by Moriah Jovan
“You could put a lock on it.”
“Mr. Rorys, my inn is a respite from work. There are no phones, no TVs, no computer room, no gadgetry of any kind, not even clock radios—for a reason. People come here to rest and relax the old-fashioned way. It’s not one of the services we offer to guarantee that our guests don’t work.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. His mouth pursed.
She gently wrapped her arm in Mr. Rorys’s elbow and snuggled up against him while guiding him slowly out the door, down the stairs to the driveway where his packed car stood running, waiting for him. A valet held the car door open. “Perhaps Whittaker House is not up to providing the services you need? I would completely understand if you find us not to your standards and choose not to return.”
By that time, she had snuggled him all the way around his car and handed him in.
“My dear,” he purred. “You are vicious, aren’t you? Yes, it was my own fault. Happy now?”
Vanessa flashed him a mischievous grin. “Bless your heart.”
He drove away after kissing the back of her hand and promising to return after all because he couldn’t resist her.
Eric had stopped at the edge of the porch and leaned against the post, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched her work that charm, that graciousness. It amused her to play such games, to get the result she wanted with as little effort as possible.
The afternoon dragged as one thing after another kept Eric from hauling her back to her cottage and making love to her, as she’d warned him. He could even give her credit for casting him frustrated and apologetic glances when the crises piled up.
There was no bartender—Vanessa had fired him last week.
The concierge was gone—Eric had thrown her out.
Knox had left—to do Eric a favor.
He couldn’t complain that Vanessa was too hounded to spend the afternoon in bed with him.
At four, he decided to handle some of these matters himself. Management was management, and he’d managed people since he was a teenager managing the feed store. Then he’d shown up at the Chouteau County prosecutor’s office fresh out of law school to manage Knox. If a Whittaker House problem didn’t involve food, he intercepted the messenger.
The staff looked at him strangely, hesitant to tell him anything at all, but he asserted authority as if he had some, and took over. In half an hour, he had them coming to him directly, and the thing they learned to say first was, “It’s not about food.”
Eric copied Vanessa’s style in telling another workaholic guest to go to hell when she demanded her money back. He had her flirting with him by the time she drove off.
He dealt with a housekeeper’s childcare issues.
He found that a waitress, pressed into service as bartender, was about to fall down from hunger, and sent her to the kitchen for food. He mixed customers’ drinks from the Whittaker House recipe book, and grinned to himself when presented with one particular order. He carefully prepared a sterling silver tray with two shots of absinthe, two drip spoons, sugar cubes, and ice water.
He interviewed the two bartender candidates, who’d shown up on time, though Vanessa was nowhere to be seen. He hired both of them for different shifts, offering them salaries he thought might be a little high. It took some doing for him to find the appropriate forms, but he couldn’t help that all the file cabinets in the room looked like fine furniture. When he asked if either could start right then, they were both shocked, but one—Yolanda—was absolutely delighted. He sent her off to the bar to mix orders. He’d help her deal with the tabs later.
He was stopped by a guest or two (since he was dressed in a suit on a Sunday evening, he must be official) to answer questions and chat.
Eric hadn’t seen Vanessa once all afternoon and into the evening, but he was so busy that he forgot about his goal of getting laid before nightfall.
Then it was dinner time for the regular guests and shift change. He wasn’t quite sure how shift change was supposed to happen, but there was a protocol list in Vanessa’s office that he compared to what he observed the staff do. Occasionally, he asked questions as to why something was done in a certain way.
He went back to the bar and sorted tickets. He figured out Vanessa’s system, such as it was, pretty fast with the help of the waitress he’d relieved earlier, who was thrilled that she didn’t have to tend bar anymore.
Vanessa’s way of doing things was somewhat efficient, but incomplete, as if she’d been interrupted in creating a protocol and had never finished it. She expected her staff to cross-train in all positions so no one job ever went vacant, but often, stragglers didn’t know when to take over and when not. While looking for employment forms, Eric had found a to-do list—well, three of them—and a handful of sticky notes here and there. They were prioritized. Somewhat.
Not really.
For a single control freak running a 24/7 operation, it was about as efficient as it could be, but that left Eric a whole lot of room to improve.
A small family checked in and Eric found himself having to wing it completely, but at the point he began to feel overwhelmed with this process, Knox walked in with Mercy in his arms. It only took one look for him to assess the situation, then take over, training Eric the way he trained everybody to do anything.
Once that family was settled and on its way to the playground, Knox looked at Eric speculatively for a long moment, then said, “Management’s management.”
Eric nodded. “Yup,” he replied and walked off to take care of the next task.
The new bartender on duty signaled to Eric, and he ended up serving drinks to an older couple out on the veranda who were inclined to chat. So he did, graciously, attentively, and for quite a long time.
By 9:30 that night, Eric had doffed his jacket and tie, and rolled up his sleeves. He was back in Vanessa’s office sifting through résumés for concierge (most went into the shred bin) when Vanessa walked in about an hour later. She stopped short when she saw him there, lounging back in her chair, his feet up on her desk. He watched her as a series of expressions flitted over her face, none of which he could identify. He wasn’t sure there was a favorable one amongst them.
