He couldn’t wait another second to get inside her. He pushed them up against the tile wall, using it to brace her as he lifted her up enough to enter her warmth. She slid around him, enveloping him, squeezing. It drove him wild as she leaned against the wall with her hands and arched back against him, tightening the fit and flexing her hips around him. His gasped for air, heart pounding and legs straining with the urge to fill every inch of her.
But he waited, pulling her back flush against him, away from the wall, and then twisted them around to sit on the bench. He leaned back with her on top of him, her front exposed to the pulsating water. Then his fingers found her again, and he rubbed as he pumped beneath her. She grew taut, and he pumped faster, his fingers keeping rhythm until she cried out. Her hands gripped the metal rail behind them and held on as she climaxed around him.
An intense building of need pushed him beyond reason. He wrapped both arms around her middle and held on tight, thrusting beneath her until his world exploded into a thousand soaking wet pieces.
Chapter 23
Chloe was never going to be the same again. Ever. She was ruined. She’d never again be content to go home to her tiny Boston apartment, drink regular coffee, and spend her days immersed in museum acquisitions. The man from NorthStar had become the benchmark to which everything and everyone would be judged. But she already knew there was no real competition, no point in even looking.
Worse, she didn’t stand a chance of being happy living that ordinary life anymore. It was all Finn’s fault with his fancy coffee and sex-toy shower.
Despite an exhausting several days and a spectacular soapy night, they’d managed to get out of bed fairly early this morning. She was too excited to care about sleep anyhow. Today she’d get to Desmond’s property and hopefully, another step closer to solving the mystery.
“We’ll head for Weymouth around ten,” Finn said around a bite of blueberry pancake. “Right after I show you the grounds.”
Ronan’s kitchen smelled like heaven, a blend of coffee and maple syrup, and she’d loaded her plate high with pancakes and bacon before joining the gang at the breakfast table. There was something about a night of debauchery that worked up one’s appetite. She’d really have to pace herself from here on out. The Kane men were a force to be reckoned with. One cooked like a French chef, the other drove her over the edge in too many ways. For her own peace of mind, she really should try and gain a little control. And she would, right after devouring the plate of pancakes.
Ronan poured a glass of orange juice and set it down in front of her. “Better watch the time,” he warned her. “Finn loses all track of it when talking shop.”
“Pot calling the kettle black,” Finn said to her. “I get it honestly.”
“Pretty sure it comes from his mother, not me.” Ronan pulled out a chair and sat. “I’m happily retired.”
Finn cracked a sideways smile. “Don’t believe him. It’s just something he says.” Finn helped himself to another stack. “I can barely keep up with him.”
“On that note, the Stephens’ cruiser arrived while you were gone. She’s trailered next to the old dry dock.” Ronan sat back with a mug of steaming coffee. “It’s a long-term project. Interior cabinetry replacement and signs of dry rot. Already contacted Jackson about doing some electrical wiring.”
They launched into shoptalk and Chloe listened as she ate, watching Finn get caught up on everything from the status of supply orders to the roofers they’d hired to repair a leak in the lumber corral. Even Uncle Jon got in on the act, asking questions about future expansion plans, machinery, staffing, and potential clients he could send their way.
Here was yet another side of Finnegan Kane. She’d joined forces with a shrewd bounty hunter and risked her life with his daring strategies. She’d had her personal defenses shattered by his innate sensuality and maddening tendency for taking command of every situation. This Finn, the knowledgeable and deliberate businessman, left her a little in awe over the controlled way he tackled his dream of tall ship restoration. Yet every facet of him had one thing in common. An extraordinary ability to focus. Last night she discovered just how beneficial that could be.
She stabbed another bite of syrup-covered pancake and glanced over at Finn. He met her gaze across the table, and from the way his blue eyes darkened, she suspected he had total recall of their evening adventures. So did she, and the memory still caused her to blush.
