Ye gods.
Jack had watched paint dry with more enthusiasm. It would have helped if he’d been even vaguely aware of the rules. He’d expected it to be like baseball. It wasn’t.
When South Face had played a concert in Helsinki, he’d watched a game of pesäpallo. “Finnish baseball,” they had called it. And while it was certainly different from baseball as he knew it, it wasn’t incomprehensible.
Cricket? Yeah, pretty much.
About as incomprehensible as Celie.
Which was only about the four thousandth time he’d thought of her while he’d paced around the edges of the cricket field. Or pitch. Or lawn. Or whatever the hell they called it. He didn’t care. He didn’t want to know. He wanted to know how to deal with Celie.
This Celie who was not quite the Celie he remembered.
From the moment he’d stepped in and sorted out the jerk who’d had his hands all over her at that fraternity party, he’d always felt strong and capable and in control where she was concerned. Doing so had given him a feeling of power. Not over her. For her. As if he could slay dragons for her, vanquish villains for her.
And as if he could always make her eyes light up with love for him.
Once upon a time her eyes had. Of course first it had been because she was grateful. He knew that. But even after it had faded, her warmth never had.
She’d always looked at him with shining eyes, as if he were the best man in the world. He knew he wasn’t. Not by a long shot. But she’d made him feel that way.
It had been honest, real. There had never been any subterfuge with Celina. No hesitation, no dissembling.
With Celie what you saw was what you got.
Her love for him had always been there in her eyes – the night he’d rescued her, the first time he’d kissed her, that FaceTime call when he’d said, “Let’s get married,” the afternoon of their wedding when she’d given him her heart and her love as well as her vows. Even when he’d packed his bags and kissed her good-bye at the airport, he’d been able to see the love in her eyes.
It had nourished him. Supported him. Sustained him. He had basked in it like the sunshine.
And maybe, like the sun, he’d taken it for granted. Had come to expect it.
Now he didn’t know what to expect.
He didn’t know how to reach her. He was used to her smiles and now he got a stony remote gaze that didn’t seem to be seeing him at all. Every now and then yesterday afternoon, she had shown a spark or two of the old Celie, the one who cared, who loved him.
But then she would shut down. Shut him out. The clouds would come and shut the sun away. And he didn’t know how to get it back.
He didn’t know Celie’s rules any more than he knew the rules for cricket.
Jack thrust his hands into the pockets of his jeans and scuffed furiously at the grass.
“Wishing you’d played golf?”
He turned to find Nico standing at his elbow, clapping politely at some play on the field/pitch/lawn, but really watching him and slanting a grin his way.
Whacking the hell out of a ball seemed damned appealing. Maybe golf would have been preferable. But with his luck, Jack figured there was a good chance he would have missed it completely and some pap would have been there to record his humiliation for posterity. No, thanks. He had more important things to think about.
He shook his head. “Naw. This is fine.”
“Pay attention, then,” Nico advised cheerfully. “Or you’ll fail the quiz afterwards.”
“What?” Jack’s gaze jerked around to stare at Jonas’s brother, horrified.
Nico laughed. “Just kidding. No fear. No quiz, either. Good thing, too,” he added, nodding his head toward a group of spectators by the pavilion. “Fredrik would score worse than you.”
Sure enough, San Michele’s chief of security was pacing on the far side of the playing field, his cell phone pressed to his ear, not paying the least bit of attention to the match.
Fredrik, with one of Hope’s bridesmaids on his arm, had arrived shortly after he and Nico had.
“That’s Ally Parker,” Nico had told him.
Jack remembered her name. She was the woman Fredrik had brought up last night at the pub. The journalist. The one Jack had suggested giving an interview to, which had made Fredrik bristle.
Looking at her now, Jack thought Fredrik’s objection had little to do with her journalistic prowess and a great deal more to do with his interest in her as a woman. Jack could understand that.
Ally Parker was a pretty girl, slim and vibrant, with long dark hair that caught in the breeze. Jack had noticed her when she’d first arrived as she’d been laughing as she’d dragged Fredrik, looking stoic and long-suffering, from the car park.
