Gilding Lillian

by DawnMarie Richards

  She was seduction personified. He cinched his cupped hands closer to his body in an involuntary and instinctual gesture of protection. The fleeting contraction did not escape her notice. She leisurely took his measure, leaving him uncomfortably exposed.

  “I am Lillian,” she offered unabashedly when she’d finished.

  Extending his hand with affected confidence, he introduced himself, “Griffin Bennett.”

  Lillian took his large, calloused hand into both of hers. Adrenaline shot through him, tensing his muscles and making his mouth go dry. As absurd as it was undeniable, he wanted her.

  He searched her face. If she was aware of her effect on him, she hid it well, looking back at him with no more than polite interest.

  “You have been traveling.” Was he imagining the breathless nature of her voice? “You must be very tired.”

  “I haven’t slept.” The pathetic statement made him wince.

  “Would you like to rest, then?” she asked, releasing his hand and mercifully ending their connection. “Did Miss Jones have your things brought upstairs? Your room is…”

  “I left my luggage in the cab. The driver is waiting for me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I decided to get a hotel room closer to the city.”

  “That seems foolish. This is your home.”

  “It hasn’t been my home for a long time.”

  “Very well. Coffee, then? I hate to keep you from your bed, but there are a few things we should discuss, yes?”

  “Yes.” He motioned with an outstretched arm for her to lead the way as he fought against the image of Lillian and his bed. He failed.

  My father’s widow, he reminded himself. My father’s fucking widow.

  She turned to her right and led him toward the “parlor,” as his mother had called it. Over the years, Helena Bennett had taken great care, and a good deal of her husband’s money, to restore the Beacon Hill mansion to its Victorian glory. Griffin had come to believe the refurbishment of this home, as well as the economic revitalization of a fading family line, had played no small role in the union of his refined and retiring mother to his shrewd and driven father.

  In front of him, Lillian opened the pocket doors with a graceful flourish of her arms.

  “Please, make yourself comfortable,” she told him as, without the slightest pause in her forward motion, she made her way to the love seat of an intimate furniture grouping in front of the room’s fireplace and perched on its edge.

  Griffin stopped just inside the doorway. Floor to ceiling solid wood walls, adorned by stately columns and raised panels, reflected the light coming through two large stained glass windows acting as backdrop to the baby grand piano at the far side of the room. The mantel—lit by sconces showcasing the intricately carved frieze—overflowed with objets d’art intermingled with framed photos from his childhood. To his surprise, his mother’s much-beloved wedding photo held center stage as it had for as long as he could remember. From the geometric parquet floor to the stunning, gold-leaf overlaid ceiling, and everything in between, the room remained precisely as he remembered.

  A sterling silver service set waited for them on the coffee table. Lillian had taken up the pot and begun to pour into one of two fine porcelain cups on the tray. The rich aroma of the dark brew beckoned him like a siren’s song, but the disquieting sense of déjà vu kept him from taking more than a few steps forward.

  “It’s exactly the same,” he muttered incredulously.

  “Mi scusi?” Lillian paused in pouring to look over at him. After a moment, she smiled knowingly. “Ah, the room. Yes. Your mother did lovely work, no?”

  “I don’t think I ever fully appreciated it.” He forcibly shook off his inertia and crossed the room to sit in the chair adjacent to the settee where Lillian sat.

  “Perhaps you were too young,” she reasoned. “Cream? Sugar?”

  “Black.”

  He accepted the cup she handed him and leaned back, telling himself to relax. Twenty minutes, just get through the next twenty minutes.

  “You seem surprised things are…unchanged.”

  He watched her prepare her coffee, two teaspoons of sugar and a healthy swirl of cream, before answering.

  “I guess I am. I’ve been gone close to twenty years.”

  “I believe keeping things as they were helped your father remember.”

  Griffin couldn’t help his sharp laugh. “I don’t recall my father being the sentimental type.”

