

  A circumspect answer. “Are you looking forward to being at the DSS Command Center? Will you finish out your career there?”

  “It’s what’s next. It definitely could be my last stop with Diplomatic Security. It’s a good one. No complaints.”

  “You don’t like to lock yourself into a plan, do you?”

  “I like to keep my options open. What if I win the lottery?”

  “Do you ever buy a ticket?”

  “Never.” He grinned, stretching an arm on the back of the love seat. “If you don’t go back to Edinburgh, what will you do?”

  “I hope this trip will help me figure that out. Not being able to dive changes everything.”

  “I didn’t get the impression your institute would dump you because you can’t dive. Did I miss something?”

  “No. We’d rework my role. I have options. I just never thought...”

  “You never thought you’d exchange your wet suit for a desk.”

  “At least not so soon.”

  “The gratitude and relief at getting out of a tough spot like the one you were in only lasts so long. At some point, you have to wrap your head around the ways it’s changed your life. You have to accept that what’s next for you isn’t going to be what you planned before you got your butt kicked by life.”

  “Even if it’s something better?”

  “Well, from my point of view, there are a lot of options that are better than jumping in a cold ocean to explore sunken shipwrecks.”

  “Says someone who’s never explored a sunken wreck.”

  “And never plans to,” he said lightly. “What’s the marine archaeology version of a desk job look like?”

  “Managing, planning, teaching, fund-raising, writing, researching. Lots of possibilities.”

  He smiled. “You don’t like to lock yourself into a plan, do you?”

  “I deserved that,” she said with a laugh. “It’s cozy in here. I’m actually getting hot.”

  “What kind of hot?”

  She didn’t answer. She put her feet up on the coffee table and leaned back against his arm. “You’re not coming on to me because I have a house in Washington, are you?”

  “I’m not that bright.” He lowered his arm so that it encircled her. “I’m coming on to you because you’re funny and smart and kick-ass and you don’t mind going toe to toe with the occasional shark.”

  “Sharks don’t have toes.”

  “Tiger?”

  “I’m not an expert on tigers, or sharks for that matter.”

  “Sunken wrecks.”

  “You’re not a sunken wreck.”

  “You’re not, either.”

  “A couple of hard-driving types.” She tried to keep her tone light, but her awareness of him was impairing her ability to speak and think coherently. “Maybe a fire wasn’t the best idea.”

  “We could have wrapped up in a blanket together.”

  He wasn’t having any difficulty with speaking and thinking, obviously. She saw the spark of humor in his eyes. He pulled her toward him. She half turned, half rolled into the wall of muscle that was his chest and shoulders. Heat surged through her that had nothing to do with the fire crackling a few feet away.

  His mouth found hers and she sank into him, into their kiss. She wrapped her arms around him, gasped at the feel of his hands on the overheated skin of her lower back. He parted her lips with his tongue, and she thought she would melt into him.

  She moaned, tingling, aching. She might have said his name out loud. She didn’t know.

  The weeks of tension, uncertainty and loss since her accident fell away. He skimmed his hands up her sides under her shirt, and she angled back just enough that he could reach her breasts. She moaned with an abandon she’d learned not to let loose. Uptight...yes, she’d been uptight.

  Somehow she’d ended up straddling him. Every inch of him was hard under her. She wanted to explore, touch, taste him, but her body wouldn’t cooperate. She was liquid in his arms. He pulled her shirt over her head and cast it aside. Her bra followed. She didn’t even know how it came off.

  “Charlotte.” His voice was husky, thick. His mouth descended to her breasts. He flicked his tongue on her, sending flames of pure sexual desire through her. “I want you. Tell me what you want.”

  How was she supposed to speak? She pressed herself into him. “I want you inside me.”

  It was all he needed to hear. He tore at her pants, then his own, tossing them aside. She glanced up and saw that the library door was shut, but she knew she and Greg were alone. She got his shirt off and ran her fingertips along the muscles on his chest, the scars from where he’d been shot. But he eased his fingers between her legs, and she was lost.

  Once he was inside her, she didn’t want it to end. Nothing about their lovemaking felt impulsive, crazy, stupid. It felt right, inevitable. She gave herself up to his thrusts.

  Yes, yes, yes.

  She’d never felt so loved and wanted, and when she came, it was explosive. She clutched him, felt his release as they shuddered together.

  And it all hit her. A tsunami of emotions bowled her over, and as she felt the tears welling, she grabbed her clothes, pulled them on. “No regrets, no regrets,” she said half to herself. “None. It was wonderful. But I...” She stood unsteadily. “I have to go.”

