by Megan Mulry
Marisa felt herself respond to the heat of his voice and his enthusiasm. “Oh. I thought maybe you were just toying with me, you know, to see if I would say yes.”
“Why would you think that?” He sounded irritated.
“I don’t know. I am not well-versed in the art of planning secret weekends.”
“It’s not secret as far as I’m concerned. I’m bringing you to a house filled to the rafters with prying relatives. Prepare yourself.”
“Well, maybe it’s not right, then. I feel a bit treacherous.”
“Oh, please don’t change your mind now. I mean, I suppose we could check into a hotel somewhere, but that feels even more clandestine and guilty somehow. And I don’t want to feel the least bit guilty. You will have your own room. It’s rather a castle.”
“What do you mean it’s rather a castle? Is it a castle?”
“Well, it is. Yes.”
“I think I need to know a bit more about you, Mr. James Moh-Bree.”
James loved the slight hint of French on that last syllable. “What would you like to know?”
“Just a few basic facts. What do you do for a living? Any family to speak of? Ex-wives? Children? That sort of thing.”
“I am thirty-six years old.”
“So am I.”
“Never married.”
“Neither am I. Yet.”
“No children. Yet.”
Marisa felt a ping of excitement that she’d never felt before, with Eliot or anyone else. The idea of participating in the creation of James Mowbray’s children made her feel a little light-headed. “I don’t have any children either,” she added. “Yet.”
“I work for my family’s clothing business, a British men’s clothing business that I’m attempting to wrest out of the dark ages and into the twenty-first century. I have four sisters and live in London. Does that suffice?”
Marisa felt suddenly deflated. What was it with her and men who worked in textiles? He most certainly knew, or knew of, Eliot. It was impossible. She remained quiet.
“What is it?” James asked.
“Ouf. It is just… well… you probably know my fiancé because he’s in a similar business and I think it all feels a bit too close to home. I don’t know, James. I—”
“Do you want to tell me who he is? I don’t want to cause you any trouble. Maybe you’re right.”
That wasn’t what she wanted to hear at all. She felt let down and a bit lost that he had given in so easily.
“But,” he added carefully, “I don’t think you are.”
Maybe if she avoided Eliot for the rest of the week, she could spend the weekend with James and chalk him up as a prewedding fling. Over and out, as Eliot liked to say. It seemed terribly conniving, but Eliot had really been the one to set this whole ball in motion in the first place by making his own hesitation known. She exhaled. “All right, you are probably going to Google it anyway, so I might as well tell you. He’s Eliot Cranbrook… of Danieli-Fauchard.”
James was gutted. Eliot wasn’t just a good man, he was one of the best. James had met him at Devon’s wedding last year and they had spoken many times at fashion awards ceremonies and other industry events. He had seen him from afar at several of the shows in Paris only last week. “Huh.”
“Yeah,” Marisa said. “Huh.”
“I kind of wish you hadn’t told me.”
“I know. I kind of wish I didn’t have to. But that’s why I need to be, if not clandestine, at least a bit discreet. I am so not a romantic, James, truly. But whatever sprang to life between us at the airport yesterday… it feels real to me. Does that make any sense?”
“Perfect sense,” he replied gently.
“So. What do you think?”
“I think you should still come to Dunlear with me and we will have a great weekend, and it’s none of anyone’s business who you are or what you are doing there. Max invited me and I invited you, and that’s the end of it. The only thing is, I think one of my cousins’ wives is a pretty good friend of Eliot’s. It’s Sarah James, you know, the shoes? Anyway, it’s her brother-in-law who’s hosting the party. Max Heyworth is his name and he’s one of my oldest, closest friends.”
“I don’t know, James. If it gets back to Eliot—”
“Would that really be so bad?”
She was silenced into contemplating the truth of what he said.
“Look, Marisa, I’m not saying he should be the brunt of gossip or anything, but the more I talk to you, the more I feel like I might be the way out you have been looking for. Just tell him.”
