Her bare feet soundless on the plush carpeting, she returned to the side of the bed. His chest rose and fell rhythmically and his features had relaxed. She caught the involuntary twitch of his fingers from the corner of her eye. He slept.
There was nothing more for her to do. Rest would be the best medicine for him. But she couldn’t seem to turn away from the fascination of his impossibly long lashes, the draw of his inviting and full lips, and the temptation of the curl of hair against his forehead. They conspired to hold her captive. In a daze, she brought the flat of her hand to rest over his heart. Somewhere deep in her psyche, reason noted the strong, steady beat, another sign of improvement. The balance of her consciousness, however, reveled in the simple feel of him, skin-to-skin. She closed her eyes.
An intense vision—shrugging out of her robe and sliding the straps of her nightgown off her shoulders, the satin slipping over her body to puddle on the floor at her feet before she stretched out beside him—had her lifting her free hand to loosen the knot at the side of her waist.
“Stay.” At his hushed request, her eyes flew open. She snatched her hand from his chest, like a child caught touching a forbidden keepsake.
She threaded her fingers tight against any further transgression. For several pulse-pounding seconds, she watched him. He did not open his eyes or move. She let out the breath she had been holding as it became evident he still slept. Slowly, she backed away, watching him carefully. He did not wake. Lillian slipped from the room noiselessly, grateful to learn Griffin Bennett talked in his sleep.
Chapter 6
Lily of the valley blanketed the meadow where the woman hid. Griffin knew she was there, just out of reach. Her presence taunted him. The breeze carried her scent. Her sighs echoed to silence over the horizon. And she touched him, sweeping over his skin in sudden gusts which receded before he could capture her in his arms.
Frantic, he began to run, crushing flowers beneath his feet. Their perfume overwhelmed him, making him unbearably sad and inexplicably hopeful at the same time. He began to call for her, calling until his throat was raw and all he could manage was a dry whisper.
“Lillian.”
“I’m right here.”
Cool skin brushed his forehead. Where is she?
“Open your eyes.”
It took a surprising amount of effort to raise his heavy lids over his swollen, gritty eyes. He had to blink several times before his vision began to clear. Lillian stood by the side of the bed, her hands folded primly in front of her.
“Your fever has broken. You are better?”
“I’m…I’m not sure.”
“Do you think you can sit? I’m afraid you’re becoming dehydrated…you need to drink.”
“Drink?” he repeated, dazed by so many words.
“Yes. Sit up for me, please.”
He sat up on his elbows, but dizziness prevented him from going any farther. She bent over him, wrapping him in her arms, and hauling him up to sit. He hung over her helplessly like an overgrown boy while she plumped his pillows and eased him back. Satisfied with his position, she twisted away. When she turned back, she held a large glass.
“Now.” She handed it to him. “Drink.”
He found the straw angling through the water and ice cubes with his tongue and, drawing it into his mouth, took a long sip. The water was cold and felt good as it slid down his aching throat.
“What time is it?” he croaked.
She consulted the stylish watch on her wrist.
“Five thirty.”
“In the evening?” he asked, confused.
Despite the evidence before him—Lillian dressed and made-up, the fading light through the heavy curtains drawn over the French doors and his depth of disorientation—it seemed impossible he’d slept through the day. Granted, he’d suspected a herd of heavy-footed elephants had stampeded over him when he’d woken in the middle of the night. He hadn’t even had the strength to drag himself to the bathroom and find aspirin. After a few steps, he’d sunk onto the floor and fallen asleep. The next thing he’d known, Lillian’s confident hands had been moving over him.
“No. Five thirty in the morning. Tuesday morning.”
“What? That’s not possible.”
“You’ve been very ill. And I am sure jet lag did not help your condition. I’ve tried to wake you several times, but you were, ah, uncooperative.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his hand to his forehead. He’d been out of commission for over twenty-four hours. Images came in and out of focus: Lillian taking his temperature, holding his wrist in one hand and a pocket watch in the other, sitting on the side of the bed holding his arm across her lap and tapping on the inside of his elbow, stripping away the sheet and wiping him down, cold compresses on his head, chilled fingers on his neck.
“You took care of me?”
“Yes,” she told him directly. “I need you to take these, please.”
He took his hand away from his face and looked at her in wonder. She presented a perfect picture of patient indulgence, her hand held out to him, two aspirin in the flat of her palm. Confounded, he took the tablets from her, dutifully swallowing them with a mouthful of water. When he finished, she took the cup from him, turning to place it within arm’s reach on the bedside table.
“Lie down. You should rest,” she told him over her shoulder.
Apparently, intimately nursing a near-to-complete stranger back to health was all in a day’s work for his father’s widow. Nursing?
“Of course…you are a nurse.”
“Mi scusi?” Her shoulders had gone rigid, but she did not turn to him. “Did you say something?”
He had not realized he’d spoken out loud. From her body language, it was clear she had no interest in acknowledging his discovery, let alone discussing it. Her reluctance compelled him to press the point.
