JAMES (7 Brides for 7 Brothers Book 6)

by Roxanne St Claire

  Instead, he stood staring at her like an idiot. “When?”

  “When is the tasting and luncheon? Not for a few hours. Would you like to go to town and shop? You haven’t lived until you’ve shopped in Positano.”

  He snorted. “No, I would not like to go to town and shop. I’m here to work, not shop.”

  “But we could have granita al limone, right on the beach. And wait until you see the porcelain and jewelry and so much leather. It’s beautiful!” She clapped her hands like she always did after a breathy exclamation. “Come on, I’ll take you there.”

  “On that motor scooter again? I don’t think so.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Bruno has a small car I’ll borrow if you’re scared.”

  “I’m not scared.”

  She lifted a dubious brow.

  “I am not scared,” he reiterated. “I am, however, the owner of a rather large business, and this is just one of many holdings and interests that demand my attention. I don’t have time to go riding around on a motor scooter shopping for porcelain.”

  She sighed. “Okay, suit yourself. But you aren’t meeting with Lorenzo today, and that’s that. So good-bye, then.” She backed up, slipping back behind the gate and reaching to close it in his face.

  “I hope you’ve arranged a way back down the mountain,” she added with a playful smile. “Because it would be very hot and tiring to walk.”

  “Just a second.” He grabbed the latch before it snapped. “I need to see Lorenzo.”

  “You can,” she assured him. “At the tour, tasting, and luncheon. I’ve saved you a seat.” She smiled. “Next to me.”

  He started to argue, then caught himself. What was wrong with him? He should be exploiting this advantage, not fighting it. Hadn’t his father taught him that in all business dealings? He could practically hear Colin’s voice now. Use what’s given to you and make it work for you, not against you.

  He could learn a lot about the business by watching them in action with a group. It could help him demand a higher price. And it wouldn’t kill him to have lunch next to her. She could tell him the ins and outs of the family, and he’d be able to share that with the new owners. But first, he’d get more information out of her and if that had to be on a shopping trip, fine.

  James put his hand over hers on the gate. “You win, lemondrop.”

  She inched back, surprised by the sudden change of heart. “I do?”

  “Yep. Town, shopping, lunch with the tourists, whatever the schedule, we’ll do it your way. Nice and slow.”

  A soft flush rose on her cheeks, making her even prettier. “Okay.” Her voice cracked…as if he’d called her bluff. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  The tourists had already invaded in full force, so the town of Positano was hot and crowded and a little chaotic. Kyra decided that just added to its charm, but James seemed to keep an invisible wall around himself as they threaded through the crowds and trotted down the legendary stone stairs called the scalinatella.

  She explained that the long, winding path and steps that snaked through the town and led to the beach were the subject of countless Italian folk songs, and he seemed fascinated by that but still more of an observer than a participant.

  He asked questions, mostly. Some as they’d descended the mountain by car, parked with the valet at the Eden Roc, and then more as they continued on foot. He’d asked about the town, the seasonal nature of the tourism, the best restaurants and hotels. Small talk, but plenty of it.

  All along the scalinatella down to the beach, he slowed to check the storefronts and stopped to look over the rooftops draped in carpets of bougainvillea, gazing at the cobalt water of the Mediterranean. But not like someone falling for the exquisite beauty of Positano. More like an art expert examining a piece to determine its value.

  Did the man have no soul?

  “Isn’t it pretty?” she asked, a little worried how he might answer.

  A smile curved the corner of his lips, and the hard line of his jaw softened under the dark shadow of whiskers he hadn’t shaved off this morning. “Pretty…full of tourists.”

  “Well, it’s early May, and the season is officially in full swing. But you can see beyond that, right?”

  “Tourists are good for the business,” he said simply.

  Of course. That’s what mattered to him. Not the history, flavor, color, or charm of this picturesque town.

  “Positano is the most incredible place on earth,” she said solemnly, as if telling him would sway him. “And I say that with the confidence of a person who has had her feet on every continent and some of the most remote places in the world.”

  He turned, studying her, analyzing this information like all the rest. “So, were you serious when you said you came for a visit and never left?” He started walking again, this time toward the pergola-covered stairs that led to the heart of the city—a pedestrian-only warren of tiled walkways lined with festive shops and shaded by flowers and fronds.

  “Yep,” she replied. “And in about two months, it will be the longest I’ve ever lived at the same address.”

  “Really?” He paused and lifted his sunglasses to search her face as if the statement was so preposterous he might catch her in a lie. But it was no lie.

  “I lived in San Francisco when I was nine for twenty-one months and six days. I’m going to beat that for sure.”

  “Why did you move so much? Parents in the military or something?”

  Before she could answer, a pack of tourists came right at them, forcing James and Kyra to pick a side. He took her hand and guided her to the right, around the people.

  The move was natural, keeping them from separating, but sent an unnatural thrill through her. His hand was strong, large, a little rougher than she’d expect from a pampered executive, and she didn’t want to let go.

  Apparently, neither did he, since they still held hands when the tourists passed and they were alone on the wide stone stairs again. Probably so they wouldn’t lose each other in the crowds.

