Celie, however, didn’t seem to feel the same way.
So he’d managed to bide his time, wait until the housekeeper led him to his room. And then he’d asked her casually, as if his heart wasn’t clawing its way out of his chest, where Ms. Harris was staying.
He’d been shocked to hear she in the stables.
But if she wasn’t part of the actual wedding party, just one of Jonas’s guests, maybe that’s where the guests were being put. Jack hadn’t asked. He’d just found out which room was hers.
Then he’d let himself in and waited.
And now?
Now the stable shop door opened behind him, and one of the girls who had been in the house when he’d arrived beamed at him. “Do you need directions to the dining room, Mr. Masterson? Or I could take you. I’d be happy to show you the way.” She gave him a bright hopeful look.
“Thanks, no.” The dining room meant people. People he’d have to smile at and be polite to. People he’d have to make small talk with. Or worse, not small talk.
Jonas would probably be there and Jack still wasn’t sure he wouldn’t strangle the groom. Maggie would doubtless be there as well. And while he loved Jonas’s grandmother, Maggie had a penetrating stare and a direct way of saying exactly what she thought.
If Celie had been working for Maggie for the past two years, Jack wasn’t sure he wanted to know what the dowager thought of him – especially not if she decided to announce it at the dinner table.
And if he managed to avoid all of them, there was a good chance he’d end up with some goo-goo-eyed princess who wanted to flirt.
“I’m good,” he said to the girl, and before she could offer another suggestion, he headed off through the gardens giving the house a wide berth. He didn’t pause to admire the flowers or any of the beauty cultivated by generations of English green thumbs. He didn’t even notice it.
He couldn’t get Celie out of his head.
She had changed. This Celie had looked terminally neat and proper in tailored linen trousers topped by a white blouse with a simple navy cardigan. All very professional. Or very parochial school.
There were no bright shining eyes, no eager grin. He wondered if she even wore the jeans and sweatshirts that had clothed the Celie he’d married.
She didn’t even use the same name. She was Celina now. Not his Celie.
Celina. Sister Celina more like, he thought grimly. Like some prim and proper nun. He’d wanted to shatter her buttoned-up demeanor, wanted to rattle her, wake her, make her respond to him, listen to him.
She’d pretty much shut him down.
There were flashes of the earlier Celie. She’d held him at arm’s length every time the fiasco in Barcelona reared its ugly head. But when he’d told her about his surgery, she’d stopped being quite so defensive. She’d stopped and listened. She’d cared.
Caring was a long way from loving, though.
And. God help him, Jack wanted her to love him again.
He’d gone from anger to determined indifference in a matter of months. He’d gone from determined indifference to something very different in a matter of minutes.
Because he wasn’t indifferent to her. He’d thought he was.
He’d forgotten the impact she’d always had on him. But it had hit him like a punch, the sight of her standing there – those serious dark eyes, that flawless skin and, especially, that damnably tamed and tidy twist of dark hair at the back of her head.
Unbound, Jack knew, her hair would be a glorious fall of sable, soft and thick and heavy, that his fingers always itched to tangle in.
When they were students, she had worn it loose and flowing down her back, making it easy for him to run his fingers through it, to draw a strand across his mouth and nose, to bury his face in it and breathe in the spicy scent that no one else shared – only Celie.
Knotted up and tucked away, it was as inaccessible as she was.
And she was insisting he call her Celina!
The minute the bloody name was out of her mouth, he’d wanted to stop it. With a kiss.
He wondered now what she’d have done if he had. Slapped his face, probably. Screamed the bloody building down? No, not her style. But she might well have kneed him in the balls. He’d made a point of teaching her how to make sure she wasn’t victim of unwanted advances in the future. He winced now thinking she might consider a kiss from him that way.
He hadn’t kissed her. She was already bristly enough. He wanted to woo her back, not send her running in the other direction. And he didn’t want Jonas furious at him for causing drama in the middle of his royal wedding.
