Emily's Secret

by Jill Jones

  “Are you joking? I don’t. I just keep my food in the fridge and my clothes in the armoire in the bedroom.” She turned and looked at him, her face a mixture of humor and practicality. “There’s not even any hot water down here.”

  He watched as she busied herself loading the basket, observing unabashedly the inviting curve of her hips beneath the soft skirt.

  She continued her explanation, talking more rapidly than usual, he thought. “I bought this place for almost nothing, which, if it’s true you get what you pay for, should be self-evident,” she said with a nervous laugh. “That was almost three years ago, and I had planned by now to have it completely restored. But like I said, it takes money, and although I haven’t exactly starved yet, my career, shall we say, has been a little slower taking off than I’d hoped. So I did what I could. The studio was my priority, and since that’s all I have been able to afford so far, that’s where I live as well as work.”

  Alex recalled the barn’s new roof and windows, the small kitchenette, the modern free-standing fireplace. “You did all that yourself?”

  Selena wiped her hands on a small towel and leaned back against the kitchen sink, her breasts pressing against the fabric of the white knit pullover. “With a loan from a local bank and the work of a carpenter in town.”

  Alex tried to ignore the distinct outline of her nipples and kept his gaze on her slightly flushed face. Her dark hair curled in shiny tendrils across her cheeks and fell in ribbons of ebony silk on her shoulders. The deep pools of her eyes held his gaze for a long moment, and he felt himself drowning in them. He groped for words to save him.

  None came.

  He stepped closer to her and brushed a curl away from her face. “You’re an extraordinary woman, Selena,” he said at last, his voice husky. It was an inane thing to say, he knew, and it wasn’t what he wanted to tell her. But it was all he could come up with at the moment to put a safe distance between him and the libidinous thoughts that were flooding him with desire.

  Her head was raised to his, and although she didn’t move away at his touch, Alex could see she was trembling. “Not so terribly extraordinary,” she replied, her own voice strained. She raised the picnic basket between them, handing it to Alex. “For the same money,” she said, clearing her throat and nodding toward the door, “I could be living in a one-bedroom flat above the butcher shop with no room to paint in. I guess it’s worth putting up with this for a bit. Come on, let’s go before we miss any more of this fabulous sunshine.”

  Domino romped ahead of them out of the door and stood guard against Alex while Selena took a moment to dash upstairs and check on her cats. Alex felt the hard discomfort of his body’s unquenched need, but knew he must exercise restraint with Selena. He wanted her too much.

  They walked briskly up the steep lane, which ended just past a large gate that prevented sheep from wandering too low on the moors. Alex carried the basket in one hand and slipped the other around Selena’s and gave it a squeeze, noting her fingers were like ice. She looked up at him, and he saw an uncertain smile striving for her lips.

  “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” she said. “We don’t get many like this.”

  Alex’s hungry gaze devoured the sight of the dark-haired lady at his side, striding with vigor up the hill, her long cotton skirt swishing against her legs, her hair drifting in midnight waves in the wind. Danger here, a warning whispered in his mind.

  The late sunshine spilled down the hillsides, tinging with gold the heavy heads of the long amber grass. A different variety of much greener grass apparently appealed more to the sheep, for it was cropped short, revealing the sandy soil beneath. On the next rise, a utility vehicle was parked near a crumbling drystone wall, and a man in a yellow cap waved from the distance.

  “That’s Andy Mahoney,” Selena said, returning the greeting. “He used to be a schoolteacher around here, but he found he could make more money putting these stone walls back together again.” She explained the joint venture between the government and private property owners to restore the hundreds of miles of drystone walls that were the historical signature of Yorkshire. “The original farmers in this area stacked the stones as they removed them from their fields, building these walls which have stood for centuries.”

  Alex paused and looked across the vast expanse of verdant hillsides that spread in every direction. The walls crisscrossed them in a haphazard pattern, dividing the land into odd geometric shapes. “Did the walls separate property or something?”

