Emily's Secret

by Jill Jones

  “Art connoisseur? Wherever did you get that idea?”

  “I’ve heard he’s in the market for some rather expensive art he’s come across in the area.”

  “Surely you’re kidding? I’ve been in Alex’s…Dr. Hightower’s home many times, and I can assure you the only art on those walls came already framed from the discount store.”

  “Well, perhaps I’m mistaken. Unfortunately, it happens when you get to be my age. Thank you so much, Dr. Flynn, for your input. It will help as I prepare my pitch for your debate.”

  “Feel free to call if I can help you further,” Maggie said, then added with open malice, “As far as I’m concerned, Dr. Hightower is a dilettante and a boor, and the more witnesses to his downfall, the better.”

  Eleanor raised her eyebrows and rang off quickly, settling the phone back into its cradle as if it were red-hot. A dilettante and a boor? Alexander Hightower had seemed neither to Eleanor.

  But then, he also had not seemed like a liar.

  August 10, 1847

  Charlotte’s “Professor” has once again been rejected, but this time with encouragement from the publisher who wishes to see her next novel, which is almost complete. I continue to scratch away at my work, but nothing pleases me about it. I have created a gipsie hero, but I know nothing of gipsies except what Mikel has told me, and this story does not ring authentic to my own ears. Perhaps I should tear it up and start over.

  August 25, 1847

  “Jane Eyre” is off to Smith Elder in yesterday’s post. I pray that it is accepted, for Charlotte is having increasing difficulty in holding up under continued rejection, especially since Anne and I are receiving the first proof sheets on our novels. It would be sad irony if Charlotte’s was to go without a publisher, as she is the most adamant that we can earn our living as novelists. To this end I should be concentrating on my writing but as I sit by the fire at night with my sisters, my mind wanders not into my story, which lies fallow on my lap desk, but into the arms of a gipsie named Mikel, whom I may never see again.

  September 1, 1847

  Good tidings arrived today from George Smith of Smith Elder. He has accepted Charlotte’s manuscript in less than one week since she submitted it to him! She is a changed person since receiving the news. Papa has remarked about it, so we must be cautious, for he does not know that all three of his daughters are soon-to-be-published novelists.

  October 19, 1847

  We have received by post copies of some London newspapers which are carrying rave reviews of Jane Eyre. Charlotte is stunned that it is apparently such an overnight success, but Mr. Smith writes that many bookshops have already sold out. We are all three ecstatic at this turn of events, but I am not so surprised, for Jane Eyre is an excellent piece penned by that talented writer Currer Bell. “He” has told a masterful tale!

  Even though Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey have been with our publisher far longer than Jane Eyre has been with Smith Elder, Newby has yet to give us a publishing date. Perhaps “Currer’s” popularity will spur him to bring forth our books as well.

  December 13, 1847

  I question my ability to make sound decisions, at least in the case of Mr. T.C. Newby. So eager was I to have my novel published that I fear I have signed up with a charlatan. Now that Currer’s Jane Eyre is all the rage in London, Newby has seen fit to publish the efforts of Ellis and Acton, but he is busy confusing the work of the three Bell brothers and intimating that Currer is the author of all three. He has done a frightful job of getting the books out as well. They abound with errors, and it appears as if Mr. Newby did not bother with our corrected proofs. Wuthering Heights has, however, finally reached the light of day. Will my dear Mikel ever read it? It is unlikely, and I am as glad so, for I should wish him never to know he was the model for the dark personage of Heathcliff.

  Man, woman, and dog were soaked to the skin by the time they made their way up the stairway and into the studio. The storm was increasing in violence, with wind wailing down the moors and lightning streaking across the skies. Peaches and Hizzonor jumped down from the sofa and rubbed against Selena’s legs as if relieved that their human had returned safely to protect them from the gale.

  “How’d that happen so fast?” Alex said, catching his breath and pulling at his wet clothing.

