by Calista Fox
All in all, it was a warm, festive, autumn ambience that made Ciara remember precisely why she’d always loved Tilda’s house, Plymouth Rock and Thanksgiving.
No, she’d never had a family unit. No need to break out the good china and silverware to celebrate, really. Yet Tilda always had. Even when it was just the two of them. Thanksgiving was always done up right—the entire damn week, actually. Every year, whether Delaney was with them or not. Whether Ciara honestly had anything to be thankful for or not.
Though…Tilda had been extremely good at helping her to find silver linings. She missed her grandmother fiercely.
Emotion clawed at Ciara, but she fought it back. This wasn’t about her tonight. It was about the Pilgrim Society—the group Tilda had formed and had loved. Had devoted so much time and effort to. There was no chance in hell Ciara would ever let her grandmother down. Especially during this coveted holiday.
She said to Marilyn, “I’ve sprinkled real leaves up the walkway to the porch. The orange twinkle lights are all wrapped around the tree trunks. The lighted autumn garland is draped over the double front doorway and twined around the black wrought-iron railings. Even coiled up the banisters inside the house. Tons and tons of crimson and gold to accent everything. Along with blood-orange lilies. Oh, my god. They are so beautiful.”
And the welcoming cocktail reception was currently setup in another salon, toward the front of the house. Catherine was finishing last-minute preparations there and would serve as hostess as the guests entered. There were two fully stocked and manned bars. Plus a server from Venti’s would pass around glasses of champagne. The hors d’oeuvres were beautifully laid out in the most advantageous locations so that they were easy to get to and a line wouldn’t interrupt the flow of traffic or conversations. Not that Ciara anticipated actual lines, given the numerous displays and strategic placements of them.
“I can’t wait to see it all.” Marilyn clasped her hands together in apparent excitement. She’d been out back all this time, with the other society members. Debating the eternal question that plagued this small, elite group of historians. All centered on whether or not there actually had been a rock at the Mayflower landing in Plymouth, Massachusetts.
Prompting Ciara to ask, “Have you gals made a decision about Thursday’s reenactment? I mean… Tick-tick, you know? It’s Sunday night already.”
Marilyn waved a French-manicured hand in the air. Like Catherine Winchester, she was a slim woman with white hair. Fifteen years older than Catherine, but they each wore their age well. Were both incredibly elegant. As were all the society members. Very well-to-do “ladies who lunched.” Some came from family money. Some had married—and subsequently divorced—well. Some had made their own fortunes.
All of whom had embraced America’s history, even though they had minor disagreements over some of the factoids.
Marilyn said, “Don’t worry your pretty head over our silly squabble. You have enough to do, young lady.” She swooped in and gave Ciara a quick peck on the cheek. Then said, “I’m grabbing a martini before Catherine tells me they’re only meant for the guests.”
Ciara laughed. “Snag me one, too. Extra dirty, please. Preferably downright scandalous.”
“Oh, you wicked girl!”
“You don’t know the half of it.” Ciara winked. Then she went back to ensuring every single detail in the dining room was seen to, including supervising the arrival of the mouthwatering Italian food from Venti’s.
Ciara finished her work and polished off the martini as the doorbell rang. Once. Twice. Then no more, and she figured it’d become a free-for-all.
Feeling the warmth of the fires in the hearths and the vodka in her veins, she left the dining room and greeted guests in the main portion of the house. She didn’t have any trouble with being “on.” She did it all the time with the webcasts.
She smiled and laughed and engaged in conversation. The atmosphere was inviting and lively. Cozy and intimate, yet still vibrant. Precisely as she’d hoped. Planned. Obsessed over.
She was completely in her element and on her second martini.
Then Scout walked through the oversized archway.
Ciara lost her breath.
All sensible thought fled.
All purpose for the evening and sound reasoning escaped her.
All she could do was stare.
He was gorgeous. He was perfect. And he couldn’t take his eyes from her.
He did the polite, professional thing. Shook hands with and chatted up those in the room as he gradually made his way toward her.