“Jesus. It’s like I am riding along thinking, Yes, yes, yes, and then you say something like that and I stop short, and think, No! Tell him what, exactly? That after he and I have been dating, living together, and planning to marry over the course of the past year, that suddenly I have met someone—precisely one day ago—and am now having second thoughts. It’s ludicrous. I am notoriously rational. My father is a philosophy professor. I have never lacked conviction!”
James burst out laughing and then Marisa started laughing too. They both simmered down. Then James continued with his gradual assault. “Here’s the thing, Marisa. I want to parade you around on my arm and laugh at a big table of friends with my hand resting on your leg beneath the tablecloth and, well, you can imagine quite well what I want to do after that, but you will have your own room and it’s not an orgy or anything. Just come as my guest and meet my friends and see parts of my life other than those few hours spent on layovers in Frankfurt. Please.”
She suspected she would have followed him into a burning building when he asked like that, his voice kind, but laced with something dark and compelling. “Very well. I must be losing my mind, but I feel like I’ve been such an obedient, driven thing for so many years and now I just want this bit for myself and everyone else can take their suicidal French rationalists and stick them somewhere.”
James started laughing again, joyfully. “Fabulous. If you are able to come into London on Friday for meetings, that would be ideal. We can drive out to Dunlear that afternoon. Otherwise, if you come in that night, try to get a flight into Gatwick. That’s the closest airport.”
“I’m really going to do this?”
“Yes. Thank god, yes. Here, take my details and I’ll be back in touch in a day or two to confirm you got everything settled.” James gave her his phone and email contacts and told her again how much he was looking forward to seeing her at the end of the week.
***
Eliot didn’t know if he was more grateful or frustrated that Marisa had avoided him all week. She basically blew him off that first night, calling him late in the afternoon and saying she was swamped with a backlog of work from being away for three weeks. He didn’t doubt it. His own office was in a wild flurry of post–Fashion Week activity, following up on huge orders for the coming season.
She said she was staying at her flat in town that night and would probably spend the rest of the week there as well, seeing as she’d be working late for a few nights to come.
It wasn’t unusual for them to touch base with brief texts or phone calls for days at a time, but even Eliot was beginning to rile at her continued dismissal. By Thursday morning, he was more than irritated. He wanted to move on with his life and he was tired of trying to do the right thing. He called her office number because she was more likely to answer.
“Hey, Eliot. I’m really busy, what’s up?”
“Hi, Mari. I know it’s been a crazy week for both of us, but I really want to see you in person… to talk everything over.”
“Look, Eliot. You came to me a few weeks ago and basically jilted me—”
“Hey!”
“Or almost jilted me, or whatever, and I just don’t want to hear it right now!” Her tone was escalating and she breathed in to get it back to a normal level. “I certainly don’t want to have this conversation on the phone any more than you do, but I’m not willing to meet you in person right now. I know I’m be
ing selfish, but I think it’s my turn. Don’t you agree?”
Eliot felt the verbal slap keenly. Obviously he could just tell her over the phone that it was 100 percent and completely over between them, but it felt crude and awkward. Inadequate. She didn’t deserve it, but his patience had run thin. “I suppose I deserve that, but—”
“No buts, Eliot. I don’t care if you are going to break up with me or get down on the floor and prostrate yourself to me—I don’t want to know—I just want a few days to think about how I feel and what I want, for me and me alone, not as it relates to you. I am going away for a few days. Trust me. No matter how it turns out, I need this. I will meet you at six o’clock on Monday night at your place. I promise. It may seem irrational to you, but after all this time, I don’t think one more weekend is asking too much. Just grant me that, okay? Please do not call me again between now and Monday, all right?”
Jesus. Whatever Eliot had been expecting, it wasn’t this. Abigail was already justifiably concerned that he hadn’t broken it off with Marisa at the first possible opportunity. If he waited out the whole weekend, she might be furious. On the other hand, it just wasn’t in him to deny Marisa this small concession, to contemplate and prepare, whether to reject him or accept him. “Fine. I will see you on Monday.”
