Once Upon a Pillow

by Christina Dodd

  Making his way to the outer edge of the castle, Max looked out toward the sea. “Interpol.”

  “Interpol?” She fumbled for the cell phone again.

  She could see his profile in the moonlight: sharply etched as stone, and as cold. “I’ve got a friend who works for them in France.”

  “A friend?” She invested the word with doubt and painstakingly dialed the emergency number.

  “We went to Oxford together.”

  “A lowly handyman,” she muttered.

  “A millionaire banker,” he corrected. “Dennis said objects from Masterson Manor are selling on the international market. He wanted to know what I intended to do about it.”

  She hesitated, her finger hovering above the Send button. “Why would he call you?”

  He extinguished the other light, also. “Actually, we were chatting, and I told him I was involved with you, and he asked how well I knew you.”

  “And you told him we were engaged.” Then Max’s meaning sank in. “Why did he ask how well you knew me?”

  “Because Interpol believes you’re the one selling the antiques.”

  “Me?” She realized she had squawked, and in a lower tone, repeated, “Me?”

  “You’ve got access, and a knowledge of what’s valuable.”

  “My God.” The pit of her stomach dropped to her toes. “I’m never going to get my thesis done.”

  “Your thesis?” He turned on her like an attacking beast. “If you don’t clear yourself, you’re going to jail.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’ve got no money. If I’d sold those antiques, I’d have money.”

  “There are ways to hide profits.”

  “Millionaire banker.” Come to think of it, in Somerset, he had looked like a millionaire banker on vacation. But he was a very good handyman, and millionaire bankers didn’t run electric cable.

  Yet she had believed Max was not what he claimed. Could he be an agent instead? Had he been following her in Somerset and lured her to speak to him? A horrible thought occurred to her, and she clutched at her chest. “Did you seduce me to get all my secrets?”

  In that decisive British accent that made almost anything sound respectable, he said, “No, love, I seduced you to get in your knickers.”

  “You’re…crude,” she sputtered. Yet he sounded so amused, she was perversely comforted. “So you’re not a spy?”

  “No.”

  “And you’re not a smuggler?”

  “No. If I were a smuggler…”

  His cold tone sent a chill up her spine. “Yes?”

  “I would have already pushed you off of the cliff.”

  Shivering, she zipped up her windbreaker. “You really have a way with words.”

  “Think about it. You’re not Indiana Jones, and this stuff is not the Lost Ark.”

  “It’s important!”

  “The fate of the world does not depend on what happens to a sixteenth century chalice. But the fate of my world does depend on you.”

  She didn’t know what to say. Was he insinuating he…loved her? He certainly hadn’t given her any indication of adoration before. Friendship, yes. An appreciation for her face and figure, certainly. Passion…oh, my, yes. But the man had been chary of showing affection, and she…she felt too much affection to settle for anything less.

  Going to the second flashlight, he extinguished it and took it off of the column. “At least this eliminates you from the suspect line-up.”

  Alarmed by his grim satisfaction, she asked, “What do you mean?”

  “You couldn’t have got the flashlight up this high by yourself.” He tucked it into his bag. “Whoever did this had to be a man. Come on. There’s no one out here except us. We might as well go back to the manor.” He took her arm firmly in his and they worked their way across the meadow. His head turned as he scanned the area; he was watching for more than just rabbit holes. He observed the terrain, scrutinized the manor, yet he spoke to her with every evidence of attention. “I really do make a lot of money.”

  “Okay.” Where had that come from?

  “I can support you very nicely.”

  Exasperated, she asked, “How do you do that?”

  “What?”

  “Turn every conversation to marriage.” She stopped and faced him. “You’re not solely responsible for what we did. You didn’t rape me, you know.”

  His lips quirked in an unaccustomed smile, and he stroked his cheek with his fingers. “I know.”

