Lou reached for his hand. “I’m so sorry. You’ll have to talk to Chris, but you know that.”
“Yes. He’s mad as hell. It doesn’t jeopardize just our relationship—it’s this, all this.” He made a gesture around the room. “We’ve sunk our savings and our hearts and souls into this place, Lou.”
“I know.” She raised his hand to her lips and kissed it. “You’re one of the best people I know, Peter. Chris, too. Yeah, you’ve done damage, but you can make it good again. I know you can.”
“It’s just so damn depressing, Lou. Here I am, I’m fifty-two, and I’m still making the same damn stupid mistakes. I should know better. I should have kept my mouth shut. I should have suffered in silence.” He gripped her hand. “You and Julian, you did okay. I always thought of you as the ideal couple.”
“That’s funny. We always thought of you as the ideal couple. I still do. Keep the faith, honey.”
He released her hand. “Thanks.”
Lou, staring at the reflection of the candle in the windows, caught a sudden movement from outside. “Who’s out on the terrace?”
Peter turned. “Ah. It appears to be a madman, dancing by moonlight. Your madman, I believe. Go for it.”
She borrowed the candle and, following Peter’s directions, found a side door. Outside, the night was clear, the moonlight brighter than the flickering light of a single candle in a corridor paneled with dark wood, and she saw her madman dancing, apparently with his own shadow, on the terrace. He muttered to himself as he stepped and paced.
“One, two, three, four…” He referred to a slip of paper in one hand. “Set? Oh, yeah, set. One-two-three. Cast off…sounds like fucking knitting. One, two, three, four.”
Lou leaned against the balustrade and let herself enjoy the sight of Mac, painted by moonlight to silver and sable and ivory. The tails of his coat swished around his thighs. Tonight, he wore dark knee breeches and cream stockings that hugged his handsome legs. A lock of hair fell forward over his brow and he frowned and brushed it aside. He raised one arm—presumably to join hands with three other nonexistent dancers—and caught sight of Lou.
He stopped. “Congratulations. You’ve caught me indulging in solitary pleasures again.”
“Are you enjoying yourself?”
He stopped and peered at his slip of paper. “Damn. Lost my place.” He held out his hand to Lou. “Care to join me?”
“It’s easier with other dancers.” She took his hand. They’d both removed their gloves, and the touch of bare hands was an unexpected delight.
“Viv gave me the steps,” he said. “She said I should catch up, since I missed the lesson.”
“And it’s much easier with the music,” Lou said. “But I guess you should be commended for effort.”
“Thanks. Let’s take it from the top.”
They parted, danced toward each other, then away, weaved among imaginary dancers, and met again.
“Oh, hell,” Mac said, and slipped his arms around her waist, bringing her close to him. They slow danced together, thighs and hips bumping, counting forgotten. “Let’s go to bed.”
“With each other?” She tipped her head back to look at his face. That lock of hair had fallen forward again. She raised her hand to smooth it back into place.
“No, with half a dozen footmen. Of course with each other. Come on, Lou, don’t tease me anymore.”
“I haven’t been teasing you. Not much.”
“Sure. Ignoring me all night to talk to that paint geek.”
“That paint geek is one of the U.K.’s leading experts on Georgian-era paint color and restoration. I’ve wanted to talk to him for years, and I would have thought you would, too, for your article. Come on, Mac, it isn’t all about you all of the time. I can’t believe you’re serious.” She tipped her head back to see his expression.
“For what it’s worth, neither can I.” His eyes were dark, troubled.
Something screamed, far off in the direction of the trees. “What the hell was that?”
“Fox,” he said. “Just think, Lou, all around us, critters are screwing.”
“Or killing each other.”
His hand smoothed up and down her back. He tilted his hips at hers. “Nature’s a wonderful thing. Let’s get natural together, Lou. Like I said, it’s bound to happen sooner or later. I’d like it to be sooner.”
“And what if I want those half dozen footmen?”
“I guess it could be arranged. So long as I could watch.”
“So much for moonlight and romance.”
“You’re the one who brought up bringing in the help, Ms. Romance. Real thoughtful of you, but this time I won’t be needing any help.”
Sure enough, the erection pressing against her belly held the promise of being absolutely adequate. She made the decision, then. Was Paradise Hall responsible for her awakening, or was her desire for him an escape from her emotional winter—like the season itself, so long and cold and dark?
“You’re thinking,” he said.
“And that’s a bad thing?” She slid a hand from his lapel to the shirt ruffle above his waistcoat, absorbing the warmth of his skin. “I may be using you. Or, how about if I want more than just a quick vacation fuck? Or if you do?”
“Then we deal with it. We’re both adults. Let’s go inside.”
