by Helen Karol
“Why don't we find a shaded cafe and have a cool drink," suggested Stephen.
Everyone assented and they walked along the wharf, Claire falling into step beside Stephen, behind Andrea and Julian, who still held Marcie in his arms. She hardly heard Stephen's comments welcoming her back so engrossed was she in observing Julian's dexterity with the child.
She turned to Stephen, who'd taken his pipe out of his rumpled pants pocket and was now fishing through his nondescript shirt for a light. She offered him the matches she'd picked up at lunch and wondered, for at least the hundredth time, what this quiet, faintly absent-minded man ever had in common with Andrea. There had to be something. They'd been married for twenty-eight years and, according to all reports, extremely happily.
Declining to further explore this mystery, she returned to her previous source of amazement. "Julian seems to know Marcie very well."
"Oh yes, they get along famously. Course, he's the same with our other boys' children. But I must admit I think Marcie's his favorite, being the only girl." He puffed on his pipe and then continued. "He's fond of the children; pity he doesn't have any of his own. Susanna couldn't," he added by way of explanation and then coughed, wondering if maybe he shouldn't have mentioned Susanna, vaguely remembering Andrea saying something about Julian being in love with Claire. Or was it Claire? Perhaps it was some other girl. He hoped so.
Julian kept Marcie beside him throughout the time they spent at the cafe, sitting her on his knee and playing numerous games Claire half-remembered from her own childhood. He seemed to enjoy Marcie's company better than anyone else’s at the table. He wiped her hands and face with a napkin and when the waiter informed them they didn't usually make the Shirley Temple Marcie requested, he slipped him a large tip and the drink was duly supplied.
Observing Marcie, she told herself it was hardly surprising, she really was a very enchanting child. It was just that she'd never thought...Julian and children? With a rueful smile, she realized this was yet another time in less than twenty-four hours that she’d seen him in a startlingly different light. She thought there was always something quite touching about a man with little children, especially a little girl. The fact that the man was Julian for some unfathomable reason seemed to make it doubly touching.
She looked across at him and their eyes met, the expression in his revealing that he’d guessed her thoughts and that they caused him both amusement and pleasure. The look was broken as Andrea commanded their attention.
"Julian, I know you had no intention of accepting my invitation for Sunday's get-together, but now that Claire's back I really must insist you bring her. "Turning to Claire, she smiled in her best den-mother fashion and said. "You really must get into the thick of things at once, Claire."
Then removing Marcie from Julian, in a manner greatly admired by all, whereby at no point did the little girl come in contact with her elegant person, she swept off with Stephen following in her wake in a slightly bemused fashion. Julian and Claire took one look at each other and burst out laughing.
"She never changes, does she?"
"Nope. I hope she never does." Julian admitted.
"Really? I have to admit I find her a bit irritating at times."
Julian smiled. "I know what you mean. She used to make me feel like some waif Susanna adopted and then later became her responsibility."
Claire couldn't help laughing at the ridiculous comparison. "I trust she doesn't make you feel that way anymore."
"No. It took me a while, but eventually I realized she treated everyone that way and then it didn't bother me." He paused and then added thoughtfully. "She may delight in appearing thoughtless, but she actually has a great deal of common sense."
Claire didn't comment, inwardly disagreeing with him. However in the not too distant future, Claire would find that she was wrong, and would be glad of the fact.
The rest of the afternoon was spent wandering around the various boutiques and later they drove up the Pacific Coast Highway and ate dinner at one of the restaurants overlooking the ocean. That night, as Claire tumbled into bed, it occurred to her that she'd not thought of Richard even once since breakfast.
The next morning, Claire didn't go for a swim, dressing completely before joining Julian for coffee at the breakfast bar. Unsettled by the comment he made yesterday about the house and the seriousness of his intentions suggested by it, Claire decided that a truce until she was surer of her own feelings was a good idea. She'd abandoned her seduction tactics completely. That was probably why she backed off a little when he reached up from his stool beside her and took the strands of her hair between his fingers.