  Lillian paused mid-sip and gave him a hard look.

  “I’m sorry. That wasn’t…this isn’t…” He brought his cup to his mouth to end his uncomfortable stammering and took a sip. The coffee was good, hot, and strong. He gulped down half the contents before changing tack, “I don’t mean to rush you, but the cab is waiting.” He drained his cup before leaning forward to place it on the coffee table and then reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket to get his cell. With a few swipes of his finger, he accessed his calendar. “I assume all of the arrangements have been made.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Griffin lifted his head, shifting his attention from his device to her arrestingly beautiful face. “Thank you for that. I wouldn’t have known where to start.”

  “Of course.” She waved away his gratitude. “The funeral is tomorrow at ten A.M.”

  “No calling hours this evening?” he asked as he thumbed the information into his phone.

  “No. Leonard did not want that. There will be time for a private viewing at the funeral home at nine if you wish.” He looked at her questioningly. “If you wished to say goodbye,” she explained.

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  She opened her mouth as if to argue but, after a slight lift of her shoulders, continued without contradiction. “Very well. If you would be there by nine thirty, I believe you have the address in the e-mail I sent you. I would ask you travel with me in the family car. That is, of course, if you have no objection.”

  He closed his eyes briefly, imagining being confined in the backseat of a limousine with her. He couldn’t think of anything he could possibly want to do less. But he reminded himself of his objective, do whatever it took to get the hell out of here as soon as possible and return to his life. Sighing heavily, he nodded.

  “That will be fine.”

  “There will be a reception here after the services.” She looked at him directly. “I’ve also planned a small brunch the following Sunday for close friends of your father to begin introductions.”

  “That won’t be possible,” he informed her, checking the time on his cell before slipping it back into his breast pocket. “I’ve booked a return flight for Sunday morning.”

  “The day after tomorrow?” Her expression registered mild interest, but tension pulled at the muscles along her neck and shoulders. “Then you must plan to return for the reading. Perhaps you will be able to take some time then.”

  “No. I don’t intend to return. I have a meeting today with Mr. Wurst, the estate attorney.”

  “Nathan?”

  “Yes. I’m hoping he can answer some questions for me, and I plan to sign over power of attorney to him.”

  “I see.” She dropped her gaze, staring into her coffee cup.

  Everything from her cool tone to her dismissive posture told him she wholly disapproved. He knew her opinion shouldn’t matter to him in the least. When it came right down to it, she was nothing more to him than his father’s gold-digging widow.

  Yes, she’d been careful and deliberate in delivering sensitive news to a potentially hostile recipient, a skill he had been able to appreciate even in his surreal state of disassociation. Her words, e-mails, and texts had been largely responsible for getting him prepared, packed, and on a plane in a few short hours after learning his father was dead. Perhaps the unexpected shame he felt at disappointing her wasn’t so odd, given the extreme circumstances under which they’d come to know each other. Unfortunately, the thoug
ht did nothing to dampen his growing irritation.

  “Is there a problem?”

  Without looking at him or answering his question, Lillian took a delicate sip from her cup. She returned it to its saucer and placed both pieces on the table in front of her and then folded her hands in her lap. She faced him with a curious expression; part dread, part resignation.

  “Your father had harbored a hope you might use the time to reacquaint yourself with your life here. He’d hoped you might consider becoming the steward of your family’s legacies…this home and the business.”

  He opened his mouth, but for several seconds there were no words.

  “What are you talking about?” he managed at last.

  “As I said earlier, this is your home.” She swept her arms in encompassing arcs like a game show hostess highlighting a grand prize. “And your father wished for you to take his place in the business as chairman.”

  Whether it was exhaustion or alcohol or being in this place where memories lurked around every corner, Griffin felt the walls moving in on him. He got to his feet in a rush. The sudden motion made him sway unsteadily. Lillian rose as well, placing her hand on his forearm. His eyes went to where she touched him. Electric currents radiated from the point of contact.