The candlestick she’d left on a shelf by the door flared, subsided and died as they entered the house, plunging them into velvety darkness. His warmth and scent, dampened linen, male sweat, engulfed her as their mouths met. This was wrong, the rational part of her mind told her, all wrong. He was far too possessive for a guy who wanted to get laid—and he could achieve that elsewhere, as she knew only too well. Why me? And the perfect dance of tongues and lips gave her the answer. His hand fumbled at the back of her gown and then moved to the front, freeing a breast and rasping his thumb over the nipple.
“Stop.” She pushed him away, afraid he’d strip her naked there and then, and that she’d do the same to him. “Wait until we get upstairs.”
“Which way?”
She took his hand and led him forward, the darkness fading a little as her eyes adjusted. Cool air washed over her exposed breast, tightening the nipple. She raised a hand to tuck herself back into the bodice of the gown.
“Leave it out,” he said in a low, lustful rumble. “I want it ready.”
A door stood ajar, letting in a little light, but only a very small amount, enough for her to see a steep set of stairs. Servants’ stairs, she was pretty sure, but going in the right direction, with another flight leading down into pitch-darkness.
“This way.” She lifted her skirts to ascend the stairs, and predictably his hands, hearing the slither of fabric, slid up her legs, stroking her thigh, cupping her butt.
He gave a low hum of appreciation.
“Not on these stairs. Too steep.” She spoke in a whisper, although she wasn’t sure why.
“Hold that thought, then.”
The stairs curved into pitch-darkness and ended. She spread out her hands to assess where they were and what sort of space they were in and almost screamed as her fingers and then her exposed breast brushed against warm skin. Mac? No, he was behind her and this felt different, smoother, scented with a clean soap smell, and was almost certainly a bared male chest.
“What—”
“Shit. Sorry,” the owner of the chest said in a whisper. Whoever it was released her and a faint greenish light illuminated Rob, wea
ring only a pair of boxers and holding a cell phone. They were standing on a landing, with the staircase going up the next flight. “Sorry,” he said again.
“What the fuck!” Mac moved forward, threatening, the alpha male.
“Shh!” Rob jerked his head toward a closed door.
A slow grin spread over Mac’s face. From the other side of the door came the unmistakable sound of a couple making love, a bed creaking, groans, panting. “We could be singing ‘God Save the Queen’ and I don’t think they’d notice.” He addressed Rob. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“She invited me to… Well, I thought she did.” Rob jerked his head toward the door. “There’s a hidden door to this room. But it’s locked. What are you doing here? This is the servants’ staircase.”
Lou leaned against the wall, overcome with giggles. Both Rob and Mac gave her curious glances, although Rob’s gaze fixed on her exposed breast. She pulled her bodice back up to cover it.
“Are you up for a threesome?” Mac asked. “Looks like they started without you.”
Even in the dim light from his cell, Lou could see Rob blushing. “I thought… Well, I’m not even sure what she meant, now. She said she’d need me later, whatever that meant. May I help you get back to your rooms?”
“Does every room have a hidden doorway?” Mac asked.
“Most of them. I’ll show you if you like. Not now,” he added, glancing away in embarrassment. “If you go up the next flight, there’s a door opening into the main corridor. You’ll know where you are then.”
He directed his cell phone to the staircase and gave a longing glance at the doorway.
“Is it Sarah?” Lou asked.
He nodded. “Good night.”
He brushed past them and Lou noticed his hair was wet. Silly Sarah, leading the nice kid on like that. The sound of his bare feet pattering down the stairs died away.
“Well, come on.” Mac, who had been paying rather careful attention to the sound effects from the bedroom, grasped her arm and pulled her in the direction of the stairs. “Or do you want to go read Rob a bedtime story?”
“He’s sweet,” she said.
“Yeah, I noticed you checking him out.”
She ignored him. Chances were that after they’d had sex he wouldn’t be nearly as possessive. At least, she hoped not. He was in pursuit mode right now.
“So, Mac,” she said casually as they began the ascent up the stairs in pitch-darkness, “how are your relationships with exes?”
“Great. Her family invites me and my mom over for Christmas.”
Well, that didn’t sound like a stalker.
“And the other one travels a lot but lets me stay in her guest room when I’m in London—”
“We’re talking ex-girlfriends, right?”
“No, ex-wives. Now, the girlfriends—”
“You’ve been married twice?” she said as they arrived at the next landing. “What happened?”
“I was very young the first time.” He pushed open a doorway and they arrived in the upstairs hallway, which was illuminated by candelabra, and they were able to see each other again. “Think of it as me being road-tested.”
“Or housetrained. Whose room?”
“Mine.”
“Do you have protection?”
“Yes.” He stalked ahead and she followed after, trying to read his mood.
CHAPTER NINE
Mac opened one of the doors and bowed. He straightened and laughed. “It’s becoming second nature.”
“Inviting women to your bedchamber?”
“That’s first nature. I meant bowing.” He patted her shoulder. “Relax, Lou. Want a drink?”
