by Megan Mulry
He stretched his neck in the opposite direction and double-checked the time. It was past seven o’clock. The long days of spring had begun. The sun’s rays still stretched across the river from the west.
He wanted to call Sarah again.
He stuffed that thought as far down as he could and decided to meet up with a couple of friends at a pub over by the Tate Modern instead. It felt like the beginning of summer and people would be congregating in huge packs, taking in great gulps of air, and drinking large quantities of beer. Devon loved this time of year in London: the masses emerged from their respective warrens and looked to the spring sun like near-blind moles, pasty and grateful.
When Friday afternoon finally rolled around, it was only through sheer force of will that Devon had not called her again. He was preoccupied to the point of distraction.
Narinda was the perfect traveling companion: prompt, efficient, and amusing.
“Not that I am even partially adept at maneuvering a V12 Aston Martin engine, but it might be safer if I drove,” she said. “I see your body is here in the car, but your mind is clearly elsewhere.”
Devon turned his attention from the crowded motorway to catch her look, then tried (again) to concentrate on the road. “I’m sorry, Narinda. I’ll try to stay on task.” He downshifted the powerful engine and gave up trying to squeeze between the lorry and the bridge abutment. “It might not be easy.”
“Why don’t you tell me more about her? I have no vested interest either way—I mean, you are a perfect piece, don’t get me wrong, but the two of us were never going to work. So let’s treat the next hour as a free shrink session. The doctor is in.”
Devon looked at Narinda’s sexy brown, almost black, eyes, slightly shaded with some smoky eye makeup, her satin skin glowing in the early evening, her long black hair hanging like a silky curtain across her shoulder, and had to momentarily remember why it was they were never going to work. She was quite something.
“Very funny,” Devon said. “I don’t really want to talk… well, I guess I do. But it feels like a violation of Sarah’s privacy somehow. You’ll meet her soon enough. She’s kind of innocent and naughty all at once. She’s got this thing, where she asks these really blunt questions with no artifice, and…”
For someone who supposedly doesn’t want to talk, Narinda thought with a smile, Devon certainly has plenty to say about Miss Sarah James. He spent the next two hours talking about not wanting to talk about her.
The traffic had been vicious, and the trip, which should have taken an hour and a half, took nearly three. When Devon finally pulled the thundering car into the forecourt of Dunlear Castle, it was almost half past seven, and dinner was at eight.
“Do you mind if we go in through the back?” Devon asked. “It’ll be quicker.”
Narinda was trying to keep her jaw from dropping open at the sheer scale of the building. She worked in an architectural firm after all. She had stood on I-beams forty stories over Kowloon Harbor and in private palaces in Dubai; she had overseen the construction of bridges that spanned valleys in the Andes. The part of this that was so awe inspiring was that it was Devon’s home… not just a grand, historical pile, but the place where her friend had spent most of his youth. It was incongruous and exciting.
“Narinda?”
“Yeah, sorry, Dev. It’s a bit large. I don’t care which entrance we go in. I’ll do some sketches tomorrow for the hell of it.” She craned her neck to look down a seemingly endless allée of trees toward the setting sun, then turned her attention back to Devon. “Would that be all right?”
“Of course, that would be great. Actually, maybe you could do something that I could give to Bronte and Max as a gift. I already bought the obligatory sterling porringer and rattle, so something that captures the actual day would be really nice.”
“Perfect. I’ll work on it tomorrow.”
They had pulled into a smaller side court, near a long block of former stables that had been converted into an eight-car garage. The Aston Martin DBS engine seemed to growl defiantly one last time before Devon turned it off.
A middle-aged man in a khaki shirt and work pants came out of a mudroom and smiled broadly at Devon. “Hello, Devon!”
“Hello, Jeremy!” Devon was up and out of the car in seconds, gripping the man’s hand with warmth and affection. “This is my friend Narinda Channar.” Narinda had made her way around the front of the car. “Narinda this is Jeremy Paulson. He does everything around here.”
