"Raves and orgies?"
His laughter is soft and incredibly sexy as he puts the key in the lock and opens the massive front door. It's the kind of laughter that puts ideas into my head that haven't been there in a very long time--delicious thoughts of sweaty bodies, tangled sheets, heavy breathing, and a man's stiff shaft moving slowly up and down inside me. Thoughts I haven't allowed myself to indulge in since long before poor old George fell off his girlfriend's balcony.
"Your terms of employment actually specify no raves or orgies?"
"I think my contract says something like 'the employee may entertain a reasonable number of visitors and also the occasional overnight guest' or words to that effect. I figured the rest out for myself."
Nick hesitates for a brief moment, then he reaches around the door, flips on the light, and I follow him into the house. My first impression is of a set for a historical movie--acres of stone-flagged floor, what look to me like priceless antique chandeliers suspended from the ceiling, and pale ivory walls adorned with immense tapestries and oil paintings in huge gilt frames, interspersed with the odd mace and battle-axe, or whatever those nasty looking weapons are officially called.
"What is this place?" I ask in an awed voice. "Dracula's castle?"
"Foxton Hall. Once home to the lord of the manor, but he died some years ago. Unfortunately, he left very little money--just enough for his widow to live on. When she died and the estate was settled, the property had to be sold lock, stock and barrel, to pay off the death duties."
"Why didn't they sell some of the pictures?"
He brings my luggage inside, closes the door, and starts down the wide hallway, with me following right behind. "Anything of any value was sold long before the widow died. What you see here now are worthless prints. The frames would probably fetch more than the pictures. Death duties here in England can be crippling. So when it came time to pay the piper, the only thing left to sell was the property itself, plus a few bits of furniture."
"Guess that answers my second question."
"Which is?"
"Why isn't there a burglar alarm?"
"I'd say because at the moment there isn't anything much here that's worth stealing. McIven's American, like you. He bought the hall because he was all set to marry the daughter of a local baronet. They held their engagement party here, then McIven left to attend to some urgent overseas business deal, while the Honorable Polly stayed on to supervise the renovations and redecorating. But the next thing we knew, the engagement was off, the renovations were cancelled, and McIven was living here alone."
Once in a while, my curiosity overtakes my good manners, and this was one of those times when I just had to know. "What happened? Another woman? Another man? What?"
Nick stops and opens a door on his left to reveal a sparsely furnished, formal drawing room. What little furniture the room contains is covered with dust sheets. "This is where the engagement party was held. Doesn't look as if it's been used since. As to what happened..." He closes the door and shrugs. "No one knows for absolute sure. But rumor has it that McIven came home and caught Polly having it on with another man. By the time he managed to break down the door and get into her room, the man had disappeared, and she denied there was anyone there in the first place.
"She insisted she was asleep and what McIven heard must have been the creaking and groaning of an old building. Maybe it was. Apparently, it was very windy that night, and old places like this can be extremely vocal at times. Then again, Polly has always had a bit of a reputation with the men. My guess is she shoved the chap out the window and down the drainpipe before McIven got through the door."
"And just maybe what McIven heard was a ghost," I say with intentional relish. "A house this old is bound to have a few restless spirits wandering about to liven things up. Am I right?"
"A g...ghost?"
Most of the men I know like to prove how macho they are by laughing their heads off at the mention of ghosts or anything else that goes bump in the night. But not Nick. He doesn't look what I'd call scared, but I swear his pale complexion just turned an even lighter shade, and for a tiny instant, I'm a tad concerned he's going to faint or pull some other trick I think of as being reserved for the fair sex. The moment passes in less than a heartbeat. He pulls himself together, and I reach out and give his arm a comforting squeeze. "You're not scared of ghosts, are you?"
"Of course not. Anyway, there aren't any here." He assumes a jaunty expression, glances up and down the wide hallway as if to reassure himself there's nothing there that shouldn't be, and gives me a big, confident smile.
"So...what are you scared of?" I ask.
