by Nora Roberts
voices, Taylor’s eyes meeting hers—it was an evening B.J. knew she would always remember.
“Let’s go for a walk.” Taylor rose and pulled back her chair. “Before you fall asleep in your champagne.” Hand in hand they walked to the beach.
They walked in silence, enjoying each other and the night. Merging with the aroma of the sea and the night was the tenuous scent of orange blossoms. B.J. knew the fragrance would be forever melded with her memory of the man whose hand lay warm and firm over hers. Would she ever look at the moon again without thinking of him? Ever walk beneath the stars without remembering? Ever draw a breath without longing for him?
Tomorrow, she reflected, it would be business as usual, and a handful of days after, he would be gone. Only a name on a letterhead. Still, she would have the inn, she reminded herself. He’d said no more about changes. She’d have her home and her work and her memories, and that was much more than some ever had.
“Cold?” Taylor asked, and she shivered, afraid he had read her mind. “You’re trembling.” His arm slipped around her shoulders, bringing aching warmth. “We’d better go back.”
Mutely, she nodded and forced tomorrows out of her mind. Relaxing, she felt the remnants of champagne mist pleasurably in her head.
“Oh, Taylor,” she whispered as they crossed the lobby. “That’s one of the women from the spa this afternoon.” She inclined her head toward the brunette watching them with avid interest.
“Hmm.” Taylor pushed the button for the glass enclosed elevator.
“Do you think I should wave?” B.J. asked before Taylor pulled her inside.
“No, I’ve a better idea.”
Before she realized his intent, he had her gathered into his arms, silencing her protest with a mind-spinning kiss. Releasing her, he grinned down at the openly staring brunette.
***
B.J. turned to Taylor as the door of the suite shut behind him. “Really, Taylor, it’s a crime I haven’t a lurid past she could dig up.”
“It’s perfectly all right, she’ll invent one for you. Want a brandy?” He moved to the bar and released the concealing panel.
“No, my nose is already numb.”
“I see; is that a congenial condition?”
“It is,” she stated, sliding onto a bar stool, “my gauge for the cautious consumption of liquor. When my nose gets numb, I’ve already had one more than my limit.”
“I see.” Turning, he poured amber liquid into a solitary snifter. “Obviously, my plans to ply you with liquor is doomed to fail.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“What’s your weakness, B.J.?” The question was so unexpected she was caught unaware. You, she almost answered but caught herself in time. “I’m a pushover for soft lights and quiet music.”
“Is that so?”
Magically, the lights lowered and music whispered through the room.
“How did you do that?”
He rounded the bar and stood in front of her. “There’s a panel in back of the bar.”
“The wonders of technology.” Nerves prickling, she tensed like a cornered cat when his hand took her arm.
“I want to dance with you.” He drew her to her feet. “Take the pins out of your hair. It smells like wildflowers; I want to feel it in my hands.”
“Taylor, I . . .”
“Ssh.” Slowly, he took out the pins until her hair tumbled free over her shoulders. Then, his fingers combed through the length of it before he gathered her close in his arms.
He moved gently to the music, keeping her molded against him. Her tension flowed away, replaced by a sleepy excitement. Her cheek rested naturally in the curve of his shoulder, as if they had danced countless times before, would dance countless times again.
“Are you going to tell me what B.J. stands for?” he murmured against her ear.
“No one knows,” she responded hazily as his fingers followed the tingling delight along her bare skin. “Even the F.B.I. is baffled.”
“I suppose I’ll have to get it from your mother.”
“She doesn’t remember.” She sighed and snuggled closer.
“How do you sign official papers?” His hand caressed the small of her back.
“Just B.J., I always use B.J.”
“On a passport?”
She shrugged, her lips unconsciously brushing his neck, her cheek nuzzling the masculine roughness of his chin. “I haven’t got one. I’ve never needed one.”
“You need one to fly to Rome.”
“Yes, I’ll make sure I have one the next time I do. But I’d sign it Bea Jay.” She grinned, knowing he would not realize she had just answered his question. She lifted her face to smile at him and found her lips captured in a gentle, teasing kiss.
“B.J.,” he murmured and drew her away before her lips were satisfied. “I want . . .”
“Kiss me again, Taylor.” Sweet and heavy, love lay on her. “Really kiss me,” she whispered, shutting out the voice of reason. Her eyes fluttered closed as she urged his mouth back to hers.
He said her name again, the words soft on the lips which clung to his in silent request. With a low groan, he crushed her against him.
He swept her feet off the floor as his mouth took hers with unbridled hunger. In dizzying circles, the room whirled as she felt herself lowered to the thick plush of carpet. Unrestrained, his mouth savaged the yielding softness of hers, tongue claiming the sweet moistness. His hand pushed aside the thin silk of her bodice, seeking and finding the smooth promise for more, his mouth and hands roaming over her, finding heat beneath the cool silk, fingers trailing up the slit of her skirt until they captured the firm flesh of her thigh.