  Greg reached for his jeans and shorts and pulled them on in one smooth motion. He got to his feet. “I’ll see to the fire.” He touched his knuckles to her cheek. “Good night, Charlotte.”

  She ran upstairs to her room, bursting into tears once she shut the door behind her.

  It was the physical release of their lovemaking, she knew. It had laid bare all her other bottled-up emotions.

  “They can all go away,” she said aloud, sniffling.

  She cried some more and then washed her face. She put on her nightgown, shivering. She’d left her window cracked that morning, never thinking the air would get this raw by nightfall. She snuggled under her covers.

  Now this was impulsive, she thought with a rueful smile.

  I
t would have been much warmer to have Greg with her.

  But she didn’t go back downstairs to get him. She didn’t feel anything like the way she’d felt with Tommy. This was different—real and fun, with no competitiveness, nothing to prove.

  She had no tears now. She was drained, but in a positive way.

  And she was certain now. She was falling in love with Greg Rawlings.

  Twenty

  Isle of Skye, Scotland

  Samantha woke up early in their small room, complete with slanted ceilings and a view of the stunning scenery. She took a leisurely shower and pulled on clothes—the warmest clothes she’d brought, since she and Justin were disappearing into the hills for two days of hiking. They’d stop overnight at a bed-and-breakfast to which he’d arranged transport of their luggage.

  She zipped up her fleece, aware of Justin watching her from the edge of the bed, where he was pulling on his hiking shoes. “Tommy Ferguson is engaged and moving to Florida and had to stop and tell Charlotte? Seriously? What an ass.”

  “She’s okay, Sam.”

  “Of course she is. She’s a Bennett and she figured out Tommy before the rest of us. I do realize we only know about this because Greg Rawlings told Brody, who told Heather, who told you. I’m getting used to how things work with your family.” She grabbed wool socks and sat next to Justin to pull them on. “Then we have your grandmother, who has now found and opened her time capsule after sixty-five years.”

  “And burned the evidence,” Justin said.

  Samantha smiled. “We’re missing all the excitement in Knights Bridge.”

  “There’ll be new excitement when we get home.”

  “Never a dull moment in a small town. Now. Before we head into the hills...”

  “What?”

  “I happened to see a painting that intrigued me. I think it’d be perfect for the library at the inn.”

  Justin frowned. “A painting? Where?”

  “At an art gallery in the village.”

  He tied the laces to his hiking shoe. “I didn’t notice an art gallery, never mind a painting. What’s it like?”

  “It’s a watercolor of a fish.”

  “Sam.” He looked up at her. “A fish?”

  “Mmm. It’s hard to explain but it’s perfect.”

  “What kind of fish?”

  “An iconic wild Scottish salmon.”

  Justin didn’t look that enthusiastic. “Okay.” He tackled his other hiking shoe. “We come through here after our hike. What if we stop at the gallery then and have a look? If you still like this painting, I’m on board with buying it. I can just see my brothers’ faces when I bring home a painting of a fish from Scotland.”

  “It’s a great painting. You’ll see.”

  “In the meantime, we have—” he glanced at his watch “—less than a minute until our digital blackout. No calls, no texts, no email for the rest of our honeymoon. Eric has our itinerary with hotel numbers for any emergencies, and I trust him only to call in an actual emergency.”

  “You wouldn’t trust your grandmother.”

  “Not in a million years. Brandon, maybe, but he zeroes in on drama and when last heard from, he was touring the Tower of London with Maggie and the boys. Who knows where they’ll end up next. Adam’s heading home today. He’d be fine—nothing gets to him—but you never know how jet lag affects people. I’d trust Christopher, too, but he’s working long hours. The folks—Pop will make up an emergency to get out of touring another English castle with my mother.”

  “And Heather is in London. Mmm. Best to leave it to Eric.”

  “We’ll enjoy the beauty of the Scottish Highlands.”

  “Then you’ve noticed?”

  “I notice everything when I’m with you, but I especially notice you, Mrs. Sloan.”

  “I love you, Justin.”

  Twenty-One

  Knights Bridge, Massachusetts

  Greg drove out to Echo Lake and found Vic sitting on his porch with Rohan and his iPad. While looking for more whiskey in the cupboards, he’d discovered an old, cracked sepia photograph of Vic’s lakeside house. “Thought you might like to take a look,” Greg said, handing it to the retired ambassador.

  Vic set his iPad aside and sat up straight, studying the photograph. “It must have been taken not long after this place was built. That’s almost a hundred years ago. Who’s the young couple holding hands on the porch?”

  “I thought you might know.”

  “No idea.” Vic turned over the photograph. “No date or inscription. Nothing. Knowing Knights Bridge, the happy couple probably has secrets.”