  But that didn’t make it feel any less intimate.

  “Not the military and just one parent, my mother,” Kyra finally answered. “She was a business consultant who essentially was sent from company to company to work for a year, then move to another. We never lived anywhere more than a year or so.”

  He frowned a little. “That can’t have been a very stable upbringing.”

  “I had wonderful nannies,” she said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm. “But no home. At least, no single place I called home.”

  “Did you like that?”

  “I never knew any other life. We lived very well but very…temporary. My mother was a workaholic with a huge job that came with a lot of stress.” They lingered in front of a high wall of painted trays outside a ceramic shop, but instead of the bold colors and smooth porcelain famous up and down the Amalfi Coast, Kyra saw her mother. “She was a closer. Do you know what that is?”

  “Yes, I do.” He gave a dry laugh as they took a step into the open-air entrance of the store. “She went into companies to shut them down and fire people?”

  “Of course you know what that is.”

  “I use closers all the time,” he said, reaching to run a finger along a yellow and blue bowl painted with lemons and grapes.

  He did? Used them for…what?

  Despite the merciless May heat, a chill danced up her spine. Was that why he’d come to Villa Pietro? To close it? And then the Sebastianis would be like all of those people crushed by the stroke of her mother’s pen.

  “Would you like it?” he asked.

  To see her beloved family lose the winery? “No.”

  He inched back, the bowl in his hand. “Oh, okay. I thought…” He put the bowl down. “I thought you wanted to shop, and I wanted to get it for you.”

  Her heart tugged a little at the unexpected kindness. “Why?”

  He seemed a little perplexed by that, looking at the tray, then her. “I guess it re
minds me of you, lemondrop.”

  She felt her cheeks warm as she looked up at him, studying his face as he did the same thing to her.

  The chatter of tourists around them was suddenly drowned out by the unexpected thump of her pulse, and the scents of citrus soap and fresh basil from the pizzeria nearby drifted away. All the colors of Positano faded as she looked directly into bottomless brown eyes that pinned her to one place.

  And for that one crazy moment, all Kyra could think of was how much she wanted to kiss him.

  “Lemons,” she managed, “are the official symbol of the Amalfi Coast. You have to taste the granita. Would you like some?”

  “You know what?” He put a warm hand on her bare shoulder, his fingers strong and steady and masculine enough for her to feel a response to that touch right down to her toes. “I would like some. Very much.”

  “Okay.” But something told her he wasn’t talking about granita.

  Chapter Nine

  For the next hour or two, James never looked at his watch, and time did something it never did for him. It melted away. If forgetting about time, appointments, cares, and business was the magic of Positano, then the place had powers indeed.

  But looking at the woman next to him, mesmerized by the dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose and the six different shades of gold and honey in her hair, James knew the truth.

  Positano wasn’t magic. But Kyra Summers was doing a little bewitching of her own, and with every minute they spent in the sun, time wasn’t the only thing melting. So was his determination to view this excursion as an extension of his business, examining the tourist-trap town as a line item that would increase the value of his property.

  She laughed, and he did, too. She shared something, and he would, too. She took his hand, and he refused to let go, and the next thing he knew, he was sitting on a stone wall—not a table or bench, a wall—side by side with a charming woman, facing the sea, watching the promenade of bathing-suit-clad tourists in front of them.

  And he really didn’t want to be anywhere else on earth in that moment.

  “And then,” she said, her eyes dancing as she lifted a spoonful of the frozen ice to punctuate the punch line of her story. “Anamaria just stood there with her hands in her apron pockets and stared at the guy until he gave her every last olive in the bin.”

  He laughed with her, digging at the tangy treat in a paper cup with his own plastic spoon, as mesmerized by the tales of the Sebastiani family as he was with the woman spinning them. “Anamaria always gets what she wants, I take it?”

  “Always,” Kyra assured him. “And when she wanted me?” She put her hand on her chest as if she simply couldn’t keep her heart where it belonged. “Best moment of my life.”

  He set the cup next to him, turning a little to get a better look at her. “How did that happen, exactly?”

  He told himself that her story would help him understand this new property he owned, but the truth was he adored watching her talk. He loved the way her feminine hands flitted to underscore every point, like everyone who talked in this country, and how her cornflower-blue eyes mirrored her humor and lit up her whole face. If someone took this colorful, charming, seductive little town and turned it into a person, it would be Kyra Summers.

  Couldn’t put her as a line item on a property value statement, though.

  “Well, I told you I went for a tour of the winery,” she said, oblivious to his musings. “I was spending a few months just in Italy. Started way north in the lakes”—she used the spoon to point up on an imaginary map—“then in Milan, then a month in Florence, which was amazing.” Her spoon traveled as she had. “I moved down to Rome, where my Italian got really good when I had a job in a restaurant called Piccolo Arancio near the Trevi Fountain. Best food in Rome. Possibly the world.”

  She paused to taste the granita, giving him a chance to watch her close her eyes in silent appreciation of the burst of flavor and her memories of a job at a restaurant. She really had lived everywhere and never stayed anywhere. It was fascinating to him. She was fascinating to him.