“Nice to meet you, Miss Channar.”
“Mr. Paulson.” She shook his hand and gave him a smile.
Devon cut in. “All right, Jeremy. Enough of the niceties. The ride took an age and I’m sure Bronte is in a lather about making dinner festive and all that. Will you please show Narinda up to whichever room Bronte has chosen for her?” He handed Narinda’s bag to Jeremy. “I’ll grab my own things.”
Turning to Narinda, Devon gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then, in a lower voice, said, “Thanks again for the moral support.”
She smiled and rubbed his upper back in an encouraging way. “It’s all going to turn out well, Dev, I’m sure. You’re too good a catch for her to throw you back into the water.” She winked and followed Jeremy into the surprisingly plebeian mudroom of the magnificent castle.
Devon looked up toward the second floor apartments, wondering which room Sarah had been given. He suspected Bronte would have wanted her close to the ducal suite, and when he let his glance travel toward the front of the building, he froze when he saw her looking down at him.
He smiled involuntarily and gave her a little mock salute, figuring she would let the curtain fall back and turn away from the window. Instead, she stood staring at him with one hand on the glass, her palm flat against the pane, and the other hand holding the golden velvet fabric back from the window. He felt like an idiot, just standing there, his leather satchel in one hand, staring up at her, but he didn’t care. She looked gorgeous.
Her head turned abruptly as if someone had called her name, then the curtain was pulled back wider to reveal a tall, despicably handsome Eliot Cranbrook. Sarah and Eliot turned away from the window and the curtain fell back into place. Devon felt like he’d been punched squarely in the gut.
He let his hand drop slowly back to his side and tried not to let a scowl of frustration show on his face, then he turned back toward the side entrance of the castle. Devon was nearly at the side door when he heard a female voice calling his name. He stepped a few paces back onto the driveway and looked up. Bronte was leaning halfout the window two to the left of where Sarah had been, and laughing. “Hurry up!” Bronte called. “I want you buffed and polished, chop-chop! Meet us in the drawing room ASAP!”
He waved to her and continued back into the house, loving the sound of Bronte’s commanding American ay-sap, but not quite able to smile in response.
Chapter 13
Sarah heard the roar of the Aston Martin as it shot gravel up from the driveway and rumbled into the side court of Dunlear. She had thought she could catch a glimpse of Devon without being detected, and she probably could have remained unnoticed if she hadn’t been glued to the window like a little girl pining in front of a puppy pet store. The first thing she could see were his long legs stretching out from the silver car door. He was so tall and lean, looking loose and casual in a great pair of jeans (great backside in jeans, more like it) and a long-sleeved navy-blue T-shirt.
He looked a little thinner than she remembered, a little bit more tightly wound. He walked around the side of the car, opened the trunk, grabbed two pieces of luggage, and put them on the ground. She felt her stomach roll at the beautiful, strained pull of muscles across his upper back, visible through the cotton of his shirt. He flipped his hair out of his face with a familiar toss.
Then Sarah’s attention went to his… companion. Did she have to look like an exotic Bollywood starlet for goodness’ sake? She wasn’t rail thin, but she was tall and lean: great figure,
strong legs in closely fitted black pants, and a belted lavender wraparound sweater that hugged her waist perfectly. She had the good taste to finish the outfit off with a pair of Sarah’s stiletto half-boots. Her black hair looked like something out of a Pasha’s harem: liquid perfection. Devon gave her a peck on the cheek that, even from two stories away, Sarah could tell was more friend than fire. The woman touched Devon’s back in way that made Sarah want to pitch out the window and swat her away, but he didn’t seem to respond with anything but casual acceptance. Then Sarah followed the woman’s silhouette as she followed Jeremy Paulson into the house.
When Sarah’s gaze returned to where Devon had been standing before, with his back to her, he was looking at her right in the eye. He gave her a little salute, the perfect gesture to let her know he was glad she was looking at him. And then that smile. Oh. God.