  When he spoke in that deep, smooth, utterly male and satisfied voice, she remembered that night. The silky sheets, his warm, welcoming body, his male scent enveloping her. The madness of passion, the pain, and the slow rebuilding of desire as he brought her back to him, over and over, until she moaned with the agony and the pleasure. When she allowed herself to think about that night, she suffered such an ache in the area of her heart, she could scarcely breathe. She wanted to fling herself into his arms and beg that he satisfy all the glorious urgings of her body.

  But she’d done that once and it had proved disastrous. No one could say Laurel Whitney didn’t learn from her mistakes. “All this talk about virgins and marriage is nonsense. We enjoyed a night of mutually pleasurable passion, and the fact I was untried is immaterial.” She lifted her chin. “Everyone has to have a first time. Even you, Mr. Ashton.”

  “Yes, but mine was at home—alone.”

  She gurgled with surprised laughter.

  How did he do that? She was standing on her dignity, making good points of logic, and he made her laugh. It wasn’t fair—and at the same time, she knew that, no matter what she said or how eloquently she made her point, he would pay her no heed. He adhered to some archaic moral code which said a man married a virgin he had despoiled, and by God he would marry her, whether she wished it or not.

  The problem was…she did wish it.

  She loved him.

  She started back toward Masterson Manor.

  With a considerable lowering of spirits, she admitted she loved him, or she would never have slept with him. She loved the way he listened when she lectured about history. She loved that air of command that worked so well on hoteliers and maitre’ds. She loved the way he dressed, the way he looked, the way he smelled…she shouldn’t think about those things or she’d fling herself at him and he’d know he’d won. She was not going to be married of her maidenhead or lack of one.

  She flung back at him, “Millionaire banker or handyman, I wouldn’t marry you for your money.”

  He caught up with her and took her arm once more. “I know. That makes you all the more attractive.”

  “I’m not trying to make myself attractive to you!” The manor loomed before them.

  “And yet you succeed at every turn.” He led her toward the front of the house where the shadows were deeper.

  The gravel walk crunched beneath their feet. The nicotiana blossoms gave up their strong, sweet odor. Max and Laurel mounted the steps.

  Lowering his already quiet voice, he said, “Give me the key.”

  She knew why he wanted it, and as she pulled her key out of her pocket, she said, “I can open the door myself.”

  He caught her hand. “No, you can’t.”

  “Listen—”

  “Did it never occur to you that those lights might have been a diversion to get you out of the manor while thieves stole the rest of the valuables?”

  “Yes.” That had occurred to her up at the castle, right before he’d grabbed her. “The burglars might be in there now. We should call the police, not go in ourselves.”

  “I wouldn’t call the local constables to catch a stray dog.”

  One other possibility existed. “Constable Shelbourn might be in on the take.”

  “There is that.”

  Obviously, the thought had already occurred to him. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to frighten her, and if she had good sense, she would be frightened. Instead, the thought made her furious. If it was true, if Shelbourn was part of a smug
gling ring, she wanted nothing more than to thwart him and drag him to justice.

  But Max made her just as angry—and twice as worried. “Why should I let you go in and risk your life alone?”

  Wrapping his arms around her waist, he leaned against the wall and pulled her so that her whole body rested against his. “Because I’m your man and you’re my woman, and I will protect you, whether you wish me to or not.”

  Her hands pressed against his shoulders, her head tilted up toward his.

  He kissed her, without hesitation, without a single doubt about his welcome. He opened her lips and made himself at home.

  She pushed against him, tried to get away—and collapsed against the wall in a heap of tangled emotions. He tasted so good, like fragrant wine and rich cakes and desperate passion. He wrapped her in warmth, his body radiating heat like a furnace. Her hands kneaded his shoulders, her breasts pressed against his chest.

  How many weeks had it been since she left him? Weeks of tossing in her lonely bed, remembering his touch, his taste, the way he brought her to completion again and again. She’d been shy. He’d been bold, insistent, demanding everything from her and receiving everything…and more. All his skill and all her desire conspired against her then, as it conspired against her now.