Tossed on the turbulent waves of love and need, B.J. responded with a burst of fire. His possession of her mouth and flesh was desperate. She answered by instinct, moving with a woman’s hidden knowledge, as he took with insatiable appetite the fruits she offered. Her own hands, no longer shy, found their way under his jacket to explore the hard ripple of muscles of his back and shoulders, half-terrified, half-delighting in their strength. From the swell and valley of her breasts, his mouth traveled, burning, tantalizing, to burrow against her neck. Her own lips sought to discover his taste and texture, to assuage her new and throbbing hunger.
His loving had lost all gentleness, his mouth and hands now bringing painful excitement. Her fragile innocence began to dissolve with the ancient cravings of womanhood. B.J. began to tremble with fear and anticipation.
Taylor’s mouth lifted from the curve of her neck, and he stared into the eyes cloudy with desire and uncertainty. Abruptly he rose and pulled her to her feet. “Go to bed,” he commanded shortly. Turning to the bar, he poured himself another brandy.
Dazed by the abruptness of the rejection, B.J. stood frozen.
“Didn’t you hear me? I said go to bed.” Downing half his brandy, Taylor pulled out a cigarette.
“Taylor, I don’t understand. I thought . . .” A hand lifted to push at her hair, her eyes liquid and pleading. “I thought you wanted me.”
“I do.” He drew deep on his cigarette. “Now, go to bed.”
“Taylor.” The fury in his eyes caused her to flinch.
“Just get out of here before I forget all the rules.”
B.J. straightened her shoulders and swallowed her tears. “You’re the boss.” She ignored the swift flame of temper in his eyes and plunged on. “But I want you to know, what I offered you tonight was a one-time deal. I’ll never willingly go into your arms again. From now on, the only thing between you and me is the Lakeside Inn.”
“We’ll leave it at that for now,” he said in curt agreement as he turned away and poured another drink. “Just go to bed.”
B.J. ran from the room and turned the lock on her door with an audible click.
Chapter 12
B.J. threw herself into the inn’s routine like a bruised child returning to a mother’s arms. She and Taylor had flown from Florida to Vermont in almost tot
al silence, he working on his papers while she had buried herself in a magazine. Avoiding Taylor for the next two days was easy. He made no effort to see her. Annoyance made hurt more tolerable. B.J. worked with dedication to construct a wall of resentment to shield the emptiness she would experience when he left both the inn and her.
Furthering her resentment was the stubborn presence of Darla Trainor. Although B.J. observed Taylor was not often in her company, her mere existence rubbed the sore of wounded pride. Seeing Darla was a constant reminder of B.J.’s uncomfortable and confusing relationship with Taylor.
B.J. knew she could not have mistaken the desire he had felt for her the last night in Florida. She concluded, watching Darla’s sensuous elegance, that he had ultimately been disappointed in her lack of experience in the physical demands of love.
Wanting to avoid any unnecessary contact with Taylor, B.J. established her office in her room for the duration of his stay. Buried to her elbows in paperwork one afternoon, she jumped and scattered receipts as the quiet afternoon was shattered by screams and scrambling feet above her head. Racing to the third floor, B.J. followed the sounds into 314. For a moment she could only stand in the doorway and gape at the tableau. In the center of the braid rug, Darla Trainor was engaged in a major battle with one of the housemaids. A helpless Eddie was caught in the middle, his pleas for peace ignored.
“Ladies, ladies, please.” Taking her life in her hands, B.J. plunged into the thick of battle and attempted to restore order. Hands and mixed accusations flew. “Louise, Miss Trainor is a guest! What’s gotten into you?” She tugged, without success, on the housemaid’s arm, then switched her attention to Darla. “Please, stop shouting, I can’t understand.” Frustrated because she was shouting herself, B.J. lowered her voice and tried to pull Darla away. “Please, Miss Trainor, she’s half your size and twice your age. You’ll hurt her.”
“Take your hands off me!” Darla flung out an arm, and by accident or design, her fist connected, sending B.J. sprawling against the bedpost. The light shattered into fragments, then smothered with darkness as she slid gently to the floor.
“B.J.” A voice called from down a long tunnel. B.J. responded with a moan and allowed her eyes to open into slits. “Lie still,” Taylor ordered. Gingerly, she permitted her eyes to open further and focused on his lean features. He was leaning over her, his face lined with concern while he stroked the hair away from her forehead.
“What happened?” She ignored his command and attempted to sit up. Taylor pushed her back against the pillow.
“That’s precisely what I want to know.” As he glanced around, B.J. followed his gaze. Eddie sat on a small settee with his arm around a sniffling Louise. Darla stood by the window, her profile etched in indignation.
“Oh.” Memory clearing, B.J. let out a long breath and shut her eyes. Unconsciousness, she decided, had its advantages. “The three of them were wrestling in the middle of the room. I’m afraid I got in the path of Miss Trainor’s left hook.”
The hand stroking her cheek stopped as Taylor’s fingers tensed against her skin. “She hit you?”