So, he had to move carefully. Not push too much. Bide his time. And which of those was he comfortable with?
None of the above.
Jack had always been a doer, a mover, a shaker.
But now – for the next few days – he couldn’t. Not until she let down the barrier a little bit. Give him an inch though, Jack thought with a smile, and he’d be in for a mile.
He needed the inch. He needed to smile politely, be pleasant and congenial, play it cool. Just exactly what he’d told her a few minutes ago.
And that was supposed to work, how?
He wished he had a clue.
He knew one thing for sure – once the wedding was over, he was not simply turning around and walking away.
“Jack!” A child’s voice startled him out of his reverie.
He paused with his hand on the latch of the wooden gate that led out of the gardens into the narrow lane toward the new stables. Whichever Jack the kid was calling for would certainly not be him. He flipped up the latch and opened the slatted gate.
“Jack!” The voice was nearer now, and Jack could hear the sound of running footsteps coming in his direction. “Hey, Jack! Jack, wait!”
He heard two quick pairs of footsteps now, getting closer by the second.
Princesses he could have outrun. Jonas he would have ignored. But as he turned, Jack knew he wasn’t getting away from the two boys pounding down the path and skidding to a halt at his feet. They beamed up at him.
“Hey, Casper. Hey, Mads.” He grinned down at Jonas’s nephews.
Casper, the younger one, hopped from one foot to the other. “I knew it was you!”
Jack wasn’t sure he’d have known who Casper was from a distance. He’d been just four the last time Jack had seen him. Now he was much taller, even blonder, and there was a gap where his front teeth used to be. “Tol’ ya it was him.” Casper elbowed his brother in the ribs between gasps of air.
“I knew it, too,” Mads said gravely. He had dark hair just as straight as his brother’s. He was taller, too. A couple more inches and he’d reach Jack’s shoulder. He had front teeth, and a far more serious demeanor than his brother.
Jack ruffled their hair, delighted to see them, and grateful there were at least two people he liked who were glad to see him. He hadn’t seen them since the time he and Celie had taken a brief holiday in San Michele on spring break a little over two years ago. “What’s up?”
“Uncle Jonas is getting married,” Casper told him.
Mads rolled his eyes. “He knows that. Why d’you think he’s here?” He gave his brother an impatient look. “But that’s not til Wednesday,” he went on. “So, um, maybe we could go hiking? Like we did last time?” He looked at Jack and his eyes held the same speculative eagerness Casper’s showed.
Jack remembered the day well. He and Celie had taken the boys up to the mountains north of Liburno. Jonas had given them directions to a mountain cabin he kept there. It had been a fun hike with the boys. It had been even more memorable when they’d taken the boys home and gone back to spend the night there, just the two of them.
More memories he didn’t need to deal with tonight.
But the boys were looking at him with such eagerness that he couldn’t turn them down flat.
“We’ll see,” Jack said. “You should ask your parents.”
Both boys’ faces fel
l.
“Mama won’t let us,” Casper said, scuffing his toe against the brick of the path.
Mads nodded glumly. “She’s got a list of stuff we’ve got to do.”
“Ask your dad, then,” Jack suggested. From what he knew Carlo was an easier touch than the boys’ mother. And if Carlo said yes, maybe the boys could persuade Celie to come along.
It was a long shot. Given Carlo and Jonas’s father’s recent heart issues, Jack figured Carlo was consumed with running the country, not making decisions about his sons’ activities. He simply wouldn’t have time for them.
“We’ll ask,” Mads promised solemnly.
Just then a middle-aged woman came bustling up, equal parts apologetic and stern, and she clamped a hand on each boy’s shoulder. “Oh, sir, I’m so sorry if these two are bothering you.”
“No bother,” Jack assured her.
“You two need to be washing up,” she told the boys firmly. “Come along now. It’s time for your dinner.”
