by Andrea Stein
“Noah, stop. You’re my boss.”
He shook his head. “No, I’m not. Sam’s in charge. I’m the absentee owner. I have my own business to attend to.”
“What, now you’re a billionaire, and you’re too busy to pay attention to your money?”
Noah leaned in closer, his lips hovering above hers, his arms moving around her, pulling her closer to him, so he could feel his body next to hers, feel the swell of her breasts, see every freckle on her nose.
“I have people for that,” he murmured, letting his lips feather across her. Her eyes opened wide, and he knew that she was feeling, that he had gotten to her.
“Noah…” It was more of a moan than a whisper.
“Shh, I know you’re not after my money. Just shut up and let me…”
Kiss you. And he did, their lips touching. Softly at first, so he could taste her, smell her perfume, something spicy, and her shampoo, something fruity. She moved in his arms – not away, but closer – and he took that for an invitation, an invitation that his attentions were wanted.
He deepened his kiss, letting his tongue explore, letting his hands slide from her shoulders down to the V of her neck, skimming lightly over her breasts, feeling the fabric of her bra, then the hard nub of her nipples which sprang to attention under his caress.
She moaned, answering his kiss, her hands running through his hair, pulling him towards her as their embrace deepened, grew more passionate, his hands roaming feeling, possessing her.
Until. “Stop, Noah, stop.” She broke free, her head moving away from him, her hands still twined in his hair. She lowered her eyes and leaned against his shoulders.
“What, what is it?” His voice was husky, raspy, and he could feel desire, the sheer wanting of her flowing through him, all the way through it. She felt it, too, and took a step back.
“Noah, you’re the boss. And we barely know each other. I mean now. I just can’t get involved right now.”
She took another step back, almost all the way across the room. Her eyes were shrouded, hurt, and she was biting her lip.
“Is this really about me being the boss…Or is it about something else?” he asked, remembering her evasiveness when he asked about her engagement.
“Noah, it’s too complicated. There are too many people watching me. I just can’t.”
He moved closer, and she stepped even farther back, keeping the distance.
“Can’t or don’t want to?” he asked, demanding the truth.
“Can’t…Not sure…” She was breathing heavily.
Noah nodded slowly. He never needed to force himself on a woman. And when he’d left Caitlyn, he’d been, what? A bit of a jerk, feelings hurt, blaming her for not wanting him, when she’d only asked for more time. He’d been young, but she had been even younger, inexperienced, and looking back, he knew he’d been pushing her.
“Fine,” he held up his hands, then ran one through his hair. “I understand.” “You do?” she said, surprised.
“Yes, we’re adults, professionals. As you said, I’m your boss, sort of. It is complicated.”
“So that means…” she started to say.
“That I won’t try to kiss you again?” Noah walked over to her, stood next to her in the doorway, but not too close, and let one finger trail along her cheek.
“No, I’ll try. But I’ll wait until you ask me.”
“What makes you think I will?” she said, defiance in her voice.
He smiled and was rewarded when he saw her swallow thickly. “Oh, you will. Because you and I have unfinished business, Caitlyn Montgomery, and I won’t be leaving until we sort it out.”
He let his hand linger, running it along the edge of her jaw, while she watched him with dark, steamy eyes. “I’ll let myself out.”
Chapter 17
Caitlyn changed in the bathroom at work. It was rather small and uncomfortable, but she was managing the contortions required to slip into her dress when Deborah walked in, looked surprised, and almost walked right back out.
“No, it’s all right. Just another minute or two.” Caitlyn had traded her work suit for a black dress, which hit just about the knee, with spaghetti straps, a plunging back and just enough of a dip in front to keep it interesting. A gauzy wrap, ill-suited to warding off the fall chill, and shoes with heels up to there completed the look. She wasn’t dressed for comfort, but she looked too good to care.
“Do you have a date tonight?” Deborah asked, her green eyes wide and her smile open.
Caitlyn laughed as she put on one of her diamond earrings. “Absolutely not. I am going with a client to something.”