“It was an accident, Taylor.” Darla interrupted B.J.’s response, her eyes shining with regret and persecution. “I was simply trying to take these tacky curtains down when this . . . this maid—” she gestured regally toward Louise “—this maid comes in and begins shouting and pulling on me. Then he’s shouting—” She fluttered a hand toward Eddie before passing it across her eyes. “Then Miss Clark appears from nowhere, and she begins pulling and shouting. It was a dreadful experience.” With a long, shuddering sigh, Darla appeared to collect herself. “I only tried to push her away. She had no business coming into my room in the first place. None of these people belong in my room.”
“She had no business trying to take down those curtains,” Louise chimed in, wringing Eddie’s handkerchief. She waved the soggy linen until all eyes shifted to the window in question. The white chintz hung drunkenly against the frame. “She said they were out-of-date and impractical like everything else in this place. I washed those curtains myself two weeks ago.” Louise placed a hand on her trembling bosom. “I was not going to have her soiling them. I asked her very nicely to stop.”
“Nicely?” Darla exploded. “You attacked me.”
“I only attacked her,” Louise countered with dignity, “when she wouldn’t come down. B.J., she was standing on the Bentwood chair. Standing on it!” Louise buried her face in Eddie’s shoulder, unable to go on.
“Taylor.” Tucking an errant lock behind her ear, Darla moved toward him, blinking moist eyes. “You aren’t going to allow her to speak to me that way, are you? I want her fired. She might have injured me. She’s unstable.” Darla placed a hand on his arm as the first tear trembled on her lashes.
Infuriated by the display of helpless femininity, B.J. rose. She ignored both Taylor’s restraining hand and the throbbing in her head. “Mr. Reynolds, am I still manager of this inn?”
“Yes, Miss Clark.”
B.J. heard the annoyance in his voice and added it to her list of things to ignore. “Very well. Miss Trainor, it falls under my jurisdiction as manager of the inn to oversee all hirings and firings. If you wish to lodge a formal complaint, please do so in writing to my attention. In the meantime, I should warn you that you will be held responsible for any damages done to the furnishings of your room. You should know, as well, that the inn will stand behind Louise in this matter.”
“Taylor.” Nearly sputtering with anger, Darla turned back to him. “You’re not going to allow this?”
“Mr. Reynolds,” B.J. interrupted, wishing for a bottle of aspirin and oblivion. “Perhaps you’ll take Miss Trainor to the lounge for a drink, and we can discuss this matter later.”
After a brief study, Taylor nodded. “All right, we’ll talk later. Rest in your room for the remainder of the day. I’ll see you’re not disturbed.”
B.J. accepted the display of gratitude and sympathy by both Eddie and Louise before trudging down to her room. Stepping over scattered papers, she secured much needed aspirin then curled up on the quilt of her bed. Dimly, she heard the door open and felt a hand brush through her hair. The grip of sleep was too strong, and she could not tell if the elusive kiss on her mouth was dream or reality.
When she woke up the throbbing had decreased to a negligible ache. Sitting up, B.J. stared at the neat stack of papers on her desk. Maybe it was a dream, she mused, confused by the lack of disorder on her floor. She touched the back of her head and winced as her fingers contacted with a small lump. Maybe I picked them up and don’t remember. It’s always the mediator who gets clobbered, she thought in disgust, and prepared to go downstairs to confront Taylor. In the lobby, she came upon Eddie, Maggie and Louise in a heated, low-voiced debate. With a sigh, she moved toward them to restore order.
“Oh, B.J.” Maggie started with comical guilt. “Mr. Reynolds said you weren’t to be disturbed. How are you feeling? Louise said that Miss Trainor gave you a nasty lump.”
“It’s nothing.” She glanced from one solemn face to the next. She moved her shoulders in resignation. “All right, what’s the problem?”
The question produced a jumble of words from three different tongues. Pampering her still aching head, B.J. held up a hand for silence. “Eddie,” she decided, choosing at random.
“It’s about the architect,” he began, and she raised her brows in puzzlement.
“What architect?”
“The one who was here when you were in Florida. Only we didn’t know he was an architect. Dot thought he was an artist because he was always walking around with a pad and pencil and making drawings.”
Resigning herself to a partially coherent story, B.J. prompted, “Drawings of what?”
“Of the inn,” Eddie announced with a flourish. “But he wasn’t an artist.”
“He was an architect,” Maggie interrupted, unable to maintain her silence. Eddie shot her a narrow-eyed frown.
“And ho
w do you know he was an architect?” After asking, B.J. wondered why it mattered. Her wandering attention was soon drawn back with a jolt.
“Because Louise heard Mr. Reynolds talking to him on the phone.”
B.J.’s gaze shifted to the housemaid as a hollow feeling grew in the pit of her stomach. “How did you hear, Louise?”
“I wasn’t eavesdropping,” she claimed with dignity, then amended as B.J. raised her brows. “Well, not really, until I heard him talking about the inn. I was going to dust the office, and since Mr. Reynolds was on the phone, I waited outside. When I heard him say something about a new building, and he said the man’s name, Fletcher, I