Now while he paced and talked on his phone, Jack saw Ally laughing and smiling with a group of spectators. As he studied her, she glanced a time or two in Fredrik’s direction, but she made no move to go to him, just let him deal with whatever he was dealing with. At least she was looking at him, lucky sod. Celie was pretty much acting as if he weren’t even alive.
“As long as there isn’t a quiz,” he said to Nico, “I think I’ll go introduce myself to Ally Parker.”
Nico’s eyes lit up. “That’ll make Fredrik sit up and take notice. Mind he doesn’t punch your lights out. He’s got medals for something violent. Boxing, I think. And he’s former Special Forces, of course.”
Great. Just what he needed. A jealous swain. Well, why the hell not? Jack reckoned he could use a little adrenaline rush right now. So he left Nico and wandered over toward the group of half a dozen spectators of which Ally was a part. They looked to be local folks, and the fact that most of them kept their eyes on the game and didn’t even glance his way seemed to support that.
It wasn’t until a batsman did something that elicited a stifled groan, some rather ironic clapping, and someone muttering something that sounded like “Out for a duck, for heaven’s sake!” that any of them even looked his way.
“Out for a duck?” he echoed, baffled.
Ally Parker looked over and laughed. “It means he didn’t score. At all.” Then she held out her hand to him. “Jack Masterson.” She gave him a warm welcoming smile – very un-Celie-like. “Nice to meet you.”
Jack grinned and took her hand briefly in his. “And you’re Ally Parker, right?”
She looked surprised that he would know her name. “My notoriety precedes me?” It was definitely a question.
Jack shook his head. “Not notoriety. Nico mentioned that you were a journalist. I thought maybe you’d like to chat. South Face is going on tour starting right after the wedding.” He left the sentence – and the unspoken suggestion – dangling.
Her eyes widened. “Are you offering an interview?”
“If you’re interested.”
She laughed. “Oh, you could say that.”
She introduced him to the other spectators – the village baker, his wife, a couple of schoolteachers and a hair stylist, and suddenly Fredrik was right there at her side, cell phone nowhere to be seen, giving Jack a look that should have frozen him where he stood.
“And this is Fredrik Jensson,” Ally said warmly, catching Fredrik’s left hand and sliding her fingers through his. At her action, Jack saw a hint of warmth creep into the glint in Fredrik’s eye. “This is Jack Masterson. He’s just offered to give me an interview.”
At her words, the glint cooled again.
But Jack stuck out his hand and smiled. “Jensson. Good to see you again. Thanks for the suggestion.”
“Suggestion?” A tiny crease appeared between Ally’s brows as she looked from Fredrik to Jack and back again. “You told him about me?” she said to Fredrik, looking intrigued.
It could have been the angle of the sun, but the tips of Fredrik’s ears seemed suddenly pink. He shrugged. “We ran into each other in the pub last night.”
“Ah.” Ally nodded as if the idea pleased her. She gave Fredrik’s arm a squeez
e and looked up into his flinty eyes with smile that melted the last of the ice in his gaze. “Thank you.”
Damn, his ears really were pink. His collar seemed a little tight, too – at least to him, Jack thought, watching Fredrik loosen it and clear his throat. “No problem.” His voice was a little rough, and he couldn’t quite seem to take his eyes off Ally.
Definitely a goner, Jack thought. He grinned at Ally. “We can set up a time. Whenever it’s convenient for you.”
“That’d be fab,” Ally replied. “How about Tuesday morning. About ten? Unless you’re busy then?”
Jack shook his head. “Sounds good right now. Plan on it. Jonas is the boss, though.” Personally he’d probably still be working out how to get past Celie’s defenses.
“Great! It’s a date.” Ally beamed at him, but her fingers were still locked with Fredrik’s. “Unless I hear from you otherwise, I’ll see you then.”
Some guys had all the luck, Jack thought as he watched them wander away, hands still linked.
