by Lisa Kleypas
Her voice was muffled in the depths of the down pillow. “Trust me, there’s nothing old-fashioned about the way you do it.”
Jason smiled, pressing kisses at intervals along her spine. “Are you hungry?”
Her head lifted. “Starving.”
“We could call for one of the hotel’s master chefs to cook something here in the cottage.”
“Really?” Justine considered it. “But I’d have to put on clothes.”
“No, never mind. Let’s get room service.” He left the bed, hunted for a leather-bound menu in the dining room, and brought it back to Justine. “Order something from every column,” he said. “I missed lunch.”
“So did I.” She looked over the menu with evident pleasure. “You want me to order for you?”
“If you don’t mind.”
He stretched out beside her, content to watch her expressive face as she read. He loved the way she wore her feelings on the outside like a price tag she’d forgotten to remove. But even so, her motivations weren’t always clear to him.
His hand caressed her upper arm. “Justine.”
“Mmmn-hmmn?”
“Why did we just have sex?”
“You would rather have done something else?”
“No,” he said fervently, “but it was sooner than I expected. I was going to give you all the time and space you needed. I wouldn’t have said one word of complaint if you asked me to sleep on the sofa.”
“I realized that time is too important to waste.” Gently her finger traced the lines of his nose and mouth. “Even though a relationship between you and me is crazy and inconvenient and basically doomed … none of that matters. Because I love you anyway.”
Jason took her hand and pressed her fingers to his lips, and held them there.
“I’ve always believed love couldn’t be real if it happened too fast,” she told him ruefully. “That’s what makes this whole thing so confusing. You can’t just meet a person and know he’s the one … you have to spend time together, ask a lot of questions, observe him in different situations.”
Jason spoke through the screen of her fingers. “We did that.”
“For two days.”
“That’s not long enough?”
“No, falling in love should be a process. Not like a thunderbolt … there’s a French phrase for it … coup de something … coup de gras?”
“Coup de foudre,” Jason said. “A bolt of lightning. Love at first sight. A coup de grâce is when you deliver a death blow to someone. Which, for us—”
“Don’t joke about it,” she warned, covering his mouth firmly. When Jason fell obligingly silent, she removed her hand. “Aren’t you supposed to pronounce it ‘coup de gras’?” she asked. “In French, you leave the last letter off.”
“Yes, but the word is ‘grâce.’ A ‘coup de gras’ means a ‘blow of fat.’ As in death by bacon.”
Her stomach growled, and she grinned sheepishly. “I’m going to order a coup de bacon,” she said, and turned her attention back to the menu.
In a couple of minutes, she dialed the concierge and ordered several items off the menu, including a bottle of wine. As she considered ordering dessert, the concierge offered to send the ingredients for s’mores, to roast over the private fire pit.
She put her hand over the mouthpiece and asked Jason, “Do you like s’mores?”
He looked at her gravely. “It hurts my feelings that you would even have to ask.”
Grinning, Justine said to the concierge, “Yes to the s’mores.”
After Justine had set the phone back into the cradle, she told Jason, “I hope you’re good at roasting marshmallows…”
“I am.”
“… because I always burn them.”
“I know.”
Justine wrinkled her nose at him. “How?”
“Because roasting marshmallows takes patience.”
“Are you implying that I’m impatient?”
He walked his fingers along her sheet-covered thigh. “I’m stating it as a categorical fact,” he said, and she grinned.
Dinner had arrived by the time they had left the bed and showered. Justine put on a hotel robe and stayed in the bedroom while Jason, who had dressed in casual clothes, let the room service attendants into the cottage. They set out a feast of exquisitely prepared dishes, decanted the wine, and left discreetly.
“How does it look?” Justine asked, venturing out of the bedroom.
“Fantastic,” Jason said, his gaze taking in the sight of her in the hotel robe.
She smiled at him. “I meant the dinner.”