She couldn’t stop thinking about it either, even as they spent the next hour walking the four-acre compound that was NorthStar. Finn kept up a running commentary on each building, shared a funny childhood story with her, or identified an important piece of its history. He’d point toward something, and she’d admire his long, tanned fingers and grow warm with remembered pleasure. Another time he dropped an arm around her shoulders as he steered her view toward the harbor, and she couldn’t resist sinking back against the strength of his chest. The whole tour was like an exercise in torture. Whether that was intentional on his part, she couldn’t tell, but she suspected he knew very well his effect on her. Suspected and shamelessly used it.
She forgave, though, because it was easy to see that he loved this place. Every building, dock, and storehouse, every ship-working tool, every inch of coastline, tree, and blade of grass, he knew it all intimately. And it was easy to see why. Late June was a picture-perfect time of year in Connecticut. Even amidst old buildings, boats, and piles of lumber, there were intrepid patches of purple violets, wild daisies, and blue phlox.
“There are several small buildings scattered about, some from the late eighteen-hundreds or early nineteen-hundreds,” Finn said. “They were used for a variety of reasons, storage mostly.” He pointed to one nearby. “That one we call the Lobster Shack.”
When they walked past the front driveway, they stopped at the office where he pointed out a relatively new addition to the original building. “We extended by adding a four-hundred-square-foot conference room with a table large enough to accommodate blueprints. There’s also a media console so we can show video of past restorations to potential clients. We’ve started a marine pre-purchase inspection service, too, though that’s mostly dad.”
They moved on to a huge lumber corral, a yards-long rectangle of a building, roughly two stories high and completely open in the front. There were ten or more square compartments, each full of different widths and lengths of board lumber, pallets, and cordage. They passed a massive red barn that he called the preservation shed, and one expansive pier that stretched into the harbor.
“We have two dry docks,” Finn said. “The original,” he pointed toward a wood slat building that sat half on land, half over the water. “And a modern one”—he aimed toward a metal structure farther down the shoreline—“that we built shortly after I returned home.”
Chloe found all of it fascinating and was more than a little in awe. There was still a lot of work to do, but NorthStar was on track to be a premier destination location for historical boats in need of TLC.
Finn grabbed her hand and pulled her between the Lobster Shack and the Harbor Master’s Cabin, all the way to the water’s edge. “What do you think?”
“I love what you’ve done with the place,” she said with a smile and a wave of her hand.
He glanced back toward the main yard. “You should’ve seen it five years ago. It’s come a long way.”
“Seriously Finn, it’s an amazing legacy. I understand why it drives you to take on bounty work. This place is worth the risk.”
“There was a time when I didn’t think so. I had to get away for a while.” His blue eyes were intense as he looked at her. “I don’t think I could leave it again. There is too much of me here now.”
“It shows.” She brushed the palm of her hand against his smoothly shaven cheek.
He captured her hand in his and slid an arm around her waist, pulling her hard up against him. “Know what I really want?”
Her brea
th caught, and she shook her head.
“I want to drag you inside the Lobster Shack, toss you on a stack of sailcloth, and do naughty, unspeakable things to you.”
She wondered exactly what he had in mind. Maybe they should consider making the trek to Weymouth tomorrow. What was one more day? She pulled her lower lip in between her teeth, glanced at the shack behind her, and then back to him.
“You’re picturing it, aren’t you?” He leaned in close, but stopped just shy of her lips. “Imagining the…possibilities?”
He had whispered the words, his breath warm against her lips. Her knees wanted to melt as her mind conjured up the fantasy. He laughed softly from deep in his chest. “We could make tonight memorable in more ways than one.”
Then he straightened, just like that. No follow through on the kiss his nearness promised, no release for the sudden hammer in her pulse. She realized that he just liked to torment, and she wasn’t going to stand for it. Not this time. She’s learned a thing or two since that night in Boca Chica.
She put her hands on his chest and shoved. “You are a tease, Mr. Kane.” He took a half step back, and she followed. “You like driving me crazy, don’t you? You do it on purpose.”