"You have beautiful hair. It's like gold in the sun and silver in the moonlight."
She was touched by the poetry in his words and told him softly. "Imagine all these years and I didn’t know you were a romantic."
His eyes deepened as he smiled at her. "In that case you'd be surprised to hear why I was upset when I saw you’d cut your hair."
Intrigued, she asked him why. Leaning closer he whispered in her ear the fantasies he’d harbored. Her eyes sparkled at the information, and she teased him. "Not just a romantic, an incurable romantic."
He accepted her teasing good-naturedly and then asked her. "What about you Claire, no romance in that sophisticated, mature soul of yours?"
Claire considered. "Well, I was a very romantic teenager. I used to dream of love at first sight. All teenagers do until they grow up and discover it's a myth." Her tone was light, but it held a trace of disillusionment.
"It's not a myth, just rare."
Claire understood his meaning and said with a trace of envy. "It must be nice to have had the perfect romance."
"Complete with tragic ending."
And all envy left her, although his voice was devoid of cynicism or bitterness.
There was silence until Julian took her hand in his. "Love at first sight isn't the only way to fall in love. Sometimes it grows slowly, but it can still be romantic."
He brought her hand to his lips before letting it drop and then moved around the breakfast bar into the kitchen. Claire joined him and they prepared breakfast together, their movements familiar and comfortable. Once prepared, they carried the meal to the nook and ate companionably. Discussing various topics and passing pleasantries the meal seemed no different from the hundreds of meals they’d shared in previous years.
Yet it was. Intensely different.
Claire was subtly aware of the aura of difference throughout the meal. Now she looked out through the window to where Julian stood on the deck where she'd shooed him insisting on cleaning up alone. He was turned partly towards the ocean, so she'd a three-quarter view of him. He raised his coffee mug. As he bent his head to drink, the sea breeze caught at the front of his hair gently playing with his fringe.
A wave of tenderness washed over her. Smiling, she carried the dishes to the dishwasher, looking back at him as she loaded it. Suddenly she felt new again. All the feelings of the past weeks slipped from her. The soul-searching. The indecision. She felt the same way she felt when she stepped off that plane in New York three years ago. As if she stood on the brink of discovery.
*****
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Excerpts from books by Helen Karol
Boston. Saturday 29th June. Craig Gold Legacy Memorial Ball
“Oh, girlfriend, that beautiful man wants you, bad.”
As usual, Terri has no brain to mouth filter. I throw her a warning glare and continue polishing the glass in my hand as we stand behind the bar. I feel weird because we're wearing cocktail dresses like the other women, only we're caught between the guests and the help. We're volunteering as sorority pledges at the charity event in order to flesh out our law school scholarship applications.
“Making the dean’s list isn’t enough, these days,” our advisers tell us. “The awarders want to know you c
are.” So here we are. Caring.
And me being wanted.
I want to tell Terri that she's wrong. That the dangerous, urbane, gorgeous, sexy man one hundred feet across the enormous ballroom does not want me. That he's actually oozing magnetism and pheromones at some other poor prey. But I know I can’t because she's privy to the fact that he's told me that he does.
He was very matter of fact about it. He just stood across from me, an acceptable distance between us, and told me in a confident, hungry demand. Like he was asking for the specialty dish of the house. I imagine that's a fair comparison. I appeal to his appetite and he needs to satisfy the craving. I'm still desperately trying to convince myself that I'm immune and will not be the latest item on Leo Gold’s menu.
“Only because he can’t have me.”
“Oh, sweetie, he can have you. He knows it, you know it, I know it - hell, this whole fucking room knows it.”
“Shut. Up. You are an utterly useless friend. You're supposed to be supporting my resistance.”
“Well you know me, I’m never one for lost causes.”
I become silent. I radiate disapproval and hurt feelings, hoping to make her feel guilty. I realize it's working when she starts polishing glasses along with me and speaks in a sulky voice.