“The dinner, too.” He poured the wine and seated Justine at the table. They started with sun-ripened tomato slices drizzled with delicate green olive oil and flaked sea salt, followed by salads of crisp fennel leaves dressed with jammy slices of mission figs. Justine’s entrée was osso buco, rich braised meat melting off the shank. For Jason she had ordered a vegetable ricotta tart topped with pine nuts and slices of smoked Meyer lemon. It was seriously good food, the flavors so sublime that you would remember them later and be sorry if you hadn’t eaten every bite. They did justice to the meal, hunger tamping down all but the most necessary conversation until they were finally satisfied.
They went outside to sit by the fire pit, orange flames dancing against the darkness and warming the air pleasantly. Jason roasted a steady supply of marshmallows, each one perfectly golden, the toasted sugar-skins breaking to reveal melting white interiors. When Justine was too full to eat another bite, she went to Jason, took the skewer from him, and set it aside. “No more,” she said, sitting on his lap. “I’ve eaten so many marshmallows, I feel like a giant s’more.”
“Let me taste.” Having noticed a bit of fluff on her thumb, Jason took it into his mouth and licked off the sticky sweetness. “Perfect. I just need to layer you with chocolate.”
Settling back against him, Justine shivered pleasurably at the contrast of the fire and the cold night, and the sound of chilled Pacific waves against the shore. The hard masculine arms around her, the heartbeat at her back.
They were both quiet, relaxing deeply as warmth accumulated between them. An unfamiliar feeling stole through her. She realized it was joy, burnished with the bittersweet awareness of its transience. “I didn’t know happiness came in these flavors,” she said absently, her head on his shoulder.
“Marshmallow and chocolate?”
“And you. My favorite flavor.” She turned her face until her lips brushed his ear. “Do some people really get to have this for a lifetime?” she whispered.
Jason was quiet for a moment. “Not many,” he said eventually, and she didn’t complain even though his arms were a little too tight.
* * *
“Don’t you want to go sightseeing?” Justine asked late the next morning, in the aftermath of a leisurely lovemaking session that had begun with Jason kissing every inch of her body.
He stretched out at the foot of the bed to play with her toes. “I’ve been sightseeing you.”
“I guess your mother never told you to look with your eyes instead of your hands.” One of her sensitive feet jerked as he pressed a kiss to the arch. “No tickling! I’m declaring my feet off-limits.”
Jason caught her ankle in his hand, keeping her still. “You can’t. I’ve just discovered a latent fetish.”
“You have enough fetishes. You don’t need a new one.”
“But look at these feet.” He stroked the glossy surface of her big toenail, which was painted violet-purple-cream and adorned with a tiny pink bow decal. He bent his head, and Justine squeaked as she felt his tongue flicker into the space between her toes.
“Stop it,” she protested, yanking uselessly at her captured foot. “I’m not putting up with you and your … your foot-related perversions…”
“Podophilia.” Another wet little flick made her squirm and giggle.
“Wh-what?”
“The word for the love of feet.”
“You,” she said severely, “play too much Scrabble.”
“Insomniac,” he reminded her.
They went for a long walk on the beach, their feet sinking into sand as soft as talcum powder. Closer to the edge of the water, the flat terrain turned moist and biting cold. The tide had gone out fast, stranding a small constellation of spiny sand starfish. Spying the bleached white circle of a sand dollar, Justine picked it up and brushed away the sediment to examine the star shape of pinholes.
Jason had stopped a few yards away to look out at Glorietta Bay. Navy ships, tourist boats, and merchant vessels passed slowly beneath the arc of the two-mile-long steel girder bridge that linked San Diego and Coronado. Approaching him from behind, Justine slipped her arms around his lean waist and opened her hand to show him her find.
“What’s the plan for the rest of the day?” she asked against the back of his shirt.
Taking the sand dollar, Jason turned to face her. His eyes were concealed behind sunglasses, but his mouth held a relaxed curve. “The plan is to do whatever you want.”