  He brought his hands up intending to push her off of him. But when his palms met the warm skin of her shoulders, instead of setting her away, he pulled her close.

  Her startlingly green eyes went wide. He was struck, again, by their unexpected hue in contrast to her blue-black hair and olive skin. But there was something more. Peering closer, he noticed flecks of gold in the emerald depths. Fascinated, he watched as the golden slivers heated to shimmering, white shards. The effect was remarkable, its implication clear. Griffin’s lips curved at the astounding irony of it all.

  Chapter 2

  Why is he smiling like that? He looked as if he wanted to consume her. As if he was an incendiary device greedy for air.

  Held captive by the tempestuous promise of his cobalt-gray gaze, so like his father’s, Lillian felt powerless to act. His hands slipped over her skin. She leaned toward the brush of his fingers as they explored the curve of her shoulders and the column of her neck. He cupped her face, tipping it to his, and lowered his head.

  “Last chance,” he warned, his breath blowing warm over her lips.

  Her body responded as if it knew him to be a source of great and wicked indulgence. Heady and unfiltered desire—absent for so many months—thrummed through her. She closed her eyes in silent assent and braced herself. Surely an act so impulsive and reckless would be explosive and out of control.

  His lips barely touched hers. Back and forth he moved his mouth in a phantom kiss that made her lower lip ache. An incomprehensible desperation grew inside her until a tiny sigh of protest escaped. Only then did he crush her in his arms, bringing his mouth down on hers with a determined force.

  Her thoughts went hazy, her knees weak. With trembling hands, she sought his hips, tugging him closer. He skimmed her back until his fingers found the twin rounds of her bottom and then he lifted, bringing her onto her toes and fitting his erection into the vee between her thighs. He groaned against her mouth as if some great agony had been relieved.

  The sound moved through her bones in an earth-shattering vibration. There was a rending, a tectonic shift in her being. And from the resulting fissure, something wrenched free. A thing so ancient and primitive, Lillian had no word for it.

  “Enough!” she cried.

  He stilled but did not release her.

  “Not enough,” he countered, his words hot on her lips, his hands clenching her flesh.

  Time stood still as the two considered one another through heavy-lidded eyes. Then she saw the fog of desire clear from his gaze.

  “Fuck!”

  Abruptly, he let her go. She stumbled backward, reaching blindly behind for the safety of the sofa. She sat quickly no longer trusting her legs to support her. The feral beast he had unleashed continued to careen inside her, making her heart race and her hands shake as she reached for the coffee pot and unsteadily refilled her cup. She took her time with the cream and sugar. Ivory and dark chocolate swirls turned to toffee at the slow turn of her spoon while she waited for her internal chaos to return to calm.

  It had taken far too long, in her estimation, before she possessed enough control to tap the sterling silver against the rim of the china. Taking a thoughtful sip before returning the cup to the saucer and the saucer to the tabletop, she folded her hands in her lap. Only then did she feel steady enough to raise her gaze to her late husband’s son.

  He had put the room between them and his back to her. With arms overhead, he gripped the frame of the open pocket doors tight enough to cause the skin over his knuckles to go white. It was enough to convince her it would be imprudent to discuss what had happened. He was in no condition, and she needed time to think.

  “You should go,” she informed him.

  He spun to face her. The impulse to go to him, touch him, was distressingly strong. She rose to her feet, smoothing her dress over her thighs and hips. He tracked every movement of her hands with his eyes. Instead of being irritated, her pulse quickened at his brash voyeurism. What has he done to me? She worried briefly before steeling herself to approach him. She would be damned to let him see her disquiet.

  “Your meeting,” she reminded him smoothly.

  “Right.”

  Without another word, he turned from her. She followed, listening to the determined rhythm of his footsteps echoing in the foyer. He slipped out the front door. She experienced a strange disappointment when he did not look back.