“Thank you, Eliot.”
“Bye, Mari.”
Eliot hung up the phone and wanted to talk to Abigail, but dreaded telling her he had been put off again. He inhaled and dialed her number.
“Hey, handsome,” she answered.
“Hey, to you too.”
“Did you tell her?”
“Well, it’s the weirdest thing—”
“Let me guess. She’s too busy to meet with you in person and you don’t want to break up with her over the phone?”
“That pretty much sums it up. It’s just for a few more days, love, I promise. I know you understand… don’t you?”
“I wish I was more melodramatic and demanding, but yes, I do understand. She obviously senses what’s coming and needs a few days to pull herself together, and I kind of respect her for it. When are you going to see her?”
“Monday night.”
“So then come to London, you fool. Come tonight! Come now!”
“Good god, Abigail. You have no idea how good that sounds. I might as well put in my resignation for how much I am able to concentrate. I let my mother take the jet back to Iowa. You’re reducing me to flying commercial. I’ll be on the afternoon flight into Heathrow. It lands around six thirty your time. I’ll take the train into town and see you at your place around seven thirty. Sound good?”
“Oh, Eliot. That will be heavenly. You. My place. Seven thirty. I’ll be waiting. Do you want me to pick up something for dinner or do you want to go out?”
“Order in. I’m not letting you out of bed for at least twenty-four hours.”
“Sounds divine. I’ll stock up on supplies. Oh, I almost forgot. Bronte is going stir crazy so Max invited a bunch of us out to Dunlear to entertain her. Mostly family and close friends, James Mowbray, and some others. Want to go?”
“Whatever you like. As long as the bed is large and the walls are thick.”
“Check. And check. I think it would be fun and Bronte will kill me if you’re in town again and she doesn’t get to see you.”
“All right, love. See you tonight. If anything changes, I’ll let you know.”
“Eliot, I love you.”
“I love you too, darling. See you soon.”
He hung up the phone and set it aside to the left of his desk blotter. Then he forced himself to give his full attention to the stack of paperwork on his desk, buzzing for his assistant Marcel to come in and go through the huge pile along with him. They broke briefly for lunch and continued until four o’clock.
Eliot was relieved that he was still capable of focusing. After his time of carnal abandon in Paris, he had worried whether his brain would still be able to function with any real acuity when he returned to work. When he looked up at the time, Eliot realized he hadn’t given himself enough leeway to return to his house in Versoix to pack a bag. He was mildly concerned, then just shrugged it off and decided he would make do with his briefcase. He could pick up everything he needed in London, and he wasn’t about to risk missing his flight.
“That’s it for me, Marcel.” Eliot nearly sang as he got up from his desk, “I’m going to London for the weekend.”
Marcel looked askance at the unfamiliar—cheerful—person who had taken the place of his boss. “Now? Do you want me to call you a car?”
“Yes, I’m leaving right now. No car. My flight leaves in a little over an hour. I think it’ll be faster if I hop on the train to the airport. I should make it.”
“Very well, sir. Do you want me to set up any meetings while you are there?”
“No. I’m taking the day off. If anything of real importance comes up, just call me on my cell. But you can probably handle everything.” Eliot gave Marcel an encouraging pat on the shoulder and strode out of the office and on toward the elevators, swinging his briefcase without a second glance back.
Marcel shook his head in confused wonder and muttered something about going from inadequate phone screener to deputized CEO in a matter of weeks.
***
Abigail was giddy. Everything about Paris had been otherworldly and dreamlike. The hotel room with its sumptuous fabrics and gold and marble. Their schedule of days spent apart in simmering anticipation and nights spent in heated, joyful reunion. But Eliot’s impending visit felt like the beginning of their real life together. No room service, no glamorous views out over the Place Vendôme. Abigail had a momentary panic that Eliot would feel like a too-large giant when he entered her Alice in Wonderland home. It was intimate and small, packed with tender reminders of family and friends, postcards resting against books on the shelves on either side of the fireplace, a pinecone that Wolf had given her on a walk at Dunlear, a program from a particularly passionate Wagner concert at Wigmore Hall. A shell from Bequia.