“Let’s get sandwiches at one of those boardwalk shops, and go back to the cottage to take a nap. And then I’ll need some time to get ready for the cocktail party tonight.”
His mouth flattened into a hyphen. “I need to cancel that.”
“According to the schedule Priscilla gave me, you’re listed on the invitation as one of the hosts. And it’s for a cancer charity. So there’s no way you can cancel.”
“I’m considering faking an illness.”
“Tell them you have severe localized swelling,” Justine suggested innocently. “Tell them the only cure is to go straight to bed. I’ll vouch for you.” Giggling at his expression, she scampered coltishly along the beach, obliging him to follow.
After they had returned to the cottage and showered the powdered grit from their legs, Justine promptly dove into bed. Jason spent a few minutes sending texts and e-mails to business associates, and went to set the alarm to wake them in an hour.
He went still as he saw that the digital numbers on the clock were flashing.
12:00
12:00
12:00
For a moment he couldn’t breathe.
It happened all the time, Jason told himself. An interruption in power, or someone pressing the wrong button, a hotel maid forgetting to reset the clock. Nothing to worry about.
But he’d gone cold all over, his heart starting to slam. He went to the dresser, where he’d put his Swiss Army watch. The second hand had frozen. The watch had stopped at 2:15.
“Come to bed” came Justine’s dozy voice from among the heap of pillows. Jason was vaguely surprised he could hear her over the chaos of his thoughts. He forced himself to act normal, stay calm.
Shedding his robe, Jason slid in beside her and took her into his arms. She fitted against him bonelessly. “Did you set the alarm?” she asked.
“No.” His hand passed gently over the satiny river of her hair. “The clock stopped. Don’t worry—I won’t sleep for long.”
He wouldn’t sleep a wink.
“That’s weird,” Justine mumbled. “Did I tell you about the clocks at the inn?” She yawned again and settled more deeply against him.
Jason’s hand stopped in the middle of a caress. “What?” he asked softly.
She was quiet, drifting off.
“Baby, don’t go to sleep yet. What about the clocks?”
She stirred and made a protesting sound.
Jason fought to keep his voice gentle. “Just tell me about the clocks at the inn.”
“It’s no big deal.” Rubbing her eyes, Justine said, “A couple of days before I left, all the guest room clocks stopped working. It was strange because the wall clock in my cottage stopped working, too, and that one’s not plugged in. It runs on batteries.”
“Why do you think that happened?” Jason asked carefully.
“I have no idea. I’m going to sleep now.” She yawned hugely. In a couple of minutes her body had gone heavy and relaxed, and she was breathing deeply.
She’d said it had been happening for two days. Jason hadn’t noticed anything of the kind, until now.
His watch had frozen at a quarter past two … which was about the time he had met Justine in the lobby the previous afternoon, when she’d been about to check in.
What if the clocks had stopped not because of his presence, but because of Justine’s? A hideous thought came to him: Was it possible that when the longevity spell had been cast, the effect of the witch’s bane had somehow transferred to Justine?
A nightmare feeling unrolled over him in a chilling blanket.
A man’s most primal instinct—an instinct no less compelling than the need for food or sex—was to keep his woman safe. From anyone and anything. Horror consumed him as he realized that he not only might have failed to protect Justine … he might have set her death in motion.
Twenty-three
Jason was suffused with fury, directed exclusively at himself, for putting what he wanted—namely, Justine herself—above what had been in her best interests. He had tried to engineer the outcome he’d wanted, as if life were some damn game he was directing.
It was a mistake he would never make again. But it might be too late to correct.
Sweet Jesus.
This was what Justine had feared doing to him. This was what her mother and Sage and Priscilla’s grandmother and Bean had all suffered. Killing what you loved most. The devil knew how any of them had survived it.
He realized he had never truly been terrified of anything until now.