He had the nerve to grin. “I dreamed up a half dozen ways during breakfast alone.”
“No you didn’t,” she scoffed. “You were eating pancakes.”
“I can multi-task.”
She glared at him. “If you think for even one minute that—”
Finn placed a finger against her lips, effectively silencing her. “You've no idea how much I'd love to stick around and explore that wild look in your eyes. But we have places to go.”
How did he do it? Both infuriate and inflame at the same time. What happened to her willpower? Her determination? He was ruining her...one kiss, one suggestive glance at a time.
“Rain check?”
Her mind said bad idea. Every other cell in her body melted.
* * * *
In the span of two hours, Chloe and Finn drove from Connecticut through Rhode Island and into Massachusetts on the I-95. The closer they got to Quincy, the worse the traffic became. While Finn navigated his Ford Explorer through the maze of highways and city streets as they turned south for Weymouth, Chloe used his iPad to research the Newbridge Botanical Society Museum.
“Eighty acres of botanical splendor that is both functional and ornamental, Newbridge Botanical gardens counts its roots among the oldest in Massachusetts,” Chloe read from the webpage. “A spectacular collection of biologically diverse landscapes, nature trails, and water features open to the public from May to mid-October.”
“What does it say about Desmond?” Finn asked.
Chloe scrolled through the web pages and found a brief mention. “Nothing that we don’t already know. Land was originally two hundred acres, owned by William Desmond, a reclusive Englishman who settled in Weymouth in the early eighteen-hundreds. And it mentions how the mansion was in such a bad state of disrepair that it couldn’t be saved.” She scrolled a little more. “Huh. This is new. A photographer recorded every inch of the house and every stage of demolition, a historical record they now share with libraries and museums. They didn’t have that when I was there before. It might be helpful to take a look at the pictures.”
Finn turned into a wide driveway that cut through a stand of trees and opened into a generous parking area. “They preserved the gardens, obviously.”
“And expanded them to create one of Massachusetts’ premier parkland destinations.” Chloe clicked off the tablet and stashed it back in its case as Finn parked close to the main entrance.
Chloe climbed out and stretched, trying to bring life back into stiff muscles. She still ached from the insanity of the last few days, but she’d rest later after this was over. She glanced around at blue sky and sunshine, thick summer landscapes, and old growth trees. “This place is beautiful, even from the parking lot,” she said. She shivered in the warmth, as if she’d just walked over a grave. The odd feeling gave her goosebumps, and she rubbed her arms. No one knew where Desmond had been laid to rest, no record existed. But here she was, walking the same ground he had, breathing the same air. It felt like the two-century difference was a mere blink of an eye, cosmically speaking.
A manicured walkway led the way beneath an expansive stone columned portico that they followed to the main entrance and inside. Sunlight flooded the graceful interior from a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows at the far end. There were colorful wall displays of flora and fauna, stunning nature photographs, and decorative banners detailing coming attractions. It all combined to give the lobby a warm and welcoming vibe.
Finn paid the entry fee, and they channeled through yards of white chain into another chamber, one that housed a gift shop, museum, and a wing of administration offices. Finn slipped into the gift shop and bought a map of the grounds before they headed outside into the late June sunshine.
They roamed through several walking paths, each filled with cleverly designed botanical displays. Any other time, Chloe would have spent hours enjoying the color soaked landscapes and koi ponds. But today they had another agenda.
Reward is a folly below ground. She led the way to the gazebos she remembered and confirmed that they’d only been added in the last twenty years or so. The garden map Finn bought displayed miles of twisting walkways, horticultural wonders, ponds, and exhibitions. It would take hours to explore them all. “This isn’t going to work,” Chloe said. “There’s too much ground to cover. Time to activate Plan B.”
“I didn’t know we had a Plan B.”
“We do now. How about we find a docent? They always have the inside scoop.”