She considered. She envied him his ease, his grace, as he slipped off his coat. A drink might help, but one thing was for sure—if she was going to go through with this, she wanted to be fully aware. Desire prickled in her breasts and belly but manifested outwardly as a keen nervousness. Thankfully he seemed only mildly amused and not offended by her sharpness.
Without waiting for a reply, he twisted a cork from an already opened bottle and poured two glasses of wine. He handed one to her and reached for a small framed picture of a child with unruly dark hair and a mischievous, gap-toothed smile, showing it to her without a word.
“Your daughter?” she asked.
“Yes. That’s Rosie. She’s five.” He beamed with pride.
“She’s cute.”
He replaced the picture on the dresser. Lou watched as he shifted gears again, switching from proud father to seducer, clinking his glass against hers. “Sit down,” he said. “You’re doing your nervous hover.”
“I do not do a ‘nervous hover.’ What do you mean by that anyway?”
He sprawled on the bed on one elbow, glass in that hand, and unbuttoned his waistcoat. “You know what I mean. Make yourself comfortable.”
She sat down on the bed. Nervous hover, indeed. She took a sip of wine. “Why did your marriages break up?”
He paused in unbuttoning. “This doesn’t really put me in the mood, Lou, but since you asked… Number one, we were both very young, still students. We grew up and found we’d grown away from each other. Number two, Jennifer, Rosie’s mom, got pregnant and I insisted we get married for practical reasons—she’s based in London, I’m mostly in the States. Jennifer and I get on real well, but then she fell in love with someone else. So we divorced. All very friendly. Her new husband’s a nice enough guy but I’m still Rosie’s dad.”
Waistcoat unbuttoned, he shrugged it from his shoulders and removed the neckcloth that he’d loosened earlier that evening. Lou found herself transfixed by the curl of dark hair that appeared in the placket of his shirt. He kicked off his leather pumps.
“You want to take your gown off?”
She shook her head.
“What’s on your mind, Lou?”
“I can’t believe I’ve spent almost all the time I’ve been here deciding whether or not to have sex with you.” She curled her fingers into his. “It’ll be my first time since…”
“It’s okay. I’ll be gentle.” He grinned. “I’ll be whatever you want.”
She leaned forward and kissed him. “You’re sweet, Mac Salazar.”
He stared at her in mock horror. “You sure know how to wreck a guy’s ego, Lou. This morning you tell me my sexual services were ‘very nice.’ You extract a confession about my ex-wives. Now you tell me I’m ‘sweet.’ You want a fuck or not? Because I can feel my balls shrinking by the minute.”
She glanced at the fall of his breeches where, contrary to his claim, no shrinkage at all seemed to be taking place. “I think you’ll manage.”
“We could always do each other’s toenails or something,” he grumbled, but with a hint of a smile. “So…you want to tell me about him?”
“Okay.” This was familiar ground for her. She felt she’d done nothing but tell the story, in tears, in disbelief, in anger, for almost a year now, in pieces as it unfolded. “His name was Julian. We were together for five years. Together in the sense that we both had jobs in different states and we spent a lot of the time on the phone, online, grabbing weekends together, spending vacations together, trying to get jobs nearer to each other. Then he got a tenure position and bought the ranch. So I moved in to write my dissertation. We got married.
“We put in a garden, started the summer jobs, cutting firewood for the next winter. We rode, hiked. It was fun. We talked about having kids,
planning a real future.”
She paused, remembering those days, the two of them making up for lost time, making the necessary forays out to look after the animals, then back to bed for hours and hours. Sheets wrinkled and sticky, dirty plates and mugs sliding onto the floor, the phone ignored, computers shut down.
She gave Mac the short version, the simple statement that he had died in a car crash in the fall. Nothing about the phone call, the terrifying request that she come to the hospital immediately. The long night of waiting, holding Julian’s inert hand in a room of blinking lights and the rhythmic hiss of the respirator. The meetings with the hospital staff, calling his parents, his sister, making the hardest decision of her life—when to turn off the respirator—and Julian making a journey so different from the two-hour drive home. He’d traveled beyond them all.
She’d come home alone to the ranch. Outside, the garden they’d planted together withered and died.
Now the hand of the living man curled into hers. “We’d been married just a few months.
“The boys—Peter and Chris—came over for the funeral even though they were going crazy with the renovations here. We scattered his ashes on the land, the same place we got married. I love him. I miss him. I want to tell him things all the time and then I remember he’s not here anymore.”
Mac raised a thumb to swipe a tear away from her cheek.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“No need to apologize.”
“I’m tired of crying. Tired of grieving. Tired of feeling like I’m only half-alive and drifting. He’s gone, and I came to Paradise, hoping I might find him here again. He loved the idea of what Chris and Peter were doing with the house. And although I feel better here than I did at home, Julian isn’t here. He’s gone. I’m having difficulty letting go.”
Hidden Paradise Page 9