"Nothing that I can think of. Why do you ask?"
Except ghosts, of course. And admitting this place may be haunted. "Just curious."
Personally, I love haunted houses and anything supernatural. But, despite what some experts say, I don't believe ghosts can do much more than scare people. Ghosts are all smoke and shadows, the stuff scary stories and movies are made of...they're not real. Old houses have a lot of history and that almost always includes a restless spirit or two, and I admit the possibility there could be some spooky apparition, or wisp of ectoplasm wandering about gives me a real rush.
I want to make Nick tell me whether or not anyone has ever seen what they thought was a ghost, maybe walking up the stairs or along a hallway, but this isn't the right time. Anyway, I'm here for at least six weeks. Plenty of time for me to find out everything there is to know about the place, first hand.
Nick continues on down the hallway, opening the doors to other rooms, which he indicates in turn are the dining room, the library, the breakfast room, the sitting room, the music room, which I notice has a piano in it, and the games' room.
At the end of the hallway, we turn right, and Nick flips on a couple more light switches. "Bedrooms are up there," he says, pointing to a wide, curving staircase. "And straight ahead is the kitchen."
"Not very cozy," I remark, looking around as we enter the vast room with its large, square, scrubbed pine table, surrounded by a dozen or more chairs. Along the walls are electric stoves, and one of those coal-burning stoves like Ginny has, the kind that does great slow-cooking and can be kept going all winter long. There are also a couple of refrigerators, a freezer, a double sink, an enormous, solid wood Welsh dresser, and just about everything I'd expect to find in a kitchen catering to a house this size.
"Once you get the coal stove going, you'll find this is the warmest room in the house, and you'll want to spend most of your time in here."
Somehow, I don't see myself crawling around on my hands and knees, cleaning out the ashes of old fires and lighting new ones. I can almost guarantee I'd set fire to myself in the process. "Maybe so, but I don't have any experience with coal stoves. Isn't there some kind of heating I can just switch on?"
"There's no central heating as such, just coal fires in the downstairs rooms and built-in electric heaters in the bedrooms and bathrooms. If you can make do with them temporarily, I'll come back in a day or two and show you how to deal with the stove. It's quite easy, once you know how."
I give in with a sigh and a silent reminder to myself that it never hurts to learn something new. I know, learning how to light a coal fire won't bring me fame and fortune, unless I have designs on becoming a pyromaniac, which I don't, or help me get an exciting job with a large paycheck, which I wouldn't turn down if it were offered. Nevertheless, for someone totally without qualifications such as myself, each and every little bit of knowledge helps. "Thanks. I think."
He starts backing out of the room. "Unless there's anything else you can think of, I'll say goodnight and leave you to get settled in." He hesitates, rubs his forehead and gives me a sheepish smile. "I've just remembered that tomorrow's Saturday, and I don't have to work. I could come by about ten to help with the stove, if that's okay with you."
"Ten's fine with me."
When we get back to the front door, he opens it and sa
ys, "After we're finished with the stove, maybe you'll allow me to introduce you to one of our local pubs for lunch. Assuming you'd like to do that, of course."
"Sounds very nice. But--" It's my turn to hesitate now. I feel embarrassed about giving him the third degree, but life with a charming womanizer like George has taught me a lot about men. It's taught me to be suspicious and ask questions sooner rather than later. "That's provided I won't be stepping on anyone's toes."
He frowns. "Meaning?"
"We're strangers. And while I don't mean to sound rude, you could be married, or living with someone, for all I know."
"I'm not married. And I live alone. I wouldn't have suggested lunch otherwise," he says, looking a little surprised I might think otherwise.
A man of honor. Wow! I thought they'd disappeared with the dinosaurs. I breathe a tiny sigh of relief. "In that case, I'd love to have lunch with you."
He smiles, a wonderful, sexy smile that makes me give serious thought to throwing caution to the wind, locking the door and inviting him upstairs. "What about you? Is there a man in your life at the moment?"