Ciara sipped her cocktail. Her heart thumped outrageously hard. Loud? Were those beats echoing in her ears? Her pulse? Could others hear?
Oh, God.
Breathe!
Scout accepted a crystal tumbler of scotch from his mother as well as a quick kiss. Then she slipped away to attend to more sponsors. Scout met Ciara at one of the tall fireplaces. His gaze slid over her from the tips of her five-inch heels to the top of her elaborately pinned-up hair. Not missing anything in between.
Heat flared in his eyes… And sparked deep in her core.
“That’s one hell of a dress,” he told her, his tone low and sensuous. Sending tingles along her warm skin.
“Thanks. I thought you might like it.”
“Pick it up in Paris?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.” It wasn’t anything over the top. A little black dress. Little being the operative word. It was a tight, curve-hugging number that sat off her shoulders. The sleeves were long and covered a portion of her hands, just beyond her wrists. One of which was adorned with Tilda’s favorite diamond bracelet. She’d left everything to Ciara, since Delaney had OD’d two years before Tilda had passed. Painful memories and emotions that Ciara couldn’t afford to give into tonight.
This was Tilda’s big to-do, even if only recreated through her granddaughter.
She took a sip of martini to steady herself, then said, “That was a fantastic dedication earlier at the arena. I really wish your grandma and grandpa could have been there. Tilda, too. You do know she was nuts about you, right?”
He nodded. “I spent more time here than I did at my own house. It being so close to the rink. Not to mention, Tilda was always baking cornbread and cookies. And, well…there was you…”
“Too bad we were always two ships passing in the night.”
“Not always.” His grinned mischievously.
A familiar blaze ignited in her belly. Between her legs.
Stealing her breath again.
It took a few seconds for her to recover. Though that was basically another lie. She’d never recover from the lust this man incited.
She set her glass on the mantle and said in her Scout-inspired provocative tone, “Why don’t I show you the new sets? The old ones were stored in a room next to the Chem lab at the high school and when a kid accidently knocked over a few bottles that weren’t meant to be mixed together and were much too close to a lit Bunsen burner, it ignited a fire. Everyone got out and no one was hurt… But the oil-painted sets went up in flames.”
“I didn’t know this.”
She smiled. “Then you clearly don’t look at your sponsorship newsletter and statements, because you’re a top-tier donor and the yearly amount almost doubled for the replacements.”
“Babe,” he said as he leaned in close. Smelling so damn good. “I was only kidding last night when I’d asked if I’d remembered to donate. I’ve instructed my accountant to cover whatever bill comes in from the Pilgrim Society. You could charge me ten times more than every other sponsor and the invoice’ll still get paid.”
Her heart swelled. And it honestly had nothing to do with his financial status or generosity. It was all about the man himself.
She said, “Come see your investment.”
Ciara took him by the hand. They wove their way through the crowd, then the maze of corridors in the house. Out one of the back doors and onto a walkway that had been cleared of snow. Scout i
mmediately slipped out of his suit jacket and draped it over her shoulders.
“You really shouldn’t be out here dressed like that,” he lightly scolded.
“Trust me, I’m plenty warm when you’re around.”
Scout chuckled, catching onto her meaning. He wrapped an arm around her waist and helped her slowly along the cobblestones so she didn’t slip. They traveled toward the back of the property. Scout drew up short and stared at the ginormous building tucked into the woods.
“What. The. Hell?” His eyes widened.
“I know. Crazy, right?” She laughed softly. “See, after the fire, the society ladies wigged and worried about losing their sets and scenes and props and blah, blah, blah, so Tilda had this outbuilding constructed to house everything. Paid for the whole thing herself. Those huge doors are actually on tracks that are warmed twenty-four-seven during the winter to keep the snow and ice from accumulating, and the inside is temperature-controlled year-round.”
She and Scout pulled open the mammoth double doors that slid along smoothly. They stepped inside and she flipped a switch, the overhead lights glaring bright.
“Holy Moses!” he declared.