“Ok. So why is it we're resisting him? Oh yeah, he’s gorgeous, rich, intelligent and hot with bad boy charm. What’s to resist?”
“He’s young enough to be my s...” I offer a plausible excuse.
“Oh no, don’t you dare finish that. No way were you capable of breeding at eleven. You know age doesn’t matter these days and he doesn’t know you’re older than he is. But even if he did, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t care.”
“I guess.” I grumble, part of me resenting the lack of secrecy having a best friend you share almost everything with creates. Almost everything, because I can’t tell her the real reason I must hold this beautiful man at arm’s length. That is classified.
Terri knows my real identity and age. FBI approved, she's briefed on the protocols of having an undercover cop as a best friend. I'm briefed on how much I can tell her. It's never all the details of my true assignment. She treats each of my new cases as her own personal romp. In this latest adventure, she thinks I'm undercover investigating the recent rash of sorority hazing. She has no idea that my real target is Leo Gold.
My ability to consistently pull men over ten years younger, is proving useful with that assignment. At thirty, Leo Gold has entered a later decade than any of the men I‘ve hooked up with over the past five years. He also has this uncanny ability to make me feel as if I'm the much younger one. Not to mention that his seductive combination of dominant sexuality and sensual tenderness is making it harder and harder for me to resist him.
I swallow, watching while he excuses himself from the group he's with and moves across the room towards me. I look down, but it’s no use. I'm achingly aware of him throughout the whole interminable time it takes him to slowly make his way over to stand in front of the bar. I ignore him for several minutes and he says nothing. Finally, I look up into his classically sculpted features, unable not to. God, I hate that I'm unable not to.
He smiles, slowly, wickedly satisfied that his patience works and he's able to make me raise my head without a word. I try not to notice how luscious he looks. He's so close that his 6’ 2” height and proportionate breadth block out my view of the room and the deep charcoal suit against the silk grey of his dress shirt echoes the dark, smoky hue of his eyes. The silk gold of his loosened, slightly askew tie highlights his thick, dark gold hair and enhances the effect of the myriad gold flecks in his dark pupils. Those spooky, highly unusual eyes fascinate me and in some of my dreams he's a were lion and he simply carries me off to his lair.
I shake myself. Resist. Resist. I chide.
He moves to the side of the bar and holds out his hand in invitation. I look away and shake my head not trusting myself to speak, not sure my mouth is in tune with my brain. When I fail to take his hand, I sense his exasperation. He growls my name under his breath. A sound that has the humiliating effect of making me instantly wet.
The growl deepens. “Dance with me, Raisa.”
When I defy him, he takes my hand and places his other hand on my hip to firmly command my obedience. I don’t resist. I can’t risk a scene and he knows it.
He leads me ahead of him to the dance floor. The heat of his hand in mine and on my hip makes me tremble. I'm glad that his strong body is firm behind me, supporting me, stopping me from stumbling. I panic because in seconds, he'll hold me close in his arms. With every new encounter, each new time he holds me, the temperature between us increases and I'm terrified that this time I just might combust.
He senses my panic and gathers me softly against him. It's a slow, jazzy piece, the kind where you just sway in each other’s arms. His hand is at my nape, firm against me, a pulsing heat filtering through from his touch to my moist skin, despite the thickness of my hair. Even in five-inch heels, I only reach the top of his chest and he cradles me against him, soothing me with his fingertips moving in slow, sensual circles over my back. It's okay I tell myself. I can handle this. Until he places a soft kiss on the top of my head.
It's then I remember. Then I want to call triumphantly across to Terri. “See. See. This is why. This is why we’re resisting him.” Not because the age gap unnerves me. Not because he's my undercover target in an investigation by a federal special task force. Not even because he makes me sopping wet with simply the sound of his voice. No. None of those is the reason. There is only one reason and it's quite simply that I'm petrified that if I allow myself to get any closer to this man, I may melt deep, deep into him and very probably disappear.