They don’t make smiles like that every day, she thought philosophically, as if such a thought were some sort of scientific discovery of Nobel Prize proportions. He looks happy to see me.
“What are you looking at?” Eliot’s voice sliced through her little reverie like a samurai sword as he entered Sarah’s room with friendly authority. Sarah turned her head to face Eliot but didn’t let go of the curtain.
“Nothing.” Guilty.
“What do you mean ‘nothing’? You look like I just caught you with your hand in the till—”
Eliot had been walking with purpose across the expanse of the lovely yellow guestroom, then stopped short when he pulled back the curtain to see Devon’s car… and then Devon. Eliot felt the tremor of—what?—fear, trepidation, and eagerness run through Sarah and reached his arm around her shoulder for moral support. “It’s all going to work out. Just look at him. He’s a wreck.”
“I think I might be in love with that wreck,” Sarah tried, in a small voice, but it came out in a kind of croak.
Eliot let the curtain fall back into place and guided Sarah away from the window. “We need to get downstairs for cocktails.” He bent his arm at the elbow and offered it to her. “Are you ready for your close-up, my dear?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” She looped her arm through his and they continued speaking in low voices down the wide corridor that ran the length of the second floor. When they reached the top of the stairs, Sarah heard a sound from the other end of the hall and looked over her shoulder to see Devon striding toward them. He was still about forty feet away, but he caught her eye for a split second then turned into what must have been his bedroom. Across the hall and three doors down from mine, she noted with a pounding enthusiasm that she tried to repress.
A second later, Bronte came flying out of her suite. “Oh, there you two are!” She caught up with Eliot and Sarah and the three of them headed toward the drawing room.
***
When Bronte, Eliot, and Sarah neared the large, formal drawing room, they were met with the sounds of a swinging Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong singing a raspy, loving duet of “A Foggy Day.” Bronte stood in the large doorway for a minute, holding Sarah and Eliot at bay. Max Heyworth was serenading his son, holding the baby close to his strong chest and turning the love song into a gentle bedtime story, “The sun was shining… everywhere…”
Sarah looked from Max, holding Wolf and swinging him gently in time to the swaying jazz, then back to Bronte by her side. “What is it, Bron?”
Her eyes sparkled. “I’m just having a moment, I guess. I don’t think I ever believed I could feel this much… Seeing Max holding Wolf is almost painfully good.”
Sarah gave her friend a comforting squeeze around her shoulders.
“Women are so predictable. A man. A baby. Bingo!” Eliot smiled as he put his arms loosely around each woman’s shoulder and watched Max for a moment, before the new father caught them all staring at him and smiled like a guilty boy.
“Am I that ridiculous?” he asked, but he obviously didn’t care how ridiculous he looked. Bronte crossed the room and put her arms around his waist so the baby was nestled between the two of them.
“I love you ridiculously,” she whispered into his ear, then looked down at Wolf and said, “and you too.”
Eliot remained in the wide entry to the spectacular, medieval room, one arm hanging carelessly across Sarah’s back. She leaned into him for a moment, taking in the image of the new family. She had visited Bronte in the hospital in London, but it had felt antiseptic and the baby had seemed like a tightly wrapped science project. A month later, there in his father’s arms, he looked like a magical cliché: a bundle of joy, a blessing.
She felt Devon’s presence before she saw him. Her back went rigid and she shook off Eliot’s arm with a brisk toss of her shoulder, then turned around to see Devon standing near the bottom of the large staircase, across the grand foyer.
Come on, she thought. You can do this, Devon.
Before the silence went on a moment too long, Eliot threw propriety to the four winds and nearly bellowed, “You must be Devon!” With a hearty, overly American force to his words, he closed the space between them and reached his hand out to shake.
Devon hesitated for a terrible moment and Sarah had a vision of the aforementioned leather glove flying into poor Eliot’s face. Then Devon shook off whatever momentary hesitation (fear? arrogance? ego?) had crossed him and shook the man’s hand. Sarah did not know whether to continue into the living room or to cross back to the foyer, so she just stood where she was.