In addition to everything else she’d mentioned previously, the bow of the recreated Mayflower was inside, along with a monstrous foam boulder with the word PLYMOUTH stamped on it.
“I, uh… Huh.” Scout’s gaze on the boulder narrowed. “Don’t get it.”
She glanced over at him.
He said, “Original telling of the landing at Plymouth. No rock.”
Ciara clutched his upper arm affectionately and squeezed it tight. “How awesome that you know that, Scout Winchester. You are absolutely correct, and I adore you even more for it.”
He crooked a brow at her.
Her enthusiasm didn’t wane. She’d been raised on pilgrim lore, after all.
She said, “William Bradford never mentioned a rock in his journals, nor did it come up in other initial tellings of the landing in Plymouth—no one ever said they’d actually landed on a rock. It wasn’t until 1715 that there was suddenly ‘a great rock’ described. And it was about one-hundred-and-twenty years after the pilgrims arrived in Massachusetts in 1620 that there was written documentation of this supposed rock. So… The great debate ensues. Was there or wasn’t there an actual Plymouth Rock?”
“Your society ladies are divided?”
“Yes. Some donors, too. It’s made for interesting interactions. I swear there is nothing dull and tedious about Thanksgiving in Plymouth Rock these days!”
“I don’t find anything dull and boring in Plymouth Rock when you’re here.” He grinned at her. The heart-stopping one.
“You’re such a flirt.”
“Only with you.”
Ciara wasn’t sure it was wise to accept that statement as fact. So she waved a dismissive hand in the air and went back to safer ground. Telling him, “The only true stat I cling to regarding the landing is that Bradford determined the cargo area of this ship could hold nearly two-hundred casks of wine. My kind of guy.” She tapped the pad of her index finger against her temple. “He was thinking ‘big picture’. Had his priorities straight.”
Scout stared at her a few moments. One corner of his mouth lifted.
“What?” Ciara asked.
“Christ, you even make history sexy. Your eyes are all lit up. You’re breathless. You’re just so…charged.”
She knew her expression turned lascivious. “Who says any of that has to do with history?”
“Hmm. You temptress, you.”
He closed in on her. Ciara took several steps backward. Pointed to her left. “Note the schematics for damaging the hull of the ship if the ladies decide the Mayflower actually did land on a rock. And the new sets. The props. The…” Her pulse skyrocketed. He continued to advance on her, his eyes blazing with lust.
They made it to the back of the building. Scout reached around her and flipped off the secondary light switches. Darkness didn’t quite consume them, because there were tons of windows high up top on the walls, and partially shrouded moonlight streamed through the long, narrow panes, casting shimmering, silver rays.
His body pressed to hers, trapping her between his brick wall of a chest and the clapboard wall behind her. His head dip. His lips skimmed over her cheek.
He murmured, “I just can’t be in the same room with you and not be dying to kiss you.”
“I don’t recall ever complaining about that.”
His hands gripped her waist. His mouth swept over hers. Then he quietly told her, “I literally take one look at you and I can’t focus on anything else. It’s a damn good thing you weren’t able to be at my pro games because you were traveling. I never would have scored.”
“Well, you would have with me.” She batted her lashes.
Scout let out a low, sensuous groan. “The only thing that kept me focused at the Olympics was that you were sitting next to my mother in the stands. That’ll keep a guy’s libido in check.”
“I’ll remember that when it’s absolutely necessary. Other than that… I should make it a habit to not be in the same room with the woman when you’re around. If it means you’re going to keep your hands off me.”
“You’re amusing.”
“I’m in desperate need of you kissing me.”
His mouth sealed with hers and Ciara gave herself over to his hot, intense kiss. One that swore allegiance to her and demanded it in return.
An entirely different kind of kiss.
It nearly melted her at his feet. Hard, hot, searing. Full of emotion. Questions. Answers.
Jesus.
It was not at all a familiar kiss. And she’d been kissing Scout Winchester since she was fifteen years old!