  “It’s like that all the time,” Selena replied, breathless. “One minute it’s beautiful, the next it’s a mess.” She headed for the small linen cupboard in the cubicle she called a bathroom, trying not to think about what had happened on the moors between her and Alexander Hightower. Her hands shook as she pulled two clean towels from the shelf. “Here,” she said, tossing one to Alex from across the room, as if she were afraid to get too close to him again.

  She was having difficulty reconciling the fact that her normally well-disciplined emotions had not only wavered beneath his touch, they had exploded into shards of intense desire.

  She didn’t blame him for what had happened. She knew she’d invited the kiss. She’d wanted to feel the light touch of his tongue against her fingertips. She’d wanted to press her breasts against his solid chest and feel the strength of his arms around her.

  She had wanted, still wanted, him.

  And as she stared at him from across the room, she read the sexual hunger in his eyes as well. A hunger that was at once both frightening and intoxicating. A hunger that matched her own. Her belly contracted and she was aware that it was more than the cold that caused her nipples to stand erect beneath her clammy, drenched shirt. She reached for the woolen shawl that hung over the back of the couch and pulled it around her shoulders protectively.

  She had to ask him to leave.

  Soon.

  But she couldn’t throw him out soaking wet. Like her own clothing, his was sodden and mud-splattered, and she saw a shiver crawl down his spine. “Let’s warm this place up,” she said, finding her voice at last. Quickly, she went to the stack of neatly piled firewood in the corner and laid several sticks in the large round firebox. With shaking hands, she crumpled some old newspaper for kindling and lit the fire with a match. Soon a flicker of warmth began to dispel the chill. Domino was especially appreciative, and stretched out nearby on his blanket, keeping one eye cocked on Alex.

  Alex threw the towel around his shoulder and went to the window, where raindrops struck thick and fast from the outside and firelight reflected from within. “Guess I should make a run for it,” he said, shivering again. “My jacket’s in the car. Glad I put the top up.”

  Selena stood with the sofa between them, her heart pounding. “That’s for sure!” Go ahead, she ordered herself silently. Send him on his way! But instead she said, “I have hot water up here. And some brandy. Why don’t you warm up in the shower, and we’ll finish our picnic, at least. The storm will likely subside before long.”

  She imagined she saw his back straighten slightly, but he didn’t turn to face her, and a small ache nestled around her heart. So he didn’t want to stay…But he rubbed his hair with the towel, then turned and looked at her with an unreadable expression in his eyes.

  “Yeah,” he said after a long moment, surprising her again. “Yeah. I guess we ought to do that.”

  A knot of apprehension suddenly tied itself in the pit of her stomach. Where was this leading?

  “You go first,” she said, indicating the shower stall. “I have a clean smock you can wear till your clothes dry.” She gave him a small grin and went into the back room of the studio. She returned and held up a paint-stained garment that loosely resembled a muslin choir robe. “Not exactly haute couture, but I think it’ll fit. At any rate, it’ll be warmer than what you’re wearing now.”

  He came across the room and took the smock with a doubtful smile. Holding it out in front of him, the smile turned into a laugh. It was obvious to both of them that if it fit at all, the effect would be hilarious. “I don’t know, Selena. Maybe I’d better just bite the bullet and go on home.”

  “Your choice.” His
laughter caught up with her, and she felt the tension that had steadily been mounting between them ease somewhat. “Brandy and brie by the fireplace, or a cold, wet ride home with your dignity intact.”

  He hesitated, dropping his head to one side and contemplating her from smoldering gray eyes. “When you put it that way…”

  Selena waited until he’d shut the door behind him and she heard the water running before considering the ramifications of the offer she’d made him. She poured herself the rest of the red wine that remained from their aborted picnic and drained the glass swiftly. She knew better than to drink so much, but she was counting on the wine to steady her nerves now that Alex had taken her up on the invitation to stay.

  What was the harm in it? She’d meant it only as a hospitable gesture, nothing more. She threw another log on the fire and busied herself unloading the picnic basket. Relax, she told herself, her heart pounding, trying not to think of the sexy man taking a shower only inches away from where she stood at the sink. She laid out the remains of their picnic on the table in front of the fireplace and went to the cabinet beneath the sink to retrieve the brandy she’d promised Alex. She’d give him a drink and send him on his way when the storm subsided. After all, she hadn’t asked him to spend the night.