Over the past ten years he’d become accustomed to the idea of his own mortality. Although he had resolved to do as much as possible to prolong his life, he’d never allowed himself the luxury of imagining himself in the future, at an advanced age. But it was crucial, imperative, for Justine to have the life she was meant for. He would not be responsible for taking a single minute of it away from her.
Slowly he eased away from Justine’s slender body and left the bed. He dressed in the semidarkness, grabbed his phone, and went out to the patio. After closing the glass doors, he made a call.
He heard Sage answer. “Hello?”
“Sage,” he said quietly. “It’s Jason. Justine’s friend.”
“What a delightful surprise.”
“I’m afraid you’re not going to find it delightful after I tell you what I’ve done. Do you have a few minutes? It’s important.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Can you put Rosemary on the line, as well?”
Sage put him on hold and went to find her partner.
As Jason waited, he knew he was going to have to confess everything to the elderly women, including the fact that he’d borrowed … stolen … the Triodecad from Justine.
He rubbed his forehead with the pads of his fingers as if to erase the self-loathing thoughts. It was one thing to rationalize your actions in the privacy of your own mind. But when you had to explain your actions to someone else, they became a lot harder to justify.
He heard Rosemary’s voice. “Is there a problem with Justine?” she asked without preliminaries.
“Yes. I think she’s in danger because of me. I’m sure of it. I need you both to help me put things right.”
* * *
The private cocktail party was held at a penthouse suite of the convention hotel, while tournaments and demonstrations took place in the massive banquet rooms below the lobby. A floor-to-ceiling wall of glass revealed a view of the port’s Embarcadero redevelopment project, with pavilions, parks, and a waterfront promenade.
Justine felt comfortable in the unpretentious atmosphere of the party. The crowd consisted of San Diego locals and people in the video-game industry, all of whom seemed friendly and down-to-earth. Some were dressed in designer fashions, some in T-shirts and khakis. Justine was grateful to Zoë for having insisted on packing the little black dress—it was perfect for an evening like this.
&
nbsp; “I didn’t think I was going to be able to talk with anyone,” she told Jason. “I expected the conversation was going to be way too technical, or that people would be standoffish. But so far they’ve all been incredibly nice.”
“It’s usually that way at conventions,” Jason replied, smiling into her upturned face. “We all spend so much solitary time in front of the computer that hanging out with real people feels like we’ve been let out of the basement.”
A laughing young woman’s voice added, “It’s why I refer to my computer as my square-headed boyfriend.” The woman and two men, all of whom appeared to be in their twenties, had approached them.
“She refers to her actual boyfriend that way, too,” one of them said. His face was narrow and foxlike, his eyes bright with good humor. “I’m Ross McCray”—he reached out to shake Jason’s hand—“and these are my coworkers, Marlie Trevino and Troy Noggs.”
As they each shook Jason’s hand in turn, Marlie, a sturdy, rosy-cheeked blonde, said in a stage whisper, “We all work for Valiant Interactive.”
Jason regarded them speculatively. “You guys have a game scheduled for release next month. Shadow Justice, if I’m not mistaken. The buzz is good.”
The trio looked thrilled. “I’m a character artist,” Ross said, “and these two are programmers.”
“This is Justine Hoffman,” Jason said, sliding an arm around her shoulders. “A very close friend. She owns a bed-and-breakfast in the San Juans.”
“Cool,” Marlie exclaimed, shaking Justine’s hand. “Is this your first gaming convention? Take my advice—never go down to the meeting rooms completely sober. And do not, under any circumstances, sit in any of the beanbag chairs in the tournament room.”
For a few minutes Jason listened as the trio described some of the graphical problems that had delayed the game’s original launch date, and their worries over fans’ reactions about having to download a patch the first time the game was played.
“I wouldn’t worry,” Jason said. “If a day-one patch makes the gaming experience better, they’ll bitch for five minutes and then they’ll forget about it.” He looked down at Justine. “Can I get you something to drink?”