  “Nope,” she answered with a laugh. “The farmers just had to put the stones somewhere. The walls do provide a windbreak and shelter for the sheep, though.”

  They continued their journey upward until they reached a rise high above the farmhouse.

  “This is the place I had in mind,” Selena said, indicating a shallow dip in the terrain. “I come here often. The grass is soft, and the sky seems so close you can reach out and touch it.” She looked up and added, “Do you suppose the yellow balloon that broke loose this morning is responsible for this sunshine?”

  Alex looked up, too, feeling the sun’s warmth on his face and having the distinct impression that it was spreading downward into other regions of his body. “Perhaps it is.” He didn’t care what had brought the welcome change in the weather, nor whether he could touch the sky.

  He wanted to touch Selena.

  They spread the coverlet she’d brought over the thick grass, creating a soft pallet beneath an azure sky. A few clouds had begun to gather at the crest of the hill behind them, but their misty gray offered no threat at the moment.

  “I must have subconsciously wanted to have a picnic,” she said, bringing the pâté and cheeses out of the basket and placing them on the wooden cutting board. “I never buy this kind of thing at the market.”

  Alex found himself at a loss for words. On one hand, he was immensely glad her subconscious had been so astute, but on the other, he suspected that by coming to this idyllic spot with Selena he’d irrevocably violated his own hard and fast rule against becoming emotionally involved with a woman. He must be very, very careful.

  He helped himself to a slice of cheese and tried to think of something safe to talk about. “I used to go on picnics when I was young, but I haven’t done this in a long time.”

  She handed him the bottle of wine and the corkscrew. “Where did you go to picnic then?”

  He eased the cork from the bottle and poured them each a goblet full of the robust red liquid, noticing how the sunlight played on Selena’s hair. “My favorite place was a park, down along a bayou near where we lived. There were picnic tables, and people brought charcoal to cook out. Sometimes somebody caught a fish and cooked it over an open fire.”

  Alex raised his glass to hers, “To your future as a rich and famous artist,” he said, and they drank deeply of the wine.

  With her tongue, Selena retrieved a drop of wine from her full lips and laughed. “I’ll take the rich part. Then I can afford to fix up the house so I can properly entertain my guests from afar.” She paused a moment, then asked, “What’s a bayou, and where was this picnic place?”

  Alex hadn’t missed the way her tongue licked away the wine, nor the way his body reacted to it. Slow down! he demanded of his thudding heart. He spread some of the rich pâté onto a slice of crusty French bread and handed it to Selena. Then he refilled the wineglasses and took another deep swallow before answering. “A bayou is a slow-moving river or stream that comes out of a swamp, and the place was south Louisiana. That’s where I was born and raised.”

  “But you live now in New York?”

  Another large sip of wine. It was a natural supposition that he lived in New York. After all, didn’t most important art deals happen in New York? He lowered the glass and looked at her, knowing the moment was at hand. “Virginia,” he replied, expecting further questions that would allow his confession about Henry H. Bonnell to unfold in a natural and hopefully not too condemning manner.

  But su
rprisingly, she did not pursue it. She raised her glass to her lips and sipped the wine, her eyes holding his in a steady gaze. “Do you like the wine?”

  Alex refilled their glasses, noting the bottle was already over two-thirds empty. “It’s wonderful. Italian?”

  Selena nodded. “So is this Gorgonzola. Try it.”

  She stuffed a small slice of the Italian blue cheese between his lips, letting her fingers linger long enough for him to lick the crumbs from her fingertips.

  The touch of his tongue against her skin was his undoing.

  The desire he’d been struggling to control the entire day unleashed itself, leaving him helpless in its wake. Alex took her fingers in his and kissed them lightly. His eyes searched hers for permission to continue, and his heart raced when he saw it in their midnight depths.

  Alex lowered his lips to hers, savoring their wine-sweetened tenderness. Their fingers entwined, and he drew her hands against his chest, letting his kiss speak to her of his desire while their bodies were yet apart. Her lips opened to his gentle searching, setting Alex on fire with the realization that she wanted him as much as he did her.