  Or had she?

  Selena blinked, considering the possibilities.

  Behind the brandy bottle she spotted another bottle of red wine. She hesitated. Then she heard her guest turn off the water in the shower. With a deep breath, she brought out the wine, located the corkscrew, and uncorked the bottle.

  One more glass of wine wouldn’t hurt.

  One more glass.

  Chapter 19

  Warmed from the hot shower and dried with the towel, Alex peered into the steam-shrouded mirror, trying to evaluate the absurdity of his attire. He wiped the glass with the towel and grimaced at what was reflected there. He looked, he thought, like a fallen angel at best, or perhaps a misplaced Roman in a paint-speckled toga. But he was covered, sort of, and he was dry.

  The yoke of Selena’s painting smock didn’t pretend to make it all the way across his wide shoulders, forcing the armhole seams to strain upward toward his neck. What should have been long, loose sleeves tightly covered his well-developed biceps and ended just at his elbow. He would have to call on the aid of his own belt to achieve decency where the smock gaped open in front. The hem fell not quite to his knees, and his muscular, hairy legs looked ludicrous in the skirt.

  “Oh, crap,” he muttered. Then he considered his options. His trousers, shirt, socks, and undershorts lay in a puddle on the floor.

  Dirty.

  Cold.

  Wet.

  Annoyed, Alex scooped up the clothing and fastened the belt around his waist, pulling the soft muslin fabric together in front as securely as possible. He cracked the door and peered out. He could see Selena’s silhouette in the firelight where she sat, her back to him, brushing her wet hair.

  “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” he growled, asking himself the same question.

  She turned, and when she saw him emerge, her eyes danced in merriment. “You look…great!” Then she covered her mouth with her hands to capture the howl that escaped only seconds later.

  “Maybe I should have left with my dignity intact after all,” he uttered, but when he saw that Selena had changed into a similar frock, he changed his mind. Whereas he looked ridiculous, she was spectacularly beautiful in the garment. Her hair fell soft and black against the white smock, which clung to her as if custom fit by a master tailor. It was open at the throat, and coming toward her, Alex could see her breasts were bare beneath it. His breath caught for a moment, then raggedly escaped.

  “I’ve poured you a brandy,” she said shakily, averting her eyes from the front of his makeshift robe, where the belt was all that kept the fabric from revealing his naked self. “Why don’t you sit here and warm up while I jump in the shower?”

  Warm up? he thought, suddenly perspiring. If I got any hotter, I’d explode. He waited until Selena made her way around the opposite end of the sofa and into the bathroom before he turned fully to the firelight. He didn’t want her to see the force of his desire, which stood erect beneath the thin material. Hastily, he drew a chair as close as he dared to the fireplace and hung his clothing on the back of it to dry. Perhaps in a short while they would be fit to put on again and he’d be on his way.

  Alex picked up the snifter of brandy she’d set out for him and downed a large swallow, noticing her nearly empty wineglass on the table. He laughed to himself, guessing she was as nervous as he. He tossed back another large swig of brandy and felt its fingers of fire scratch down his throat. She didn’t have anything to be nervous about, he thought, but he knew he was lying to himself. Trying to quit thinking about the possibilities the evening held in store, he settled into one end of the sofa, and only then did his eyes fall on the paintings.

  They hung, as they had the day he’d photographed them, along three walls of this room of the studio, giving it, in the flickering firelight, the look of a macabre gallery from an alien world. A streak of lightning lit up the room, washing the mauves and grays with an electric white. Thunder followed a split second later, and suddenly the lights went out.

  “Oh, damn it all,” he heard Selena’s voice from the bathroom. She shut off the shower abruptly. “Alex, be a love and find the candles so we can see what we’re doing. They’re in the cabinet over the sink. The matches are on the table.”