For someone who had spent the first few decades of her life shucking off any connection to the past, she looked around her little home and realized she had turned into a pack rat. She loved the silver porringer her mother had given her. She loved the eight-by-ten black-and-white photo of Bronte, Sarah, and Abigail laughing so hard their eyes were squinting and their backs were hunched over a table at Le Caprice.
She put the huge vase of hothouse flowers down on the rough wood of the coffee table and put Regina Spektor on the stereo. She stood stock-still in the middle of her living room and felt the frightening, then soul-satisfying realization that she was building a life for herself.
Eliot’s urgent double-knock scared her senseless, then had her running the few yards to pull open the door. The winter rain was pounding all around and behind him and he looked so damn good standing in her doorway with his perfectly functional black umbrella with the bamboo handle in one hand and his briefcase in the other.
Her beautiful man.
She leapt up onto him like she was climbing a tree, throwing her legs around his waist and her hands around his gorgeous neck, kissing his jaw, licking the rain off his cheek. He tossed his bag onto the floor inside the doorway and pulled her closer, with his one free hand cupping her bottom. He fumbled inelegantly as he turned to get the two of them through the doorway while trying to pull the opened umbrella in behind him. He kicked the door closed and threw the open, sopping umbrella on the living room floor and brought that freed-up hand to the other side of her ass.
“Where’s your bed?” he growled.
“Up,” she whispered between hungry nips at his ear, his lower lip, the tendon on his neck.
He carried her up the stairs as if she were weightless. “Right or left?”
“Left…”
He brought them into Abigail’s bedroom, which she had filled with about a hundred votive candles. He tossed her down on the bed and pulled off his overcoat, then hi
s blazer, and started unbuttoning his shirt as he kicked off his shoes with his heels. Abigail was lying on her bed, reveling in the sight of him.
“You look so fine. I mean, really, really good,” she said softly.
He smiled and undid his pants, his erection springing free, and he felt himself harden further at the responsive glimmer of desire that flashed in her silver eyes. “This isn’t going to be pretty, Abigail.”
“I hope not.” She smiled as she pulled her practical brown corduroy skirt up from her argyle thigh-high socks and revealed herself, completely bare, except for a new, sexy-as-hell garter belt in a sheer nude lace, which she had picked up at Fleur that afternoon in honor of Eliot’s arrival. She bent her knees slightly apart and tilted her hips in invitation.
“Holy hell.”
“A little welcome present.”
He pushed her knees up to her shoulders and kissed her at the very warm, very moist center of her being. She screamed and begged him to make her come right then. He licked and sucked and bit at her until he felt the quivering beginning of her orgasm, then pulled himself up and away and thrust into her, to the very hilt, feeling his taut balls slap against her as her orgasm clenched around him, deeper, harder, as he kissed her lips and neck and felt the fire of her breath against his skin as she keened his name in a final, joyful cry, and he met her there.
His release was a silent, powerful, profound binding.
They were fused together.
“Always,” he whispered. “It will always be like this for us, Abigail.”
She had tears of joy rolling silently down her temple into her hair. “I know,” she choked out. “I finally know.”
He kissed her tears, wanting to taste and know every ounce of her. He felt the familiar dissipation of her control, her gradual slipping away toward postcoital oblivion. “Stay with me a few minutes more, love.”
“You are with me now more than ever, Eliot.” Her voice was barely audible. “When I reach this place of joy, of ecstasy, of freedom, you are the only one with me.” She stretched her neck to reach her lips near his ear, then continued in a tiny voice, “I am not retreating from you—I am joining you there.” Her head sank back slowly into the pillow and her eyes slid closed as she smiled and drifted on the cool air of rapture.