Not that he was interested in Ally Parker. There was only one woman he wanted – the one who wouldn’t give him the time of day.
Where Celie was concerned, “out for a duck” pretty much described him, too.
Chapter Six
He was no less of a duck by the time he and Nico returned to Westonbury Manor from the cricket match. Nico rambled on about one thing and then another – spear fishing in the Caribbean, skiing at Gstaad, snorkeling off Baja, mountain climbing in the Himalayas – and Jack barely listened. Whatever Nico said was no more compelling than the cricket match had been.
He had no idea which team had won. He figured he was the real winner by virtue of not having been bored to death when Nico finally said they could leave. He’d spent the entire game – and all the drive back to the manor after while Nico rabbited on – riffling through dozens of potential scenarios, ways that he could run into Celie again and finally discover the magic words that would unlock her smile.
But no matter what scenario he went with, it never worked.
And he had no experience with it not working. Didn’t know what to do.
When they pulled into the parking area beside the house, Nico said, “How about some tennis?”
Close to the last thing he wanted to do. But it had the virtue of offering him the opportunity to bash around a small bit of his frustration on a defenseless little ball.
“Yeah,” Jack said. “Why not?”
Nico, naturally, beat the crap out of him. Jonas’s brother had grown up playing tennis. It was what you did if you were a prince.
Jack had grown up herding cattle.
It didn’t help that he was distracted by the sight of Celie pushing Katja, Jonas’s niece, on a tree swing in a play area across the gardens.
No longer wearing what he’d begun to think of as her “parochial school uniform” look – the tailored slacks, white blouse and blazer she’d been wearing at breakfast – now she had on a sleeveless royal blue sundress. Her hair was down, too, the way he remembered it, loose and free, perfect for tangling his fingers in.
Jack sucked in a hungry breath – and caught a tennis ball to the jaw. “Ow!”
“What the hell?” Nico stared across the net in consternation. “Are you okay? The object is to swing at the ball and send it back, not stop it with your face.”
Jack rubbed his jaw. It stung like a son-of-a-bitch. “I’m okay,” he said gruffly. “I got distracted.”
Nico’s scowl deepened. “Distracted by what?” He scanned the tranquil landscape, the rolling green lawn, the rose beds, the woods. The play area. Celie and Katja.
“Oh.” It was clear he had spotted the distraction.
“Want me to call her over?” Nico asked guilelessly. “She could kiss it better.” He flashed Jack a quick grin.
“Shut up. Let’s play,” he growled.
“You sure?” Nico looked doubtful. “You got hit pretty hard. We can quit – I’m trouncing you.”
As if Jack hadn’t noticed. But he shook his head. “No, I damned well don’t want to quit.” Jack scrubbed at his jaw one last time, then stalked back over to the base line and bounced his racket against the clay. “Serve.”
He didn’t win, of course. He didn’t even come close.
But at least he didn’t get hit in the face again, and he even managed to serve a couple of aces, hammering the ball so hard that Nico couldn’t begin to reach it, let alone return it. By the time they’d finished, he was sweaty and exhausted.
Celie and Katja were nowhere to be seen.
His head was pounding from the sun. His bones and joints ached from the exertion. He felt grimy and sweaty and out of sorts.
And he knew exactly who to blame it on.
He stripped off the gym shorts and T-shirt he’d played tennis in, and padded into the bathroom to turn on the shower. It sputtered and drizzled and behaved the way hundred-year-old showers in five-hundred-year-old manor houses should probably be expected to behave. Not well. Which put him more out of sorts.
He wanted a long, pounding, hot shower that would ease his muscles and settle his brain. He got a spray of fits and starts, briefly hot, then lukewarm and then, as if the plumbing knew the direction of his thoughts and the kaleidoscope of memories of Celie that he couldn’t get out of his head, one hundred percent cold.
His teeth were chattering when he gave up and shut the water off. Toweling himself dry, he padded back into the bedroom and opened the armoire where one of the maids had dutifully hung his clothes.