They meandered back toward the main building and, once inside, asked around until they ended up at the workstation of one Esme Parker, the Grande Dame of Newbridge Botanical Society.
“May I help you?” Pearlescent framed glasses hung from a beaded chain around her neck, and her short, silver hair flipped up in places as though windblown.
Chloe took the lead. “My name is Chloe Larson, and I’m a museum librarian at Cambridge University.”
“Why that’s wonderful, dear. We’re always delighted to have fellow institutions visit us. What brings you to Newbridge?”
“For several years I’ve been working on a family lineage project and have discovered a connection to William Desmond.”
Surprise widened Esme Parker’s eyes. “Such a sad story. Sailing to America alone with an infant daughter. Mr. Desmond never married all the years he lived here in Weymouth. Something about a broken heart.”
“So true,” Chloe said with a sigh. “I’ve read that he was in love with the Prussian queen. A romance that stood no chance.”
“Prussian, you say?” The docent’s brows drew together. “Are you certain we’re talking about the same man? Mr. Desmond hailed from England.”
“Absolutely. He was a minor son of British nobility, but came to Weymouth from Prussia after serving Queen Louise during the Napoleonic Wars.”
“How fascinating.” She set a stack of books down on a side counter and turned back to them. “You really must share some of that research with us.”
“I’d be happy to,” Chloe said. “That’s also why we’re here today, tracing William Desmond’s steps, so to speak. It truly breaks my heart that his mansion no longer stands.” Chloe’s hand covered her heart, as though to keep the pieces from falling away.
“Oh dear, I completely understand,” Esme said with grandmotherly sympathy. “I might have something that can help.” She stepped over to a bookcase and pulled an oversize volume from the shelf. “Before they tore it down, we took extensive photos of the place for historical research purposes. You may look if you’d like.”
Esme set the heavy book on a library table and opened it. Chloe and Finn pored through the pictorial record of Desmond’s home, but the deeper into the album they got, the harder it was for Chloe to t
urn the pages. Her heart squeezed at the deteriorated beauty of the old mansion. Broken leaded glass windows, graffiti-covered walls, and a circular staircase with a decorative balustrade destroyed. Time had not been kind, and it saddened her to see its fate, a party place for teenagers and vagrants. William Desmond deserved better than that.
“Did any other structures survive?” Finn asked.
“Not really,” Esme replied. “There are a few garden features that remain and an old stone gazebo at the outer edge of the property, but the public isn’t allowed back there anymore. A heavy flood many years ago made the land hazardous and overgrown.”
Chloe and Finn exchanged glances, and he brought out his gift shop map. “Can you show me where the house once stood?”
“Of course!” Esme slid her glasses on and looked closely at the map. “Here.” She pointed to an area several leagues away from the museum. “It’s now the Homestead Garden. You can still see parts of the old foundation, and they left the kitchen chimney.”
“What about the gazebo?” Chloe asked.
Esme’s finger slid to the northwest corner of the property where a narrow inlet from the Massachusetts Bay reached deep into the land. “Hard to say exactly, but it sits back here somewhere. I’ve never seen it. And to my knowledge, no one has been back there in years. Occasionally there’s talk of restoration, but the work would be extensive and funds just aren’t there for that sort of project.”
Chloe turned several more pages in the album until she reached the section where bulldozers were tearing down the walls. She didn’t want to see the destruction and closed the book.
“You’ve been very helpful, Ms. Parker,” Chloe said as she stood and readied to leave. “We appreciate your time.”
“Absolutely, my dear.” Esme pulled off her glasses. “You know, it’s odd, but you are the second person today to ask about the old house.”
Chloe turned back, intrigued. “Really? Do you know who?”
“I don’t recall, but he wanted to see land deeds and had to sign a log to access historical documents.” Esme led them to an oversize antique mahogany desk in a corner and slid a massive tome to the edge, opening it to a marked page. “It should be the last entry.”
Emerald Fire Page 22