  Alex hitched his smock together and picked up the matches. Another flash streaked from the heavens nearby, this one even closer, for it simultaneously cracked the nighttime sky with ear-splitting thunder. He fumbled in the semidarkness and found the candles. He lit one and melted some wax onto a china saucer that waited unwashed in the sink. Firmly, he anchored the candle in the wax, then repeated the process with another.

  He carried the two lights toward the bathroom. “You’ll have to open the door. My hands are full.”

  She did, and emerged fully clothed again in the smock. The olive skin of her face glowed soft and healthy in the candlelight. “Some storm,” she said, her voice throaty.

  Which one? Alex wondered. The one outside, or the one that was raging fiercely inside his own breast? “Yeah. That last bolt of lightning must’ve hit pretty close around here.”

  They made their way to the fireplace, set the candles on the low table, and sat down awkwardly at opposite ends. “It’s like that often out here,” Selena said, picking up her wineglass and refilling it. “Lightning crashing, thunder booming.”

  “Don’t you get scared?”

  “What’s there to be scared of? The only one it seems to bother is my brave and fearless Domino.” She laughed and looked at the poor creature huddled miserably in his bed. Then she turned back to Alex. “Well,” she said, “after all that, I really am starved. Shall we?”

  The earlier picnic was spread in a smorgasbord on the table in front of the fireplace, just out of reach from where they sat. Cautiously, Alex leaned forward, moving a scant two or three inches closer to Selena.

  Selena did the same. Still, neither could comfortably reach to take the first bite.

  Alex grinned over at Selena. “Want to try that again? Maybe after two or three more scoots we can reach dinner.”

  Laughing, they moved closer and reached for the cheeses, fruits, pâté, and French bread, which unfortunately by now had gone a little soggy. His appetite sated, Alex downed the remainder of the golden brandy in the snifter. He leaned forward, his hands on his knees, and stared at the fire. “Will the lights come on soon?” he asked, stifling a yawn. Selena’s prescription of a hot shower, food, and a snifter of brandy was working its magic, but unfortunately, it was also making him damnably sleepy. He should leave soon, but he didn’t want to leave her alone in the dark.

  She stretched like a sleek satisfied cat and said with a not so stifled yawn, “Who knows? The local power company isn’t the greatest at res
toring electricity quickly.”

  Thunder continued to rumble overhead, but it was more distant now. The rain pattered rather than beat against the windowpane. The wind sighed, and Alex did, too. He leaned back against the worn sofa, braced from the stiff drink and as ready as he’d ever be to explain about the Henry Bonnell thing. It wasn’t a big deal, but seeing the paintings had reminded him he needed to get past that little hiccup.

  “Selena.” He touched her shoulder, and she jumped. “Come here,” Alex said with a low laugh. “I won’t bite.”

  He held out his arm and she moved into its shelter, snuggling up next to him, her feet behind her and her body leaning against his. He ran his hand down her back, noting the disconcerting absence of either a bra or a panty line. He felt her shawl on the back of the sofa, and he pulled it over them, protecting them from the darkness of the room behind them.

  They sat in silence for a long while, adjusting to the unfamiliar warmth of intimate closeness. Alex rested his cheek against Selena’s damp hair, inhaling the perfume of her freshly shampooed locks. He wanted more than anything to raise her lips to his and bury himself in her kisses, but he knew if he did, for him there would be no going back. He felt her body relax into his, the curve of her breast pressing softly against him. He glanced down to make sure his gown still covered the lower portion of his body.

  At last Alex spoke, brushing a soft kiss into her hair. “Listen, there is something I need to, er, straighten out with you,” he said, feeling her even breathing as her breasts rose and fell against his ribs. “That day when I first came here, I…” His hand had traveled down her back again and across the rounded flesh of her bottom. He paused, realizing she had made no move to stop him.

  His interest in telling her about his little mendacity turned into a desire to explore other possibilities further, even though the rational, sane side of him knew better than to tempt fate. But that rational, sane side was slightly inebriated. Lightly, he traced small circles across the surface beneath his hand, allowing his fingers to graze ever so lightly the cloth-covered crevice they crossed along the way.