He’d have been happy enough to dig them out of his duffel bag – except for the wedding suit he’d be wearing on Wednesday when Jonas and Hope tied the knot. But that hadn’t been in his duffel in the first place. His assistant, Marcie, a fiftyish no-nonsense woman who could have run an army single-handed, which made her pretty good at dealing with whatever South Face got up to, had sent those on ahead. Jack had found them hanging in the armoire yesterday when he’d arrived.
Thank God for Marcie. She kept his life organized, minded his p’s and q’s, and basically kept him on track.
Since Celie had left him, Marcie was the only woman in his life.
How messed up was that?
And how messed up was he that he couldn’t stop Celie invading his thoughts even when he was annoyed and shivering?
The sudden knock on the door was the last straw.
Every damn groupie in England seemed to work at Westonbury Court. Since he’d arrived yesterday afternoon, he’d had a bevy of them bringing him extra towels or a toothbrush he hadn’t asked for or wanting to know if he’d like a snack brought to his room.
He was ruthlessly polite and determinedly distant, and now, unless she was a plumber who could fix the shower, Jack wanted nothing to do with this one.
“Who is it?” he barked through the door.
There was a pause. “It’s Celina,” said a wary, hesitant voice.
Jack jerked open the door. “Celie?”
He halfway didn’t believe it. Thought he was imagining things. But now, there she was, still wearing the bright blue sundress, still gorgeous enough to take his breath away, to cause his cold shivering body to burn, to make the towel slung around his hips seem like a far too inadequate covering.
He swallowed hard.
So did she. She took one look at his wet hair, bare chest and the towel betraying his, er, interest, and her cheeks turned scarlet. “Oh, God. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have – I didn’t think you might be in the shower!”
And did it just possibly recall his state of undress the last time she’d walked in on him?
Damn it to hell, Jack thought, and reached out a hand to grab her as she spun away. “I’m not in the shower!”
“Well, obviously not now, but you were. And –”
“I’m out. What do you want, Celie? Celina,” he corrected himself quickly. No sense in making things worse.
“I just ... wanted to talk to you. It can wait. Obviously now is not a g
ood time.”
“It’s a fine time.”
She made a disbelieving sound. But for whatever reason she was here. And Jack wasn’t letting her walk away.
“Come in,” he said firmly. “I’ll put some clothes on.” He was dragging her into the room even as he spoke.
“Sit down,” he commanded, steering her toward the armchair. “Just wait there.”
“I –” She looked mutinous, but then she shrugged and sat.
He snagged underwear out of his duffel, and a pair of jeans and a shirt from the armoire. He imagined she would flee if he dropped the towel where he stood. So he carried them toward the bathroom, then paused and nailed her to the spot with a look. “Don’t move.”
Celie looked somewhere between nervous and nonplussed. At least she shook her head. “I won’t.”
He was in the bathroom about thirty seconds. Maybe less. He wasn’t going to give her a chance to bolt before he found out why she’d come looking for him in the first place. It felt idiotic to be hiding away in the bathroom to put on clothes. It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen every bit of him plenty of times before.
He dropped the towel, tugged on his underwear and jeans, then yanked the polo shirt over his head and opened the door again, breathing a sigh of relief to find her still sitting there.
Celina couldn’t look at him.
And she couldn’t not look at him at the same time.
Of course when he’d opened the door wearing only a towel, it had nearly done her in. She had taken one look and all the memories of Barcelona came hurtling straight back, and she’d turned to flee.
If he hadn’t caught her by the wrist, Celina knew she would have left.
She felt like an idiot just being here.
It was a mistake. It wouldn’t change anything – not anything that mattered.
But Maggie’s words had stuck with her all day long.
She knew Maggie had been determined to goad her. Where Jack is concerned you’re being just the tiniest bit cowardly. The dowager had wanted to prick her conscience, to make her think.
Maggie was a supreme manipulator. She hadn’t run San Michele while giving the appearance of being no more than a doting mother and grieving widow without a talent for getting people to do what she wanted, all the while thinking it was their idea, not hers.
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