She had asked her Heather to call Mrs. Biddle back to tell her that Caitlyn would meet her at her house at five. She didn’t need a ride in a car.
“Adriana Biddle?” Deborah said as she rinsed her hands.
Caitlyn nodded. “I guess I inherited her when Jeffrey left. Apparently she used to make him do all sorts of things. Go with her to the vet when her dog was sick, stuff like that. He actually would, he was so afraid of losing her as a client. He wasn’t very good at finding new ones, so he had to work extra hard to keep the ones that he had.” A little time pumping information out of Jeffrey’s old assistant had dug up those facts.
Almost as an afterthought, Caitlyn asked, “Did you say ‘Adriana’?” as she put on her lipstick.
Deborah carefully wiped her hands dry. “That’s her first name. Why?”
“No reason,” Caitlyn said. “I just didn’t know her first name. Adriana.”
“Yes, it’s a pretty name,” Deborah said and was gone.
Caitlyn looked at herself in the mirror, thinking that it couldn’t possibly be. The Adriana she knew hadn’t been named Biddle. She had been named Randolph. But she would be ancient, wouldn’t she? Then Caitlyn realized, after some quick calculations, she would only be in her late sixties. Not that old. The one and the same?
She finished with her make-up, adding a little extra blusher to restore the color in her cheeks. Caitlyn checked in the mirror, reminding herself that Adriana Biddle, whoever she was, was a big client. Big clients got big treatment.
The drive to Mrs. Biddle’s house was familiar, and after a few moments, Caitlyn ignored the directions and the address Heather had written out for her and simply followed her memory. Mrs. Biddle did not live near the water, but in a wooded section of the town that was crisscrossed by small, winding roads, cul-de-sacs and tall, old growth trees. Caitlyn pulled into 127 Merriweather Road a few minutes before five and followed the winding driveway until the house finally appeared, set in a clearing among the trees.
Caitlyn stopped, turned the ignition off and surveyed. It was a large house, built in the late 1930s, white stucco cut across by wood beams that gave it a faintly Tudor appearance, a look helped along by a steeply pitched slate roof, many gables and a rounded tower sprouting from it. Even in the fading light, she could see that the garden was in its winter mode, burlap sacks tied over bushes, the grass faded and waiting for spring.
Lights winked on and off in various rooms of the house, but Caitlyn sensed little life in there. The house seemed empty, windows on the upper floor looking down at her with black, blank pools of glass.
Caitlyn pulled her wrap more tightly around her, picked up her evening bag and started up the well-lit fieldstone walk. She rang the door, and it was a brief moment before it was answered by an older woman, fiftyish, rather plump in a black skirt and a cream-colored blouse.
“Miss Montgomery.”
Caitlyn nodded and followed the woman in.
“Hello, Marion,” Caitlyn said, remembering the woman’s name.
Marion smiled. “Well, I wasn’t sure that you would remember me, child. You have grown.”
Caitlyn nodded. Marion had grown older, too, her blonde hair shading towards gray at the roots, her body a little more round.
; “You are really quite pretty now, aren’t you?”
It wasn’t a question that demanded an answer, which was just as well since Caitlyn found herself blushing.
It had been closer to twelve years since she had seen Marion, since she had been a guest in this house. Then she had been an awkward adolescent, an unwelcome guest at a grown-up party, the result of her mother having not arrived home when she should have and her grandfather’s not wanting to cancel a social commitment. It had happened more than once that summer, and Caitlyn had grown used to spending her time in Marion’s kitchen, while the woman made tea and baked gingerbread, endless batches of gingerbread, which Marion must have thought the cure to all of adolescence’s ills. All it had done with Caitlyn was put on a few pounds that had disappeared once her mother had returned.
“Adriana is back here. You should be ready to go in just a little while. I called Henry and asked him to come around at a quarter to six.”
Caitlyn nodded and stepped into the living room. Adriana Randolph Biddle sat there, on her couch, looking through some papers. The first two times Marion called her name, she did not look up. Marion gestured at her own ear, and Caitlyn realized she was letting her know that Adriana was a little deaf.