“How you’ve handled the situation, it’s obvious.” He shifted, sitting up straighter and staring at the back of her head. “You’re a nurse.”
She turned slowly. “You are mistaken.”
It did not escape his notice she failed to meet his gaze.
“I don’t think so. You have medical training, at the very least. I admit my memory is fuzzy, but I’m pretty sure you gave me an injection.”
“Four of them, in fact,” she confirmed stiffly, continuing when he opened his mouth to speak. “It means nothing. Your father’s illness was progressive. He required a great deal of care in these last months. I learned what I needed to best care for him. That is all.”
The final three words she said with an ominous tip of her chin, giving him the impression persisting on the subject may be perilous—for him. He had the gnawing sensation she was lying to him, but he let it go with an indifferent shrug. Her self-congratulatory smile nearly made him change his mind, but then she turned her attention to the bedside table where she collected some empty cellophane wrappers and used tissues. She held them in her hands as she faced him.
“Rest,” she ordered before striding away.
He slanted against the headboard and watched her cross the room. When she moved into the bathroom, and out of his sight, he closed his eyes. Her activities echoed in the tiled space: the gentle slush and thump of cabinets and drawers being opened and closed, the rush of running water, the rustle of her clothes, the staccato of her heels. The concert of commonplace sounds soothed him.
He was struck, again, by the same skewed sense of déjà vu he’d experienced his first day in the foyer. He’d been ill in this room before, but his mother had been the one attending to him. She had rummaged in the bathroom as Lillian did, touching the same porcelain faucet handles, the same marble vanity top, and the same cast-iron door pulls. He was certain he had sat like this, listening to her movements and letting the muted din of her care lull him to sleep.
A vibration roused him. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes. Lillian stood at the far side of the bed, tugging at the covers and then smoothing them with a pass
of her hand. He followed her movements as she navigated the mattress, pausing at the foot of the bed and tucking in perfect squared corners before coming to his side. Her hair moved in a glossy wave as she bent to grasp the twist of sheet and blanket lying across his lap and, with a practiced tug, pulled them flat. She folded the top edges over him and then straightened, placing her hands on her hips.
Granted, she looked nothing like any nurse he’d ever seen. Perfectly manicured, impeccably dressed, sporting six-inch heels, she looked like a woman about to do a whole lot of damage to her credit card at Copley Place. Not in the least like a recent widow caring for her late husband’s sick son. But he was more certain than ever she had been a medical professional some time in her past. At the very least, she’d been trained and spent some time in a hospital setting. There was no other explanation for what he’d just witnessed. He was confident she could strip the bed too, no doubt with him in it.
“But why would you lie?”
The gracious concern he’d seen in her eyes turned to a steely foreboding. He immediately regretted his blurted question. He was in no position or state of mind to be accusing her.
“How dare you? You, you…ingratio …maleducato …uomo bestiale…”
“Wait, wait.” He tried to speak over her, but there was no strength in his words. In desperation, he reached for her, wrapping her wrist with his fingers. The light touch was enough to halt the torrent of foreign words cutting him to the quick even though their meaning was lost on him. “You’re right. Everything you’re saying is right, even the things I don’t understand. I shouldn’t have said it. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
And he was, truly and to his depths. His head was aching, his mouth was dry, and his heart pounded uncomfortably in his chest. He felt as if he’d been through the combat obstacle course, twice.
“I do wish you would stop apologizing to me,” she snapped, although he took it as a good sign she’d said it in English.
“I suppose first I’m going to have to quit screwing up.” After a subtle squeeze, he released her and collapsed into the pillows behind him. “Hard as it might be for you to believe, I’m not usually such an unbearable asshole.”
“Really? What kind of an asshole are you—usually?”
After a stunned pause, he gave a shocked but appreciative laugh, earning a cautious smile.
“I’m not usually an asshole at all.”
“Truly? I’m not sure I can believe it.”
“I see why it might be difficult. I haven’t exactly been at my best since…” You came down those stairs and blew my mind. He pressed his lips tight against the pathetic confession.
“Since your father died,” she supplied for him. “Believe me, I understand. That is why I do not need to hear your apologies. It is not easy to lay your parents to rest.” He snapped his gaze to her.
Did she have personal experience? He filed the information away for a time when he didn’t feel so damned weak. Besides, he didn’t want to upset their tentative truce.
“And now you are ill,” she continued, apparently unaware of his interest in her previous statement.
“Yeah, this just doesn’t seem to be my week.” He reached around her for the glass of water.
Taking a long drink, he put it back. He couldn’t remember being so bone weary. He slid down between the tidy sheets.
“You’re tired.”
“I am.”
She came close, pulling the covers up and smoothing them over his body. Her actions seemed reflexive, independent of how she felt about him, his behavior or his accusations. Nonetheless, he was comforted and calmed by her touch. Everything would be okay. He closed his eyes.