“You’re coming to dinner, too, aren’t you?” Mads asked Jack hopefully.
“Not tonight,” Jack replied before the nanny could lay a hand on him, too. But even as he opened the gate and eased out, he shot the boys a commiserating glance. “I’ll see you while I’m here,” he promised.
“We could eat with you.” Casper wasn’t ready to give up.
But the nanny’s fingers tightened on his shoulder. “Your mother is expecting you at dinner,” she said firmly. Then she bobbed something that might have been a curtsey in Jack’s direction, spun the boys in the other, and propelled them back through the garden to the manor house.
They looked back briefly, but then Mads said something to Casper and both of them squared their shoulders and marched on, like resolute good soldiers going to their doom.
Jack had already gone to his doom today. He shot a quick glance back toward the stable block on the off-chance that Celie would be standing in the window looking at him. Of course she wasn’t. She’d probably shut him right out of her head the minute he’d left the room.
Pity he couldn’t shut her out as easily.
Pity he couldn’t shut her out at all.
He turned away from the stables, heading along the tree-lined lane that curved away from the manor house as well. He thought it connected to the road to the railway station. If so, there was a village at the end of it. And in the village there would, please God, be a pub.
He could use a stiff drink.
For what it’s worth, I did come after you.
The words reverberated in Celina’s head long after Jack’s abrupt departure.
He had? In Barcelona? Later? When?
Had he come home to Ames to talk to her?
No, of course he hadn’t. He couldn’t just up and leave the band in the lurch. He had a full schedule of concerts, most of them on the other side of the world.
Damn him for lobbing that conversational hand grenade at her, then stalking out of the room. She wanted to go after him, grab him by the arm and make him tell her what he meant.
But what was the point?
It wasn’t going to change things. Even if he had, they still weren’t right for each other. They wanted different things. They were still better off apart.
Just five more days and she would never have to see him again. Get through the wedding, she promised herself, and you’ll be home free.
One step at a time. Don’t worry about the future. Only worry about what you have to do next.
She took her apple and her granola bar out of her tote bag, then laid them on the desk as if concentrating on them would keep her from thinking about Jack. Before she ate them, she went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. While she waited for the water to heat, she laid out a summer nightgown and a light robe.
One step at a time. Tonight was no different than any other night.
Determinedly she made a ritual out of it. It was like meditation. Every time Jack intruded in her thoughts, she dragged them right back to whatever mundane thing she was doing and made herself focus on it.
The shower got her clean. It didn’t banish thoughts of Jack. Finally she dried off, then put on her nightgown, blew her hair dry and brushed it out. Mundane. And yet the very motions plagued her with memories. There were nights when Jack said, “Let me,” and dried her hair, combing it with his fingers and gently kneading the back of her neck. Then he’d lean forward and rub his cheek against her hair, kiss the sensitive spot behind her ear, letting his breath tickle it as his fingers would caress her body and –
Oh God, she didn’t need this!
She crossed the room and opened the window, desperate for a distraction. She leaned out and was drawing in deep lungfuls of fresh air when, across the room on top of the tall narrow dresser, her phone began to vibrate. Not a text. A call.
Maggie?
She checked the screen and saw a UK number she didn’t recognize. It could be anyone. It could be Jack.
She didn’t answer, just stood there staring at it as it rattled on the dresser like an irritated rattlesnake. It was a relief when it finally stopped. Moments later the phone dinged, signaling a voice message.
She hesitated again, then told herself to stop being a fool. Even if it was Jack, it was just a message. She could ignore a message far more easily than she could ignore him.
But the message wasn’t from Jack.
“Oh, Celina! It’s Hope,” a light breathless female voice said. “Ally and Flora and I are getting together this evening – sort of a girls’ night in – and we’d love it if you could join us. Ally can pick you up. Ring me, please.”
The message ended, and Celina was left staring at the phone in her hand. A girls’ night in? With three young women she barely knew?