Finally, after the third time, the older woman jumped, a little startled, and turned around with a frown on her face. Caitlyn stepped forward into the light from one of the lamps.
“My goodness,” Adriana said, her half-moon glasses slipping off of her nose, a hand going to her heart.
“Mrs. Biddle,” Caitlyn said, her voice tight.
“Caitlyn. It really is you. I could hardly believe it when I heard the name.”
They spent a few moments there, standing apart, surveying each other. Caitlyn saw a woman who was closer to seventy than to sixty, her silver hair attractively done so that it looked neither too matronly nor too young. A short, beaded jacket and shoes matched a light gray dress. The body under the dress was pulled up straight, neither too skinny nor too plump. Only the hands, wrinkled and spotted, showed her true age. The face was tight, the product, Caitlyn would have had to guess, of at least one session under the knife.
“Would you like to sit down for a moment and have a drink before we leave?”
Caitlyn hesitated.
“Why are you mad, my dear?”
“I’m not mad,” Caitlyn said too quickly. Her adolescent sulk was coming back. Adriana’s easy charm had always had that effect on Caitlyn, when in truth, that was one of the things she had most envied about the woman.
“Just sit down and let us talk. Marion, please bring me a sherry. Caitlyn, what will you have?”
“White wine, please.” Caitlyn moved from the edge of the living room, the colors deep reds and blues, and sat on the couch. “You should have said something on the phone,” Caitlyn told her.
“I didn’t want you not to come. I was afraid. Did Jeffrey go off to Hollywood, for real?”
Caitlyn nodded, and Mrs. Biddle said nothing.
“It just seemed that it would be better to talk to you face-to-face. You were very angry with me the last time we saw each other.”
“I was very angry in general,” Caitlyn said. It wasn’t quite an apology, more of an acknowledgement.
“Are you still angry now?” Mrs. Biddle asked.
“I feel a little tricked.”
“Do you still think about it all the time?”
“Yes, but I am not angry anymore,” Caitlyn said.
“I miss your grandfather very much,” Mrs. Biddle said.
“So do I,” Caitlyn admitted. That much was true.
Marion brought their drinks, and Caitlyn was grateful to have something to hold on to. Mrs. Biddle took a sip of her sherry and placed it on the table, on a coaster apparently kept there for that purpose.
There was silence, and with no crackling fire to break it, Caitlyn was aware of every sound – the clock ticking in the hallway, the creaks of the house settling in around her.
“So,” Caitlyn said, “where are we going tonight?”
“To a party my nephew is having.”
“Your nephew?” Caitlyn had never heard her talk of any family.
Mrs. Biddle nodded. “My husband, Trip Randolph, died about eight years ago.”
“I’m very sorry,” Caitlyn replied automatically, taking a sip of her wine. It was light and crisp.
Mrs. Biddle shrugged. “I could pretend to be, but we all know that I would be lying. You shouldn’t look so shocked, Caitlyn. You can afford to be more honest as you get older.”
“Still.”
“However, I found that, to a certain extent, after all of these years, I enjoyed being married. I met Aaron Biddle right after the death of Trip. We were married about a year later.”
“Congratulations,” Caitlyn said, her mind’s Rolodex doing a cross-check for the name of Aaron Biddle. Something tugged at the back of her memory, but she could not place it.
Mrs. Biddle shrugged. “He’s in a home now. It’s easier on both of us. His memory is failing him, and we just couldn’t take care of him here, not just the two of us. He is a good deal older than I am, you see.”
“I see,” Caitlyn said.
“Don’t feel sorry for me, Caitlyn. Those are just the facts of my life. I loved your grandfather once, very much, but it was never meant to be for the two of us. And so we learn to make do. I was very happy with Aaron, believe it or not – I suppose since I knew that there wasn’t someone else out there, waiting for me, anymore.”
Caitlyn shifted, uncomfortable. She hadn’t thought about the realities of her grandfather’s relationship with Adriana Randolph in years. Worse, in fact, was that her teenaged mind couldn’t grasp the fact that two people, what she had thought of as old people, could actually have been in love. Much less engaged in the actual act.