"No. I was married, but now I'm a widow. And I'm sorry if you thought I was being ultra cautious. But I like to know where I stand up front. That way I avoid being surprised later."
The smile disappears, and I wonder if he thinks I'm being a bit presumptuous, talking about later. We haven't even had lunch yet.
He reaches out and touches my hand. "I understand. We are strangers, so I don't blame you for asking. I don't like surprises either. But you have nothing to worry about with me. I'm not married, engaged or otherwise committed to another living person. Cross my heart and all that. Okay?"
"Fine. I'll look forward to seeing you tomorrow around ten. "
* * * *
With Nick gone, I take my bags upstairs and start on my own tour of the premises. I'm very sensitive to houses. Some I feel comfortable in; some I don't. And while this great barn of a place is cold and has an unloved, unlived-in feeling, it also has an underlying warmth that wraps itself around me like a blanket. A feeling of coming home that's so strong, if I could raise the money to buy the place, I'd make McIven an offer the moment he returns. But since me buying a place this size is neither possible nor practical, I'll just have to enjoy it to the max while I can.
I think there are fourteen bedrooms, but I lose count after twelve. Another flight of stairs, this time narrow, wooden, uncarpeted stairs, takes me up to the third floor, where the ceilings are lower and I find more sleeping quarters. These rooms are much smaller than those on the floor below. The décor consists of plain white walls, single beds with thin mattresses, simple pine chests, straight-backed chairs, and bare floors covered with a thick layer of dust. All of which I take to mean that back in the hall's heyday, this is where the staff lived. I can't imagine any be-furred and be-jeweled ladies of means spending the night in these humble quarters. I head back down one floor.
Most of the bedrooms on the second floor have been sparsely furnished as guest rooms. They each have a bed and a few bits of utilitarian furniture, and I have no trouble figuring out which room Mr. McIven uses. Partly because it has the nicest and newest furnishings, and partly because it's a complete and absolute mess. The bed is unmade, there are dirty glasses and plates with dried-on food littering the bureau, while discarded clothing, books and papers cover just about every other surface in sight. The ensuite bathroom is in pretty much the same condition, with soap scum around the tub and used towels on the floor. The man is either a pig, or he left home in one helluva of a hurry. Whatever, I tend to be a bit of a neat freak myself, and since this is now my home, albeit temporarily, tomorrow, or the day after at the absolute latest, I'll spend some time in here and restore it to livable condition.
The room I finally choose for myself is a corner room at the back of the house. It has two views, one south and one east, pale yellow curtains and walls, French windows opening onto a small balcony, a four-poster bed with a comfortable mattress, and more than enough cupboards and drawers for my few possessions. The best part is that it has its own bathroom. If the set-up doesn't seem quite so nice when I see it in daylight, then I can always change to another room. After all, I have at least a dozen or so alternatives to choose from. I can even try out several different rooms, if I wish, and decide which I like the best.
I quickly put my stuff away and return to the kitchen, where I investigate the contents of the various cupboards. In the first one, behind a large box of dry cereal, I come across a dish containing a bunch of spare keys. Attached to each key is a label and on each label someone has written in tiny block letters what the key is for. Making a mental note as to where the keys are should the need arise, I forget about the cupboards and make myself a cup of tea. The tea is good, but I'm also hungry, so I open the refrigerator in the hope of finding something that doesn't require a ton of cooking. The first thing I see is a note from Sam McIven wedged between a carton of milk and a jug of orange juice. The note says he's stocked up on a few basics for me, such as eggs, bread, butter, cheese, juice and milk, and that I should get whatever else I need from the village stores and charge it to his account. If I feel like something stronger than tea or coffee to drink, the key to the drinks cabinet is in the right-hand drawer of his desk in the library.
At the bottom of the note he's scribbled two phone numbers he says I should call in the event of an emergency. One is for his lawyer; the other for his accountant. As an afterthought, he's also added the number of the local police station.
Crossing my fingers that no emergencies will rear their annoying little heads during my stay at Foxton, I stick two slices of bread in the toaster and open up a package of cheese.