  “Anyway, I hadn’t ever been down here to southern Italy, and I just wanted to see it.” She gestured toward the view beyond the restaurant patio where they sat. “I toured Villa Pietro and stayed all day until the family invited me for dinner.”

  “They just plucked you out of the tour line and said, ‘Stay for dinner’?”

  “Bruno did, actually.”

  “Ahh, that makes sense.” Bruno, the quiet one who stared at James and drank a lot of wine.

  “No, no.” She waved a finger at him. “Everyone thinks that because we’re close in age and single, but there’s no interest at all there. Zero. Bruno is like a brother to me, and a butt pain one at that, and frankly, the man is a little, you know…”

  He frowned, shaking his head.

  “Cah-razy.” Her finger moved to her temple to circle around.

  All the more reason to watch him, James thought.

  “I drank so much wine and dinner went so late that Anamaria wanted me to stay in her little house, which I did. That night, I started teaching her some English, because she was dying to learn. She’s so smart, James!” She grinned at him. “Honestly, the woman is a secret genius. And she was lonely out there in the cottage. There are two bedrooms and…” She lifted her shoulder. “One day led to another, then another, then I started helping them with the tours, and Anamaria and I became roommates.”

  “An unlikely pair, for sure.”

  She laughed, letting her head go back to reveal the silky column of her throat, which suddenly looked tastier than the dessert they ate. “Isn’t that the truth? But I love her with my whole heart and soul.”

  She paused to take another bite, leaving James to wonder what it would be like when someone this luminescent loved with all she had. It would be…warm.

  “I never had a grandmother,” she continued. “Never had a mother, in truth, since mine worked eight days a week.”

  “I didn’t have one, either,” he said softly.

  “Oh, James, of course.” She put her cup and spoon down to reach for him. “Gah. I’m sorry to be so cavalier about mine, who was very much alive even if she wasn’t around often.” She added some pressure to his hand, her fingers so soft it nearly killed him not to lift them up and feel them against his lips. “What was she like? Do you remember her?”

  He considered the question for a moment, realizing again how rarely he talked about Kathleen Brannigan. Her memory seemed to have faded among his brothers, and Dad almost never mentioned her name. If he had, there’d always been enough of a shadow of pain in his father’s expression that James knew to avoid the subject.

  He rarely thought about those twelve years in his childhood. They were before she died. All the years that followed, they were…after. It was a clear line in his life, and he rarely crossed it. But here in the sunshine, with a woman who had all that same vibrancy?

  He took the step backward.

  “I do remember her,” he said. “At least with the eyes of a twelve-year-old.” He turned from Kyra, his gaze settling on a jaunty orange umbrella on the beach. It was perky, cheery, a little off to one side, and bathed in light. That umbrella captured the essence of his mother.

  He shifted his focus and realized with a jolt that it also captured Kyra Summers. “You remind me of her,” he said, the admission surprising him, but as soon as he said it, he understood how true it was.

  “I remind you of…your mother?”

  He laughed at her uncertain reaction. “It’s a compliment, believe me. The last time I saw her, she was young, and that’s the only way I’ll ever know her. Beautiful and lively.”

  “Ohhh.” Her whole body softened, inching slightly closer as if that very warmth of hers could offer sympathy. “Tell me about her.”

  “She was…bright.” It was the first word that came to his mind.

  “I have no doubt your mother was smart,” Kyra said.

&
nbsp; “Yes, but that’s not the kind of bright I mean. She was like light. Wherever she went, it was warmer and brighter and better.” He was surprised at how tight his throat had become, picking up his ice water to wash down an unexpected kick of emotion.

  “She sounds lovely.”

  He nodded as he swallowed. “She had a great sense of humor, too, which I guess kept her sane in a house with seven sons.”

  “It must have been awful.”

  “All those boys? Nah, it was just chaos most of the time, a lot of roughhousing and noise, but…oh…” He read her expression and realized she meant when his mother died. “It was. The worst.”

  She searched his face, clearly wary of how much she should ask, yet she looked sympathetic and interested.

  “She died in a car accident,” he said quickly. “She was, uh, running an errand and got hit by a kid who just got his license.”

  “Oh.” She put her hand over his. “How tragic.”

  “It was,” he agreed. “Life as I knew it changed in an instant.”

  “The light went out,” she said softly, the words damn near crumbling his heart in pieces. How did she get that? No one else did.

  But then, had he ever shared this much with anyone else? About his mother? Unlikely.

  He turned away, picking up the cup of melted ice next to him. “This was as good as you promised, by the way.”

  She smiled, obviously getting his clumsy subject change. “Next you have to try an aperol spritz. Oh, and the pizza. It’s the best in the world, right over there in that little shack.”

  “Aren’t we going to lunch at the winery?”

  “Later this afternoon. Come on, let’s keep walking. You have to put your feet in the Mediterranean or you haven’t been to Positano.”

  He looked down at his linen pants. Casual, but not water-ready. “Not today.”

  “Then tomorrow.” She stood and, still holding his hand, pulled him off the wall. “Or the next day.”

  “I’m not going to be here that long.” But the minute the words were out, something told him they weren’t true. At least, he didn’t want them to be.