When had she started being able to hide her thoughts from him?
Suddenly he felt like an interloper. He took his feet off her desk and stood, uncertain what to do or say.
She swallowed and murmured, “I— You— Um, dinner—” Then she just stopped speaking and turned right back around, walking out again.
Like last night, he didn’t know whether to follow her or not. Last night, he’d decided Vanessa was a grown woman who spoke her mind. If she said she wanted to be alone, that was what she meant.
Shit.
Well, he was hungry, so he went into the kitchen hoping, but not expecting, to find Vanessa there eating. She wasn’t. Vachel sullenly moved over to allow Eric a chair that was convenient. Soon Eric was laughing and joking with the kitchen staff, though with some reserve because he couldn’t get the look on Vanessa’s face out of his mind.
Vachel finally stood, grabbed a couple of five-gallon pails, filled one with ice, and walked out the door into the night without a word.
“Where’s he going?” Eric asked.
“Check his crawdad traps.”
“Reeeeally.” He looked at a clock and was surprised to see it was eleven. He waited until the kitchen staff was gone then caught Knox in the middle of closing-down-for-the-night procedures, Mercy fast asleep in a bed of blankets. Knox only spoke to tell Eric what needed to be done next, and Eric did whatever he said without a word.
“Night,” Knox finally said. He gathered his daughter up in his arms and headed for the elevator.
“Night.”
Eric, left alone in a silent and deserted Whittaker House, looked around him in the dim light of the three reading lamps that were left on for insomniac guests. He went to the wall of books and found the Little House series, figured out which one to read first, and plopp
ed down on a sofa to begin reading.
“Eric.”
He knew that voice. He knew where he was. He knew that yet another night had passed without spending it burying himself inside Vanessa.
“What time is it?” he croaked without opening his eyes.
“Five-thirty.”
He licked his lips and smacked his tongue, trying to get rid of the cotton in his mouth. He opened his eyes slowly to see her in jeans, her beautiful brunette-and-blonde hair up in a ponytail. Her bright turquoise eyes had a trace of . . . something . . . in them he didn’t understand.
“Are you mad at me?” he asked warily.
“Not mad,” she murmured. “I’m sorry about last night.”
“No, I’m sorry. I can see how that must have looked.”
She gulped. “You worked hard yesterday. Why don’t you go to bed?”
“Will you come with me?”
“No. I have an appointment with one of my vendors this morning.”
He sighed. “Vanessa, if my being here is going to be a problem for you—”
“It’s not!” she gasped, those fabulous eyes wide. “It’s just— I’m— I’m having to think about— About some things I’d rather not think about. Please don’t go.”
He sat up then and patted the sofa beside him. She sat stiffly. “Vanessa, is every single day like yesterday?”
“Pretty much. Thank you for your help and for the new bartender.”
“Two new bartenders. One full time, one part time.”
At least this time he could read her surprise, but he didn’t know if it was good or bad. “How much did you pay them?”
He told her, expecting her to be annoyed if not downright angry, but she only nodded. “That’s not quite as much as I would’ve paid them, but if they work out, I’ll give them raises.” She paused. “What were you looking at last night?”
“Applications for a concierge. I told you I’d find you a new one, and I will. Most of the résumés were old or useless. I’m going to find a headhunter today.”
She said nothing and he looked at her, still trying to decipher her thoughts. Finally, she said, “I’ll make a list of the benefits I offer.”
“All right,” he said slowly. “Other than what’s on your to-do lists, what do you need done?”
Vanessa smiled slightly. “The staff will let you know. You apparently impressed everyone yesterday with your willingness to work and ability to manage crises.”
He shrugged. “Management’s management.”
Her smile was tight when she finally got up and strode away.
Eric dropped his head in his hands and wondered what he’d done to make her so upset. He thought perhaps he should have gone home last night after all. Being in court with half-assed preparation halfway through a case had to be better than a week of Vanessa being upset with him.
Now he didn’t care about making love to her.
He just wanted to make her smile at him—once—before he left.
* * * * *
29: Seed Wheat
“Vanessa, we’re heading home.”
Vanessa looked up from a table full of headless and skinless skunks to see Knox standing in the door of the butchery, snuggling a very tired toddler. “Okay.”
“If we leave now, we can get home in time for dinner, and Eric seems to have everything under control.”
“Thanks for everything, Knox.”
“You’re welcome. Vanessa—” She waited for whatever he was going to say, but he only pressed his lips together, shook his head, then sighed. “Never mind. Have a good week. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Vanessa breathed a sigh of relief once he was gone and waited until the SUV rolled past the butchery door before letting herself cry. She shouldn’t cry when wielding two-thousand-dollar scalpel-sharp Japanese knives, but—
Last night, when she’d walked into her office to see Eric lounging at her desk, obviously engaged in Whittaker House business, it had shocked her beyond belief. Oh, not that he had taken it upon himself to do so or that he’d made free with her files (she had nothing to hide), but because he looked so right doing it.
At that massive desk, in a halfway-unbuttoned dress shirt with no tie, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and in suit pants, working. To Whittaker House born.
Attorney general. Then governor. Then the White House.