  “They do look happy,” Greg said.

  “Yeah. You can feel the love and romance in the air. Here I am, on my own with Rohan.”

  Rohan heard his name and perked up at Vic’s feet.

  “You’re not thinking of marrying your dog, are you, Vic?”

  “You know, Rawlings, there’s a reason you have the reputation you do.”

  “I hope so. I’d hate to be thought of as a jerk for no good reason.”

  “Well, you aren’t,” Vic said. But he laughed, shaking his head. “There are days I miss the job, hanging out with alphas like you, but fewer and fewer.” His eyes grew serious as he got to his feet and looked out at the lake. “Adrienne’s moving back.”

  Greg didn’t know Adrienne well, just that she was the wine-enthusiast daughter Vic hadn’t realized he’d had until she’d looked him up and house-sat for him last winter. “That’s great, Vic. I’m happy for you. You weren’t hoping to hook the two of us up, were you?”

  “That thought gives me heartburn. No.” He sighed, staring out at the glistening water. “I don’t deserve this second lease on a personal life but I’m getting one, anyway.”

  “Make the most of it.”

  “I will. Adrienne will have to look elsewhere for a guy. You’re too old for her, anyway.”

  “Ouch.”

  Vic grinned. “Payback.” Again the seriousness. “Now that I’ve seen you and Charlotte Bennett together...” He left it at that.

  Greg walked down a dirt road to Brody’s old place on the lake.

  Charlotte was already there. She’d left earlier on her bike. “I thought you might follow me out here,” she said, angling him a smile. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning.” It was enough for now. They didn’t need to talk about last night. He pointed along the lakeshore. “There’s some land for sale up past the cove. The dirt road can be extended. Could be a good place to retire when the time comes.”

  “You and Brody as neighbors?”

  “We could go fishing and tell war stories. He and Heather could warn their kids to stay away from me.”

  “You shouldn’t joke about these things, Greg.”

  “It’s a beautiful spot. I’m not sure I’d want to be out here alone. The critters wouldn’t get to me. The quiet would, on multiple fronts. I was often alone with my thoughts, with nothing to do, when I was recuperating last winter. It was seldom pretty.”

  “You’re action oriented and not particularly reflective?”

  “Yeah. I guess you could say that.”

  “And you got used to living in the moment and not making a lot of plans. This would be a great place to build a small lake house. Nothing like Vic’s.”

  “Couldn’t afford it and I’m not comfortable in big houses. Imagine the vacuuming. Vic has a hell of a wine cellar, though.”

  “I like him.”

  “He thinks you’re crazy about me.”

  “Did he say that?”

  “No, but I protect diplomats for a living. I can read him.”

  She laughed. As they left, she glanced back at the lake, shimmering in the late-morning s
un. “I can see the appeal of the lake for Brody—and for you, even if you didn’t grow up here. It’s a place you can put aside a sometimes dangerous, high-pressure career, whether you’re between assignments or your career has ended.”

  “Wouldn’t chew our legs off with boredom?”

  “There are things to do in Knights Bridge. You’d have friends. Good friends.”

  “I don’t have family here. You do.”

  “Samantha, you mean—and now Justin.”

  “He comes with a big family, and if he and Sam have kids...”

  “Yes. Samantha didn’t ‘settle’ when she decided to stay in Knights Bridge. It wasn’t only because of Justin, either. It was because of herself, too.”

  Charlotte was silent. Greg watched her, and he knew, in his gut, what she was thinking. “You’re seeing possibilities for yourself that go beyond ‘I need to dive again.’”

  “For the first time since the accident,” she said softly. “For the first time.”

  “It’s a start.”

  * * *

  Greg beat Charlotte back to the inn and therefore to the hammock. Charlotte had ideas about slipping into the hammock with him, but Evelyn Sloan thumped up the front porch steps, using her cane, accompanied by a young woman with a camera dangling from her neck. “This is Amanda,” Evelyn said. “She’s a reporter for our local newspaper. They got wind of my time capsule and sent her over. I agreed to show her the contents, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Of course,” Charlotte said. “Do you want me to call Eric or Christopher?”

  “Why? I can handle my own affairs.”

  Charlotte let it go. “Would you like to chat in the library? I can make coffee.”

  “No coffee,” Evelyn said. “We won’t be long.”

  Amanda, the reporter, couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. She looked awkward and tentative, but she followed Evelyn into the inn without comment. Charlotte shut the door behind them.

  “The man in the hammock is a federal agent,” Evelyn said as they continued down the hall to the library. “Diplomatic Security Service. He protects ambassadors.”

  “Does he live in town?” Amanda asked.