  Right now, if he chose, he could strip off her slacks and take her against the wall.

  When her knees had collapsed and she was nothing but a puddle of desperately unsatisfied womanhood, he kissed her one last time. “Now tell me the security code and give me the key.”

  Chapter Six

  Laurel still hesitated, and Max wanted to shake her. But he was learning that Laurel would not be coerced, and for a man used to having his own way, it was a hard lesson indeed. Placing one hand on the wall on either side of her head, he leaned close enough to whisper in her ear, “Humor me. If you go in there with me, I wouldn’t protect myself, I’d protect you.”

  “Humph.” She pushed his head aside and dropped the key into his shirt pocket. “Be careful.”

  He would have been happier if her wish hadn’t so plainly been torn from her by guilt. “I might go in there and never come out.” He bent down, his lips almost touching hers. “Make a man’s last moments memorable.”

  She ducked out from under his arm. “Go away.”

  He grinned. She made him happy in a way he hadn’t been since…well, he didn’t ever remember being so happy. She was smart and funny, passionate and dedicated to her work. And he wanted a little of that passion and that dedication for himself. He would win her. He would have her. But first, he had to discover who was making her life hell by robbing from Masterson Manor—and from him.

  For Masterson Manor was his house. That was why he’d been at an antique auction. That was why he’d met Laurel. That was why Dennis had called from Interpol to tell him about the smugglers.

  Max was the mysterious new owner.

  Moving with a stealth he’d learned in his early years on the rough side of town, he set the key in the lock. He turned it. The latch clicked; it had been locked, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps whoever had set those lights hadn’t had time to get into the manor…or maybe they’d come in a different door. Stepping inside, he checked the security system. Everything was blinking. Everything looked normal.

  But the security system was at least five years old, antiquated as only old technology could be. If he had a read-out of who had entered, and when, and a video record … he’d already ordered the new system. It would be in place as soon as he took possession.

  Silently he moved through the empty rooms, looking for an intruder or evidence of one. When he confirmed no one was in the house, he stripped off his gloves and thrust them in his pocket. Flipping open his cell phone, he punched in a number.

  A very grouchy French-accented voice answered.

  Max grinned. “Dennis, old man, did I wake you?”

  “Max? Whatever it is, couldn’t it have waited until tomorrow? I have a lovely jeune fille here, awaiting my attentions.”

  “She’ll thank me for the call. You Frenchmen always hurry these delicate matters along.”

  Dennis’s snort was both Gallic and expressive. “This had better be good.”

  “It is.” Max told him about the evening, about seeing the lights at the castle, about finding Laurel and no other sign of smugglers. Most important, he told Dennis about Constable Frank Shelbourn and his outrageous suggestion that Laurel investigate the smugglers herself.

  In a second, Dennis went from disgruntled lover to professional investigator. “His name again? Frank Shelbourn, heh? Ask your Laurel if he has the code for the security system. The actual key he doesn’t need; the police have lockpick tools. He’s in a good position to smuggle things out of the country, too. Yes…very interesting. I’ll check this out and be back with you tomorrow.” His voice grew sly and teasing. “If he is the culprit, your Laurel is off the hook, oui? Will I be dancing at your wedding soon?”

  Max hesitated an instant too long.

  “Non?” Dennis shouted with laughter. “She doesn’t want you?”

  “Shut up and find out about Shelbourn.”

  “I will.” Dennis sobered. “In the meantime, you’d better keep an eye on your darling damselle.”

  “Believe me. I have no intention of leaving her alone.” Max cut the connection and went back to the front door for Laurel. Damn Dennis and his sense of humor. He’d better come through, and fast. Max wanted this riddle solved and their safety ensured so he could concentrate on Laurel to the exclusion of all else. Sweet, defiant, lovely Laurel, who stood huddled against the wall, her arms wrapped around her chest, her head down.