She was a fool to think she could have a relationship with Eric Cipriani.
Vanessa picked up an animal and considered it carefully, focusing on the lines of the muscle. Once she’d decided on her approach, she placed it on the table and sliced.
What were Eric’s joys and pains? Besides karate and golf, what did he enjoy doing? What music did he listen to? Did he have any siblings? Did he have a faith? She knew his birth date: May 3, 1977. She knew his middle name: Niccolò. She knew his mother was Osage and his father an Italian immigrant who’d left soon after Eric was born. She knew his alma mater. She knew his politics.
She knew he wanted her, but he didn’t love her. How could he? He didn’t know her any better than she knew him. He didn’t know her likes or dislikes, her music, her beliefs, her philosophies. He didn’t know why the majority of her clothes were pink.
Skunk medallions, perfectly pan-fried, served with a side of caramelized turnips sliced paper thin and a spinach-and-zucchini mousse garnished with fresh peppermint. The success of the dish depended on how well she cut the medallions. Every carcass was different, and one slip of the knife could make a piece of meat unsuitable for anything but stew.
Giselle had given her the best sex education a girl could’ve gotten, and Vanessa had done such a good job following her advice that she’d thrown the possibility of love right out the window, and went straight for the sex.
Like a man.
If you want to have sex, wait and be very careful about who you choose. Do it sober, while you have your head on straight.
Sebastian had given her a magical initiation into sex, taking great care to please her and teach her, and her time with him had made her just that much pickier. Nash had given her pleasure and three years of comfortably distant, low-maintenance companionship.
Skunk stew was delicious, though, the perfect cold-weather dish, and one she could put together on Vittles easily enough.
As far as she could see, love just muddied up waters that didn’t need muddying.
So when did she start thinking about wanting love to go along with the sex?
Why did she feel so . . . addicted?
By dusk, the animals were in the freezer, the butchery clean once again and her paper coveralls pitched. She began to box up all those beautiful black-and-white pelts for the morning’s shipment.
“Aunt Vanessa?”
She turned at the sound of Vachel’s voice. She looked him up and down: buckskins soaked with blood up to his knees, a bow in his hand. “What’s up, Vachel?”
“Is Eric going to come live here?”
“No.” It broke her heart to have to say that. “Why?”
“He . . . works hard,” Vachel said slowly. “He’s nice. He doesn’t bitch. I— I respect him.” She blinked. Studied him. He looked at the ground and then off into the distance. Fidgeted. “Maybe he . . . Um, maybe he could come here?”
Tears welled in her eyes again. “Vachel, he— I—” She sniffled. Wiped her nose with the back of her hand and wiped it on her paper coverall. Sniffled again. “I want him to, Vachel. I do. But . . . he has his life mapped out and it doesn’t include me. Us. Whittaker House.”
Vachel’s mouth tightened.
“And we’re not leaving to go with him, even if he asked us to, which he has no reason to.”
Vachel gulped. Nodded. “Yeah.” He walked away and she heard the opening of a garage door. The next thing she heard was the roar of an ATV being started, revved, and then driven out and down the orchard, away from the main property west to fetch whatever animal Vachel had just dressed.
; The sun had set by the time Vanessa headed for the kitchen to grab a plate and take it to her office. Fortunately, Eric was not there, but she knew he was around and working because she’d spent almost an entire day in the butchery without one crisis to tend to.
She looked for and found one of her to-do lists and dug in to the tasks she’d neglected, but were no less important than anything else. She sorted, sifted, and filed for hours, and could do so, she realized, because of what Eric had accomplished.
It was one o’clock in the morning by the time she went back to her cottage, which was pitch black, as usual. She still hadn’t seen Eric and it wouldn’t surprise her if he ended up on the couch in the grand parlor again, reading Farmer Boy. She daren’t go check because this morning, he’d looked so wonderful, so . . .
Seventeen. What he should’ve looked like when he was seventeen.
She closed her eyes and, halfway up the stairs to her bedroom, she leaned against the chimney.
Seventeen: Standing in a courtroom in shackles, a much, much younger Knox Hilliard out for his blood.
Seventeen: Straight black hair halfway down his back, his olive skin tanned darker, his square face carved in high cheekbone and Roman nose and his height—his Osage heritage completely overwhelming the Italian as he got darker in the sun.
Seventeen: Bad attitude, swagger, cigarettes, alcohol, drugs, leather jacket, tight ripped jeans, a dagger earring dangling from one ear, black cowboy boots with silver toe detail that the girls at school whispered (with fear and excitement) was actually a retractable knife.
Seventeen: Only too easy to believe he could rape a thirteen-year-old girl if her sister didn’t know the truth and was willing to tell it.
No, she didn’t want to go find him there again, looking like the GQ version of seventeen-year-old Eric Cipriani.
Vanessa stepped out of her clothes and climbed into bed. She didn’t even know she’d been holding her breath or wishing anything at all until she felt Eric’s arms wrap around her—the thirty-three-year-old Eric Cipriani, the fledgling politician, the karate teacher, the born manager-entrepreneur with a good education and a soft spot for vintage cars, designer suits, and nice girls.