After I finish the tea and toast, I decide to take a nice hot bath and go to bed. It's been a long day, and I'm tired. I know plenty of people who wouldn't want to stay alone in a house this size, but it doesn't bother me. I love the house, and I feel safe here. In any event, this is a quiet English village, not L.A. But even in L.A., I lived alone in a six-bedroom house for months without coming to any harm. Here, the downstairs doors and windows are all locked and I have Nick's assurance Foxton's crime rate is around zero, so I know there's nothing for me to worry about.
I take a book to bed with me, just in case I need to read for a while, but I must have fallen asleep the moment my head touched the pillow. The next thing I know, it's morning. The bedside lamp is still burning, and the book remains unopened on the nightstand in the same spot I left it after unpacking my bags.
I look around the room. A shaft of pale, wintry sunshine highlights the fact there is dust everywhere and the carpet could do with a good cleaning, but I ignore them. Dust and dirty carpets are not high on my list of things to do today. I'd much rather think about the sexy dream I just awoke from. A few remnants still linger in the corners of my mind. Scrappy, patchy, seemingly unrelated but intriguing bits and pieces that slip away when I try to connect the dots. I snuggle back down under the duvet, close my eyes and try to remember the details.
Nick is naked, and he's standing there by the window. He appears to be looking out, beyond the glass, but at what, I have no idea. It's dark outside, so the most he can see is the outline of a tree or a building against the night sky. Unless, maybe, he's just staring into space, deep in thought.
"Come to bed," I call softly. "It's too cold for you to be standing there like that. You're gonna catch pneumonia at the very least."
At first, I think he hasn't heard me. But then, a moment later, he comes to me, wrapping his arms around my body and making me shiver as his cool skin touches my warmth.
His erection presses hard against my belly, and my need coils tighter with each passing second. I'm wet, I'm ready, and I know he wants me every bit as much as I want him. I slip a hand between our bodies and stroke his prick, loving the way it jumps and bucks against my hand. Then his tongue parts my lips and does to my mouth what I want him to do to my pussy. I moan and wrap my legs around
his waist as I guide him into my heat. He's big and he's hard, the way I want a man to be, and I rock my body against his until he's buried to the hilt inside me.
He pulls out part way, then pushes back in, bringing every nerve in my body to heart-stopping attention while I hold my breath in anticipation. Slipping his hands beneath my buttocks, he withdraws again. Then, holding one of my butt cheeks in each hand, he opens my legs wider and starts to ride me for real. My fingers dig into his flesh, my nails rake his back, and as the pace increases, I feel like I'm moving closer and closer to the edge of the earth. One more push and I'll be over, falling into space and--
Suddenly, I hear a phone ringing somewhere nearby. I sit up fast, throw back the duvet, and realize there's a phone on the nightstand.
I grab the receiver. "Hello? Er...Foxton Hall. I think you must have the wrong number. There's no one here at the moment, 'cept me, of course."
I hear a familiar soft, sexy chuckle, then Nick says, "Well, I'm glad you're there. I was starting to worry. It's ten-thirty, and I've been ringing the bell and banging on your door for the past fifteen minutes or more."
"Ten-thirty?" I repeat groggily. I'm about to ask what's so special about it being ten-thirty, but then I remember. "Ohmigod, I'm so sorry! You're here to give me my stove lighting lesson, and I've overslept. Give me a minute to throw something on, and I'll be down to let you in."
I sleep in the buff, so it takes no time at all for me to throw cold water on my face, drag on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and race for the front door.
After the dream I've just had, I should be embarrassed to see Nick in the flesh. But the moment I open the door and see him there, freshly showered and shaved, with a twinkle in his brown eyes, and wearing well-worn jeans, a navy sweater and a heavy, navy wool jacket, all thoughts of embarrassment flee as my mind takes on the fascinating task of wondering if he's as fantastic at making love in reality as he was in the dream. If his dick is as--
"Did I wake you?"
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