  He turned on the lights.

  Her head jerked up, and she uneasily looked at him.

  “Come in.” He held the door. “No one’s here.”

  She gave a sigh of relief. “Good.”

  As she passed in front of him, he experienced a flash of satisfaction so intense, it took his breath away. His woman, willingly stepping across the threshold into his house. Did she know what this meant to him? No, of course she didn’t. She didn’t know…so much.

  He wouldn’t tell her, either. The pain of his early years were not to be shared. He had put them aside, and instead concentrated on the present and the future. Eventually she’d realize he was telling the truth about his profession, and perhaps she’d be pleased.

  Or perhaps not—Laurel would be just as happy being the wife of a handyman as a banker. Possibly happier, for he didn’t imagine she would enjoy the social events he was required to attend. But if he had to, he would bribe her with the house and all the money she wished to return it to its original glory, and the time to work on her thesis.

  No, it wasn’t necessary for him to tell Laurel about his past, for surely she would despise him.

  He must have been staring at her like Dracula at his next victim, for she backed away from him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Glibly, he answered, “Because you look so beautiful.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Sure.” Stripping off her windbreaker, she tossed it on a chair. Then she did the female thing, the one which drove him wild with desire. Loosening the clip from her hair, she shook the long, straight, shining black locks free. The strands floated about her face. Lifting her arms, she caught up the exquisite mass, twisted it into a knot, and displayed all the sleekness of her body for his pleasure. He wanted to take advantage of her vulnerability. He wanted to wrap his arms around her waist and pull her against him, kiss her long neck, slide his hands under her sweater…

  All unaware, she clipped her hair and dropped her arms. “So no one has been in here tonight.”

  Shaken from his fantasy, he was crisp, like a man waking from a sound sleep. “There are a lot of pieces missing.”

  “Pieces…” Smiling, she shook her head. “No, they’re not. Or at least—not the smaller pieces. I put away the ones I could lift.”

  Charmed, relieved, he asked
, “Did you?”

  “I’ve been doing it every night since I realized…” She strolled toward the stairway. “I feel so stupid. I didn’t grasp what was happening until I did an inventory for the new owners.”

  “Three weeks ago.”

  She whirled on him. “How do you know that?”

  “That’s when the Barrys asked me to work for them.” He raised his eyebrows with mock innocence. “No one does repair work until they’ve sold the house.”

  Leaning against the Regency era table, she scrutinized him, her long lashes drooping over her blue eyes. The oversized cream-colored cashmere sweater clung in all the right spots. Her navy slacks hugged her thighs.

  She was still suspicious, poor lass, wondering who her real friends were. If all went well, by tomorrow night she would know. Sliding his arm around her waist, he turned her back toward the stairs. “But how clever you are to hide the antiques!”

  She went reluctantly. “What else could I do? The Barrys depended on me, and I’ve failed them. I had to save what I could. I have to try and find out who is stealing so many irreplaceable objects.”

  If he weren’t careful, her sense of responsibility would get her killed. “Who has the key and code for the security system?” he asked.

  “Too many people. The Barrys, of course. Kenneth and Grace.”

  Of course. The staff was so often at the heart of these robberies. “Kenneth and Grace both live in Trecombe,” he said, “and they have the advantage of knowing where everything is and what it’s worth. It would be easy enough for one of them to come back here and take what they wished.”

  “That’s an awful thought!” Laurel’s eyes flashed with indignation. “Grace is sweet, if a little too fond of sermonizing—”

  “She never sermonizes to me.”

  “You’re a man. She thinks you’re perfect.” Clearly, Laurel didn’t suffer from that misapprehension. “Kenneth is…well, surely he’s too old to steal.”

  “You are a babe if you believe that. Who else has a key?”

  “Father Ellis at the church.”

  “Unlikely.” Father Ellis’s arthritis made it hard for him to walk.