“And the party we’re going to tonight?” she asked, trying to change the subject.
“Yes, my nephew, Tony Biddle – Aaron’s nephew, really. Just mine by marriage, but he is such a dear, so kind to Aaron, who doesn’t really get along with his own children. Tony is opening a new restaurant in the city, and I said I would go. He said that if I were there, then the press would take notice.”
Caitlyn couldn’t hide the reaction on her face. Mrs. Biddle, before she had been Mrs. Randolph, had been Adriana Wellington, Broadway actress, sometimes Hollywood starlet, daughter of a prominent industrialist, a social figure in her own right, solidified by her marriage to Randolph, a prominent businessman. Adriana had kept her name in the paper through her philanthropy and dedication to nurturing the careers of starving artists.
A word from Adriana could overnight turn an unknown into a known, the works being collected and sold, the artist fortified by money and notoriety guaranteed the ability to continue to create.
“I know, dear; he was being kind. The press hasn’t taken notice of me in years, which is fine, and deliberate. Besides, I understand that his openings attract enough big names on their own to keep the press in pictures for days.”
“No, that’s not what I meant,” Caitlyn offered her reassurances. “I am just excited to be going to one of his restaurants on its opening night. I’ve eaten in the ones in London and San Francisco.”
“This is his second in New York. Apparently it’s even more expensive than the other one. Have you ever met Tony?”
“Actually, yes. Once, in London, I was there with some friends at his restaurant, and he came over and said hello. Somebody knew him.”
“He says that he knows you. I spoke to him today. He said that you are engaged.”
“I was. I was engaged, but now I’m not,” Caitlyn said automatically.
“Oh, really? What a pity,” Adriana said absently.
Caitlyn looked at her sharply. “Mrs. Biddle, you’re not thinking anything, are you?” “Of course I’m thinking,” she said. “Old people still think.”
“I mean, about Tony or m
e, or anything like that.”
Mrs. Biddle, in an uncharacteristic display of maternal instinct, had tried to fix Caitlyn up once, when she was sixteen years old, with the grandson of a friend. It had been a disaster. The boy had been pimply and nasty, but headed for Princeton and eager to grope a girl, any girl, before he left for college. Caitlyn had gotten away as quickly as possible.
“Why would you think that, dear?” she asked.
Caitlyn wasn’t completely sure, but she was fairly certain that Tony Biddle was not all that interested in women, at least as dates.
“I don’t think it would work.”
“Of course it wouldn’t work. Tony doesn’t date girls. I know that.”
Caitlyn smiled, feeling relieved. “Well, that’s clear then.”
“That doesn’t mean that there won’t be plenty of other eligible young men there. In my mind, the best thing after a break up is to get right back up on the horse. Don’t let your heart get too broken, especially if he’s the one that did the breaking.”
Mrs. Biddle, at a signal from Marion, rose from her seat.
“Who said that he did the breaking?” Caitlyn asked, wondering if it were written all over her face.
“No one did, dear. I am sure you are in control of the whole situation. Now, are we ready to go?”
Chapter 18
The trip into Manhattan did not take that long, as the traffic was relatively light. Mrs. Biddle’s driver, Henry, took the Lincoln Town Car smoothly over the narrow roads of the Merritt Parkway and through the Cross Bronx expressway into the city. Horatio’s, Tony Biddle’s newest creation, was in the mid-twenties and on Park Avenue South. They were mostly silent on the ride in, and Caitlyn almost certain that Adriana had dozed off for a little while – which was fine with Caitlyn, since she used the time to counter her natural dislike of Town Cars and focus instead on dredging up everything she could remember about Tony Biddle.
He had once worked in advertising and chucked that to go to culinary school. Frustrated by what he viewed as his own lack of patience and creativity to be a truly great chef, he used his family connections to raise money and started a bistro with one of his more promising culinary school classmates. The restaurant, small and unknown, had quickly become a success, in part because of Tony’s infectious personality.