He’s going to touch you now, some voice in her head remarked in an utterly impassive tone that reminded her of—of all things—the gynecologist before he inserted the speculum. She couldn’t help smiling at her totally incongruous train of thought, which meant she was smiling when Devon and Eliot crossed the few feet back to join her.
She was still tongue-tied and wavering between fear and joy. She would have to recruit Eliot more often because he was able to carry even the most awkward situations.
“Sarah James. Devon Heyworth. I’m not sure if you two have met.” Eliot winked at Sarah, continued into the living room, and called out, “Stop mauling the poor baby!”
Eliot had ridden out in the car together with Max, Bronte, and Sarah and he’d hit it off with Max from the moment they met. The four of them had spent the entire trip laughing with and at Bronte about her wholly improbable new love of all things baby.
Their voices faded. Sarah simply stared at Devon. He looked so good. So. So. Good.
“Are you going to say anything?” he asked quietly.
He sounded good too. His voice was low and just for her. Was it so wrong that she wanted to devour him?
She reached up toward his cheek, tentative, but he caught her hand in his before she could reach up to his face.
“You wanted me to try to be normal, remember?” he said quietly. “And I shall try, but I cannot even attempt it if you persist in looking at me like that and—”
She had reached up with her other hand to feel the skin of his face. She couldn’t help it. He pulled in his breath, his eyes closing for a second, then opening. He glanced over her shoulder and saw the other three adults were fully engaged with cooing and aahing over the cub.
“Come with me.” His voice was strained. They ducked into a coat closet through a concealed door that was built into the paneled wooden wall of the area under the huge stone staircase. Devon pulled on the string that flipped on the single light bulb overhead and shut the door to the tight space.
She reached her hand up to his face again and let her light fingers feel the curve of his cheekbone, his jaw, the flickering muscle in his neck. His eyes were closed and his hands were on her waist, neither pulling her close nor pushing her away, as he leaned against the closed door for support. Her fingers trailed around his neck and she passed a sensitive spot below his ear, toward his nape. His lips parted in response. She had to kiss him.
She stretched up her body and pulled his neck closer, forcing his face to come toward hers. He groaned, almost bitterly, when her l
ips touched his. Then they both slipped into a tumbling flow of desire, his body pushed her back against a packed row of old coats, the faint smell of cedar and mothballs swept around them. Her hands were all over him, through his hair, down his back, around his ass, up along his solid stomach, coming to rest on his chest, as their tongues withdrew from a final, slow, parting minuet.
“Devon.”
“I have waited so long to hear my name on your lips. I almost asked you to repeat it on the phone Tuesday.”
“I had to work up the courage to say it even that once.” Her face was scant inches from his.
“Can I come to your room tonight?”
She closed her eyes and tipped her head to an imaginary sky, seeing the red outline of the single bulb through the thin skin of her eyelids instead.
He couldn’t resist her taut neck. He kissed her lightly, not wanting to leave a mark on her skin.
“You are so… tender…” she whispered.
“I’m trying…”
“I…” She gasped as one of his hands left her waist and snaked under her sweater to the smooth skin of her stomach, the underside of one breast. “Oh, Dev.”
“Sarah. I’m… I don’t know what to say. I can’t think. I just feel. My hands are pulsing, literally, the tips of my fingers are throbbing to touch you. We don’t even have to do anything—”
She laughed spontaneously at that, but he continued seriously.
“I mean it, Sar. I just feel like I want to be in a bed with you lying next to me, to feel you alongside me. I need—” His voice cracked as her finger stilled his lips.
“Stop. Of course I want you to come to my room. I was just pausing because I don’t know how in the world I am going to make it through dinner without crawling into your lap and feeding you food like a sultan from my bare hands, preferably with my chest firmly pressed against you.” She felt him stiffen in response to her imagined version of supper and the brief example she had just given him of her chest pressed firmly against him.