Well, she knew Hope a bit because Jonas had made sure of that. But she’d only met the other two when they’d come to San Michele in February to celebrate the engagement. Still she liked both of Hope’s bridesmaids.
Ally was witty and engaging, always easy to talk to. And sitting in her room all evening was losing its appeal. Spending time with Hope and Ally and Flora would be a distraction, though she barely knew Flora at all.
But her impression of Hope’s brother Max’s fiancée was that she was bright and funny and extraordinarily capable. Flora was not only one of the bridesmaids, she was catering the wedding as well. Celina could multi-task with the best of them, but obviously Flora had taken the ability to extremes.
She also had Max wrapped around her little finger. He had seemed standoffish and gruff to Celina when he’d arrived in San Michele in February. But she’d realized before he left that a lot of his purposeful distance stemmed from wariness and a determination to protect the people he loved – like Hope.
Celina liked Max because he liked dogs. One evening during Jonas and Hope’s engagement celebration, Max had invited himself along when she was taking Roscoe for a walk.
“Miss my dogs,” he’d admitted with a wry grin. “Mind if I hijack yours?”
They’d walked around the palace grounds and had a lovely chat about dogs and kids – Max had two – and the moldering pile of family history, Hasebury Hall, he felt obliged to keep up even when a part of him, he confessed to Celina, occasionally wished it would burn to the ground and take all his obligations and responsibilities with it.
“You don’t really!” Celina had protested, laughing.
And Max had shaken his head. “Not really. But –” he’d smiled “– a guy can dream, can’t he?”
By the end of the walk, Roscoe had approved of him. So did Celina. By extension then, she also approved of Flora who, if she was marrying Max, Celina reasoned, must like dogs, too.
So, she could spend the evening with Hope, Ally and Flora, have some good conversation, drink a glass of wine or two and put Jack out of her mind. Or she could sit in her room and stare at the walls, try to read a book or sleep. And be plagued by memories of Jack.
She rang Hope. “I’d love to come t
o your girls’ night in!”
Chapter Four
The Black Horse looked as if it had been in Weston Foliat since Shakespeare’s day. If the playwright had done any pub crawling in Wiltshire, Jack bet the village pub would have been on his list. An old stone pub with a thatched roof, it leaned companionably against the village shop next to it, as if they’d both had a few too many over the years and needed each other to stay upright.
The long English summer twilight had taken on an almost lavender hue by the time he came into the village, and Jack was glad to see a welcoming golden light through the pub’s small mullioned windows.
He had walked from Westonbury Court, desperate to burn off energy, agitation and way too many visuals of Celina that he couldn’t get out of his head.
When he was on tour with South Face, concerts did that for him. The screaming devotion of thousands of eager fans drew out every bit of emotion – good or bad – that had been building within him. A few hours on stage, shredding a guitar, belting out ballads, blues and harsh rock anthems and Jack was a hollow shell of the edgy intense man he was beforehand.
It was like sex, he’d once told Celina, which was probably another reason she was glad to get rid of him. He hadn’t meant it filled his heart the way loving her did. It was the release, the sheer physical depletion that came with spending so much energy, so much intensity.
“It’s like musical masturbation.” Which was crude, but was the closest he could come to explaining the sensation.
“Oh, God, Jack.” Celie’s cheeks had flushed as she had groaned, then she’d shaken her head and laughed. “I’ll never look at one of your concerts the same way again!”
Now, remembering that, Jack felt his own face heat. He quickened his pace, crossed the High Street and hauled open the massive blackened wood door, desperate for a beer or a shot of whiskey – anything that would settle his jangling nerves and the edgy awareness of Celie that seemed to dog his every step.
Saturday night meant the bar was full. Not, Jack was relieved to see, of paparazzi. He didn’t spy one familiar face, and by now he knew a lot of them. Unless they were the paparazzi who followed royals, not bands, in which case, he didn’t have a clue.
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