  Restraint vanished, and the walls of his resistance crumbled.

  Alex shoved the cheese board aside and nestled their wineglasses carefully in the tall grass. Selena lay back against the side of the hill, and Alex leaned over her, gazing steadily into her eyes, dropping his head slowly, slowly, until their lips met.

  “Selena,” he breathed, and her name was a prayer on the wind. He grazed the flawless olive skin on her face with the back of his fingers, tracing them lightly down her throat and over the crest of her breasts to the nipples that rose to greet his touch.

  She was everywhere in his senses. He knew he should stop, but the scent of her perfume, encouraged by the quantity of wine he’d consumed so quickly, inebriated his will. He felt the gentle pressure of her hands against his back, almost as if she were pulling him against her. He tasted her kiss, sweet and demure at first, and felt it intensify as her lips parted to receive him. A loose strand of her hair struck his cheek, lashing him toward the edge of uncontrolled passion.

  A nameless emotion suddenly tightened his throat, and he pulled away from her. “My God,” he whispered, holding her face in his hands, kissing her lips, cheeks, the tip of her nose, her forehead. What was he thinking? He felt her trembling in his hands. Or was he the one who trembled? Alex sat up, trying to catch his breath, which was coming in ragged gasps. He had to regain control.

  Selena looked up at him, her eyes questioning, asking without words why he had pulled away from her.

  The nameless emotion took on a name, and Alex knew the answer to her question.

  Fear.

  It was fear that clawed its way upward from his belly and wrapped icy fingers around his heart. It had been forever, it seemed, since he’d felt this way toward anyone. Maybe he never had. Not exactly like this. Emotions seemed to spiral from deep within, swirling from a dark vortex and surrounding him with a power so strong it threatened to overwhelm him. He couldn’t do this. He had to stop. Get away. Now!

  A cold drop of water dashed across his cheek, as if a giant tear fell from the sky.

  They looked up in unison. The misty cloud that earlier had nestled peacefully at the top of the moor must have been but a scout for the warrior storm that had invaded the heavens from behind the crest of the hill. The wind picked up, sending more cold raindrops earthward.

  “Grab the wine!” Selena cried, twisting from Alex’s arms. She whistled for Domino and began to toss the picnic fare into a plastic container. “Looks like we’re going to get wet after all.”

  He hoisted the hamper and took her hand, and together they hurried back down the hillside. The sudden downpour served as a much-needed cold shower for Alex, restoring his senses. When Selena was safely back in her house or studio or wherever the hell it was she lived, he would, he swore, get in the Jag and make a permanent exit from her life.

  Chapter 18

  As the afternoon turned into evening, Eleanor Bates grew restless, anxious to hear from Dr. Hightower. But her phone remained silent. The longer the time stretched out, the more questions built up in her mind. I wonder what Brian Wescott knows about this man? she thought. A longtime friend and fellow Society member, Wescott was in charge of organizing the debate between Maggie Flynn and Alexander Hightower. Had Brian checked out Hightower’s background carefully enough? They all knew his reputation was that of a renegade scholar. But being an unconventional thinker was one thing.

  Being a liar was another.

  And it was obvious that Alexander Hightower had lied to the artist and, she supposed, to her agent as well.

  Ordinarily, Eleanor Bates was not one to police the actions of others. But in this case, she felt compelled to investigate Alex’s veracity completely, because the lie he’d told had outrageously involved the Society’s most important benefactor. Questions shouted through her mind and kept echoing there until she could no longer ignore them.

  Was this man a fraud, and if so, should there even be a debate?

  At last she could stand it no longer. She picked up the telephone and dialed Brian Wescott.

  “Brian, my dear fellow,” she said, “Eleanor Bates here. How have you been? And do tell me things are going well for the debate. Will we have a good crowd?”

  “El! What a delightful surprise.” Brian Wescott spoke in the thick accent of his native Yorkshire. “Yes. Yes, I do believe so. We have already started receiving reservations.”