His arms wrapped around her and his tongue delved deep into her mouth. His body was strong and solid against her softer curves. He held her firmly. Possessively. And just kept on kissing her.
Ciara never had trouble losing herself in Scout. Yet this was something altogether foreign. Like if someone were to ask her what her name was at that very moment…she’d have no fucking idea what to say.
Nothing registered in her mind or existed in her world…other than Scout.
His jacket around her shoulders slipped away. She didn’t care.
There was a cocktail reception she was supposed to be at. She didn’t care.
There was a dinner to host. It was a buffet and everything was all set, so… Yeah. She didn’t care.
As he continued to kiss her, to sweep her away, Scout’s hand slid over her hip and along her outer thigh. To the hem of her mini. Then slipped under it. His fingers grazed the lacy tops of her stocking.
His mouth tore from hers. “Oh, fuck. You are not—”
“Yes, I am.” She grinned deviously.
“Ahhh, babe,” he said in a gruff voice, his breath coming in heavy pulls. “You know thigh-high stockings drive me wild.”
It was a fetish he’d developed the first time she’d dared to wear them. About five years ago when she’d met up with him in Bristol, Connecticut, following an interview at ESPN’s primary studios.
She told him, “Paris has amazing lingerie shops. I raided several of them. Bought garters, too. For extremely special occasions.” She gave him a suggestive look.
He let out another strangled, sexually frustrated sound. She was revving him up. That was good. So very, very good.
His fingers brushed back and forth over the edge of the lace and her bare skin. Teasing her. Making heat flare within her and hitching her breath. Then his hand shifted and slightly grazed the lacy triangle covering the heart of her.
Her body jolted. Every inch of her went up in flames.
Scout’s lips skimmed over her cheekbone, along her temple. His fingers eased behind the flimsy material of her thong.
He stroked slowly.
Ciara’s grip on his powerful biceps tightened.
“You’re already wet for me,” he whispered.
&n
bsp; “Impossible not to be.”
His touch was light and feathery against her sensitive flesh. Arousing her deeply. Making her burn for him.
He kissed her softly. Her eyelids drifted closed. The pad of his finger fluttered over the knot of nerves between her legs. A low moan escaped her.
“Babe,” Scout murmured against her lips. “I need to make you come.”
Chapter Five
She gasped. Scout felt her body tense.
The pads of two fingers massaged the little pearl and her breathing quickened. Her skin was dewy with her excitement, her anticipation, and he longed to taste her. To ease to his knees before her and drag her panties down her legs. Dip his head and sweep his tongue along her slick folds.
But that would lead to so much more. Once he got started with this woman, it was damn near impossible to stop. And he was currently taking her away from her big debut as hostess of the sponsors’ dinner.
Yet… He couldn’t just kiss her and feel her velvety skin against his fingers and listen to her sexy, broken breaths. No. He really did need to make her come. Had to feel her tremble in his arms, hear her soft cries, and know he’d brought her intense pleasure.
“You have just the right touch,” she assured him as her hips rolled slightly. Her fingers deftly loosened his tie at his throat and then she slipped the first two buttons through their holes.
“Thanks. Though that doesn’t make me breathe any easier.” How could he, when her hands returned to his biceps and she gripped him firmly, holding him to her? Her tawny eyes burned with fire and lust. Other emotions, as well, all of which he was certain he could dissect, if he weren’t so caught up in the fire and the lust.
His head lowered to hers and he kissed her passionately just as his finger worked carefully into her tight canal. She momentarily ripped her mouth from his, let out a throaty moan, clutched his finger with her inner muscles, and then sealed her mouth to his. Scout kissed her with complete abandon, no doubt conveying every ounce of desire and admiration he had for her. His need for her. His constant craving for her.
He stroked her a bit more aggressively and her hips matched his movements, his cadence. One of her hands slid up the nape of his neck and her fingers twisted in the hair at his collar. The other hand continued to clench his upper arm, her nails biting into his muscles through his shirt. He didn’t care. When she was losing herself in the moment was what mattered the most to him.