Read the first episode of Intimate Knowledge or buy the boxed sets here
“Wow! A vintage Mustang. Nice.”
My best friend, Lisa walks around the classic car parked inside my neighbor, Rick’s, boathouse. She looks back over her shoulder at me, Rick and his best buddy, Luke. She's staying with me for the weekend and has her eye on Luke. I imagine she'll be successful. He was the one who suggested we share a taxi back from the Saturday town dance and was insistent we come in for a drink before we head back to my little bungalow. He's visiting from Boston for the weekend, but he and Rick are close enough that he's comfortable making free with his friend’s hospitality.
Lisa looks back at the car and then gives Rick a questioning look. “68?”
“You know your cars.” Rick is impressed, Lisa has quadrupled in his estimation. He loves that car. It's his pride and joy to be guarded fiercely. I’ve first-hand knowledge of that fact.
She walks around to the front of the car. “You restore it yourself?”
Rick nods.
“Mmm, wow, classic chrome bumper. Original?” She bends to get a better look.
Rick nods again. He doesn’t look at me as he flicks the light to aid her admiring inspection.
Promising numerous minor gods my first born, I desperately pray she won’t notice.
“Oh, too bad about the dent.” She notices.
I groan inwardly. Of course, she notices, everybody does. Why the hell doesn’t he just get it fixed?
Because he likes to see you squirm over it, of course, why else?
Too many margaritas from Mexican Night at the community center make me belligerent and too full of bravado. “It’s not really a dent, more of a little ding.” I claim recklessly.
He looks at me then. Expecting dark, stormy recriminations, I'm surprised to see what suspiciously looks like a quirk of his lips. My eyes fly up to his, but they're bland. They're devoid of amusement and there's no hint of annoyance. He must have had a shitload of margaritas of his own to be acting this magnanimous.
He flashes Lisa a smile and what might be a hot look. My stomach sinks when it dawns on me that his mellower mood could be attributed to more than the margaritas. Lisa, my best friend since we were in law school together, is very
, very sexy, especially when she's putting on the moves like she is now. I thought it was Rick’s cop buddy from Boston homicide, Luke Kincaid, she was interested in. I fight a sick feeling that, my neighbor and nemesis, Detective Rick Andrews of the Lake Andrews Sheriff’s Department, might now be the lucky man on her radar.
“How did it happen? Why not get it fixed?” She asks him.
I gulp, willing the lake to have an unexpected tsunami or perhaps a dark monster a la Loch Ness to distract them. It's all I can do not to yell at Lisa and drag her off to my small but increasingly, inviting abode next property over, well the only property over. My little patch by the lake and Rick’s sprawling land and comfortable lake house are the only inhabited properties on the south side of Lake Andrews. I'm terrified that if I don’t get her home soon, he'll volunteer the story.
I hold perfectly still and then relax when Rick decides not to go there. He shrugs.
“That’s a story for another time. I’ve got used to it. Fixes never work on originals. It would never be quite the same. Keeps it more authentic, I guess. Besides, nothing should be flawless, right?”
Tilting his head, he melts her with that grin and hot chocolate gaze of his. I swear I can see Lisa’s knees buckle. I don’t like this. I tell myself it's because I don’t think they're a good combination, but I know that’s not true.
I am jealous.
I'm shocked at the white-hot heat of my jealously as it sears through me. I turn and walk down the dock straight to the water’s edge. Rocking a little drunkenly on the end of the wooden pathway, I lean forward and peer into the midnight black depths of the lake. Rick stiffens, Lisa no longer has his attention. He may be flashing sexy grins at her, but he's as intractable as ever with me.
“Get back from the end of the dock, Sara.” He growls at me without ceremony.
“Now.” He adds sharply when I don’t immediately react.
He lets out a frustrated breath and moves rapidly towards me when I still fail to obey him. Picking me up by the waist, he carries me along the length of the dock and deposits me in the redwood swing seat on the lawn.