  “Splendid! However, I was thinking perhaps I could help out. You know, make some personal phone calls, that kind of thing. I feel this will be an extraordinary event.”

  “No doubt. I understand Dr. Hightower is already in Haworth. What do you suppose he’s up to?”

  I wish I knew, Eleanor thought silently, but replied, “It’s probably a last minute effort to support his theory, which I believe will be quite difficult to do. Actually, he was the reason for this call. I know when I call my friends to talk up this debate to them, they will want to know all about Dr. Hightower and Dr. Flynn, and I was wondering if you could provide me with a vita on them both?”

  “Certainly. I’ll drop them to you by post tomorrow morning. Don’t you think it’s interesting that they used to work together?”

  Caught by surprise, Eleanor didn’t reply right away. “Well, actually, I wasn’t aware of that. Where was this?”

  “Flynn was a visiting scholar at Strathmore for a year.” The man hesitated a moment, then continued with a hint of humor in his voice. “There’s talk, you know, that they…know each other quite well, if you get my meaning.”

  Eleanor Bates didn’t miss much, but this news quite astounded her. “You don’t say? When was this?”

  “Oh, a year or so ago, I believe. It’s just gossip, of course. But still, it should make things very interesting, don’t you agree?”

  Nonplussed by this news, Eleanor answered somewhat absently, thanked her friend for his help and rang off. Her mind was chewing on a lot of things, including her own misguided efforts to make a match between the two scholars. She’d been too late, she thought, amused in spite of herself. Maggie and Alex had already played that game.

  And lost, it would appear.

  Or at least one of them had.

  She recalled Maggie’s eager willingness to invite Alex to her daughter’s affair at Harrington, and Alex’s distress when he’d discovered Maggie was in attendance. Had Alex rejected the beautiful Maggie Flynn? It was hard to fathom.

  Although with the newly planted seeds of doubt concerning Alex’s personal integrity, Eleanor thought that maybe Maggie was better off in the long run.

  What was between them now? she wondered. Was it only professional disagreement that fueled the debate, or was there more going on than met the eye? Intrigued by this latest news, Eleanor placed a third call. Who would know more about Alexander Hightower than his former lover?

  “Dr. Flynn? Elean
or Bates here. I hope all is going along well with you?”

  “Yes. Things are fine, Ms. Bates.” She sounded distracted, perhaps in a hurry. Or uncomfortable with the call.

  “I won’t keep you long, dear. I’m calling to ask a favor.”

  “I’ll be happy to help if I can.”

  “I’ve volunteered to do some personal promotion to increase the attendance at the debate, and I was wondering if you could give me some insight as to how this whole thing developed in the first place?”

  “Well, I guess it was because I called Alex’s hand on his ridiculous suicide theory,” she said, and Eleanor didn’t miss the scorn in her voice. “You see, I spent a year at Strathmore, and we…came to know each other quite well. At first I thought he was, uh, interesting. Creative. You know. The rogue scholar. But then I realized that he really didn’t have anything solid to base this thing on, and frankly, I got tired of hearing him espousing something he could not substantiate.”

  Eleanor got her answer as to Maggie Flynn’s motives for the debate loud and clear.

  Professional jealousy.

  A painful emotional involvement with her opponent. Perhaps even revenge.

  “Yes, I do understand Dr. Hightower is something of a renegade, but without new thoughts and theories, don’t you think we could get stuck in a rut, academically speaking of course?”

  “I think you would be the first to agree, Ms. Bates, that when it comes to the Brontës, we do not need any more wild, unsubstantiated rumors. Our work is too full of that kind of nonsense already.”

  “Perhaps you are right, my dear.” Eleanor then carefully worded her specific inquiry so as not to make it seem too important. No matter what she found out, she still owed Alex a chance to speak in his own defense. “Still, Dr. Hightower does seem to be an interesting man. So involved academically, and an art connoisseur as well.”

  It was Eleanor’s turn to hear a long silence on the line. Then Maggie laughed, loudly and harshly.