“Rest. I’ll go for a while.”
“You’re always going,” he mumbled, already half asleep, too tired to care how much he sounded like a disappointed child.
Chapter 7
Griffin stood alone, his hip cradled in the bend of the grand piano in front of the stained glass windows. None of the offerings in the plate he held in his hand tempted him. His stomach was still not on board with the idea of eating.
Getting out of bed, showering, and putting on a suit had been a challenge, but dealing with the guests at his father’s memorial brunch proved exhausting. Each interaction was the same, the inevitable words of condolence followed by probing personal questions. After little more than half an hour, he’d longed for an escape. He’d noticed the doors to the salon were closed and, under the pretense of getting something to eat, had excused himself from the group growing around him and managed to slip through the pocket doors unseen.
“There you are.”
He stifled a groan at being discovered but managed a wry smile when he turned and discovered Ephie standing in the doorway.
“Here I am.”
“Are you all right?”
“Did Lillian send you in here to check up on me?”
“Not exactly. She mentioned you’ve been battling the flu. I happened to see you sneaking in here and thought I’d make sure you’re okay.”
“For your information, I don’t sneak.”
“Fine, you weren’t sneaking,” she conceded. “So, are you all right?”
“Actually, I think I should sit down.” He moved toward the sofa in the center of the room on disturbingly unsteady legs. “Care to join me?”
She watched his progress with a frown of concern before hurrying to his side. She put her plate and flute of mimosa on the coffee table in a clattering rush and then took his things from his hands, placing them next to hers, as he sank down into the support of the couch cushions.
“Thank you.” He leaned back, pressing his hand to his forehead and covering his eyes.
“Well, if you’re not having the shittiest week ever.”
He nodded at her crisp assessment.
“Yeah, it doesn’t seem like it could get much worse, does it?”
“I don’t know. Do you have a dog I could run over for you?”
He laughed out loud, taking his hand away from his face and looking up at Ephie with genuine amusement.
“Why don’t you sit with me, instead? You know…provide cover in case anyone else comes looking for me.”
“Sure.” She angled her chin to her shoulder and threw him a sassy smile as she settled herself at the other end of the couch. “But you’re not sneaky.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t sneaky. I said I don’t sneak. And for the record, I prefer devious.”
She shrugged. “Got it—devious—like a secret agent or something. Very hip.”
He chuckled at her dry tone. “Funny girl.”
“Oh, yes. That’s why I get invited to all the memorial brunches. I know how to lighten things up.”
There was a moment of companionable silence while Ephie reached for her mimosa and took a sip. Griffin noticed, again, what a pretty woman she had become. Her short hair emphasized her delicate features, giving her an almost ethereal appearance. She appeared self-assured and outgoing, but he sensed a deep vulnerability. It made him want to protect her. From what, he had no idea.
“How long have you been working for Lillian?”
“Oh.” She looked up at the ceiling briefly before returning her deep brown gaze to his. “Officially, about five years?”
“Officially?”
“Oh, well, you know, I went off to college all anti-establishment and idealistic and got myself a solid and completely useless liberal arts education. I came back here to stay with Gram while I figured out what to do with my life, and Mrs. Bennett, ah, Lillian started asking me to do little things for her now and again. One day sort of turned into another and next thing I knew I’d made myself indispensable.”
“Lucky for Lillian.”
“Lucky for me.”
“Obviously, you’ll go with her when she leaves.”
“I’m not sure.” She considered him uncertainly. “I thought I might be of more use to you.”
“Did you, now?” He admired her daring.
“I do know the ins and outs of running the house.”
“That would be helpful.” He reached for the oversize pilsner of ice water she’d set down for him earlier, taking a long swallow before asking, “But won’t Lillian need you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Huh, that’s surprising.” He feigned interest in the ice floating in his glass. “You don’t know anything about her future plans?”
Silence descended, forcing Griffin to bring his gaze to Ephie.
She raised an eyebrow at him. “Is this the part where you pump me for information?”
He held a hand up in concession. “Hey, we’re just talking here.”
“Right. Talking. Well, since we’re talking you should know, my employer is an extremely private person.”
“I’ve noticed.” He wouldn’t soon forget the look on Lillian’s face when he had unwisely pushed her. “So, what do you know about her?”
“You’re ballsy, I’ll give you that.” She popped a small puffed pastry into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “I’m not going to gossip about Lillian.”
“I’m not looking for gossip. I need information. I promise you, it’s for a very good reason.”
“Oh yeah? And what would that be?”
“Apparently, in his infinite wisdom, my father has left all of this.” He indicated the room with a sweep of his upturned hand. “Everything, in fact, to me.”
“Wow.” She looked at him with something like horrified awe. “I can’t imagine stepping into Leonard Bennett’s shoes.”
“Yeah, well, I’m having a hell of a time with the concept myself. And right now the person who knows the most about the size of those shoes is the grieving widow.”
Gilding Lillian Page 5