  Chapter 3

  It took Griffin three tries to get his lighter to catch. He made a mental note to refill it as he cupped his hands around the sputtering flame, bringing it quickly to the tip of the cigarette he held between his lips. He snapped the lid shut with his thumb and dropped the smooth square into his front pant pocket where its weight rested reassuringly against his thigh.

  He leaned back against the door of the limousine and took a long drag, appreciating the slow burn of tobacco as it filled his lungs. He’d cut down considerably since his early days in the Army, but he hadn’t fully committed to quitting. He knew he would, eventually, but it sure as hell wouldn’t be anytime soon.

  To say things were not going how he’d hoped would be a colossal understatement. His meeting with the estate attorney had been as perplexing as it had been frustrating, Nathan Wurst confirming what Lillian had said. Leonard meant for Griffin to have it all, including the family home and the chairmanship of Bennett Distributions, Incorporated. Leaving would be pointless. He had four to six weeks to weigh his options and make a major decision. He would have to either walk away from the life he’d built for himself over the last eighteen years or irrevocably cut ties with more than a century of family history.

  As for the insanity which had possessed him when Lillian had put her hand on his arm, even after four aspirin, a hot shower, and twelve hours of sleep, he’d been unable to devise a satisfying explanation. He only knew need had superseded his higher reasoning—straightforward and unflinching, but damn unnerving.

  A shiver went through him, his dress suit no match for the crisp New England fall morning. Why the hell hadn’t he thought to bring his overcoat? He brought the cigarette to his lips once more. The heat in his lungs somewhat minimized the chill in his bones. Lifting his head, he exhaled into the bright blue sky.

  When he lowered his gaze, he saw Lillian emerge from the entry of the funeral home. She halted and turned toward the double doors as if someone had called her name. He took her measure with leisurely self-indulgence. The woman who had sighed and trembled in his arms had been banished, replaced by the self-possessed creature who’d first greeted him. Shrouded in black—wool coat, silk dress, leather gloves, even her clutch—she appeared every inch the elegant, respectable widow.

  And then he noticed her shoes.

&nb
sp; She sported a sensational pair of deep red, patent leather stilettos more appropriate beside a stripper pole than a gravesite. Leonard Bennett had been a notorious leg man. Even as a teenager, Griffin had been aware of his father’s proclivity. An appreciative grin spread across his face.

  She presented a tantalizing mystery. Her affection for his father was evident, but Griffin had learned she’d signed a bizarre prenuptial agreement. It severed her ties to the Bennett family and its holdings immediately upon Leonard’s death while simultaneously naming her as her late husband’s personal representative. The effect being, if he so chose, he could go to the house after the funeral and put Lillian out on the street even as she bore the responsibility of keeping the same house running smoothly until he officially took possession. And while Griffin could understand a man in his father’s position wanting the protections the document provided, he couldn’t for the life of him conceive of a woman alive willing to sign it. At least he hadn’t been able to before meeting Lillian.

  Griffin straightened away from the car when he saw a tall, impeccably dressed man come to her side. She held her hand out to him. He took it in both of his, briefly, before threading it through the crook of his arm and curving it around his elbow. The two stood close, their heads bent together. The man solicitously patted her hand as they spoke. Like a husband discovering his wife with a lover, a murderous impulse quivered through Griffin, making him take one last restless drag before throwing the cigarette to the ground and crushing it into oblivion with the ball of his dress shoe.

  She must have noticed the agitated movement because she turned to look at him and, with a farewell touch to the center of her companion’s chest, approached.

  His roiling emotions rendered him incapable of speech. Without a word, he opened the limo door for her.

  She slipped into the car, her spectacular legs disappearing into the dark, warm confines of the vehicle. Griffin settled onto the seat beside her. She placed her purse between them and then turned her attention to removing her gloves. She tugged the leather loose over each finger of one hand before stripping it bare. Still clutching the kidskin in the crease between her thumb and forefinger, she switched sides giving her other hand the same deliberate care.