by Lavinia Kent
“Yes. And I know that there were plenty of comments when you married him.” Her cheeks darkened. He had not considered his words either.
Gossip. Scandal. Would she ever live them down? “I know, but they were wrong about Mark and me. I knew what I was doing, and so did he. It had nothing to do with his money or my…” She gestured at her chest.
“Are you sure about that?”
All the heat left her body. “So you think that I cared that he could take care of me in style?”
“Hell, no.” Charles looked aghast at how she had taken his words. “I was talking about your…your appearance. You must know that Mark found you very attractive. He’d have to have been blind not to. I know that he loved you, but even he admitted that there were reasons he gave you a second look, that he’d always found you irresistible.”
Okay. She could accept that. Seeing Clay had made her too sensitive. “I know he said that, but I’ve never believed it. The first time we met, I was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt with a restaurant logo on it. I was sweaty from work and probably smelled. And that was before I helped him jump his car on a ninety-degree day. And if you have some Daisy Duke image in your head, lose it. I promise there was nothing sex kitten about me.”
Charles smiled, seeking the easy flow of conversation they used to have between them. “That’s not how Mark told it; but then, I do believe I’ve already said it was your smile that attracted him. And he may even have mentioned a smidge of grease right above your upper lip.”
Now she smiled, too, naturally. She had always been able to count on Charles. She didn’t know why she had let herself be so prickly. She should have known he’d never judged her. Relaxing, she gave in to the flow of shared memories.
* * *
—
Clay narrowed his eyes as he watched Jordan and Burke across the room. He loosened his fingers so as not to crush the too-fragile catering glass He took a deep draw from his drink. Harsh whiskey burned down his throat. Jordan looked so at ease, so unlike the poker-faced woman she’d appeared the few times he’d seen her since her husband’s death—or, for that matter, during his illness. When Clay had first known her, she’d had the ability to laugh like no one he’d ever known. Her head would fall back, and laughter and giggles would flow out of her, her chest shaking, her breasts…okay, that was an image he didn’t need in his mind right now. Hell, he’d been seventeen the first time he’d gone home with Amelia and met her stepmother—her hot, hot, hot, bikini-wearing stepmother. And shit if his body wasn’t reacting now just the way it had then. He’d come out of the house to find Amelia making some quip and Jordan pulling herself out of the pool, laughing and shaking the water from her hair—and that hadn’t been the only thing shaking. He’d had to hurry back into the house, glad that his trunks weren’t any tighter.
Now he took another swig of his whiskey. And damn if he wasn’t reacting the same way. His tuxedo jacket might be hanging loose, but his pants were not. He wasn’t even sure it was the memory of her in that white bikini, the thought of her in the hotel room or even simply the sight of her. He should have looked her up long before this week. After all, it had been more than two years that she’d been a widow.
A widow. It was such an odd concept, such an old-fashioned word. He tried to fill his mind with images of grizzled, white-haired widows, hoping to cool his body. The only image that came to him was one he’d seen at Mark’s funeral, a too thin Jordan in a slim black sheath. His body did cool then, remembering how drawn and sad she’d looked, Amelia at her side.
Jordan had loved her husband, of that he’d never had any doubt.
He might have had fantasies. He might have worshipped her from afar. He might have casually asked Amelia all sorts of questions about her, but he’d never imagined that there was any future between them. He’d always known that it was a daydream, a chimera, a wisp of wonder and imagination. There was no reality to it.
But that hadn’t stopped his feelings, his dreams.
Another sip of whiskey. That had always been the problem. Jordan was a fantasy that no real woman could compare to. Every time he tried to let one get close to him, he kept wishing she was something different, wishing he was something different.
It was unreasonable to expect any woman to compete with a teenager’s fantasy. He couldn’t believe that he’d really known her then. He certainly couldn’t claim to know her now.
So why did his body cry for her? Why did he want nothing more than to stand by her side? Well, he did want a good deal more than to stand by her side, but he’d rather stand there holding her drink than spend the evening with a woman who was a sure thing.
And he knew that despite what had happened at the hotel, Jordan was anything but a sure thing. Everything about her screamed that she wanted nothing more to do with him, although there was no denying the pull between them, and he was relatively sure that he was not the only one who felt it. No, Jordan might not want to want him, but she did.
He expelled a slow breath.
She was laughing again. So natural. So genuine. Would she ever be like that with him?
What the hell was he thinking? He took one last swallow of whiskey, then setting his glass on a waiter’s tray, he lifted her wine and headed toward her. He’d always been a man for action, not contemplation.
Chapter 7
She felt him coming, knew that he was drawing near. The ease with which she’d held herself vanished in an instant, her spine pulling tight, vertebra by vertebra. It was all Jordan could do to keep her eyes focused on Charles, the short steel-gray hair, the heavy brows and kind brown eyes. There was something so reassuring about him, something that promised both protection and the expected.
The expected. For almost a decade, ever since Mark’s first heart attack, she’d known what each day would hold, known what she would do and who she would do it with. Even after his death, she’d kept her life to a careful schedule.
Charles reached out and laid a gentle hand on her upper arm. “You’ll come, then? I don’t think you’ve ever seen my home. I know Mark kept promising you’d come to dinner, but it never quite happened.”
“I’d love to visit. Do you still have dogs? I remember a long discussion of a new puppy, although that was years ago.”
His eyes softened. “That must have been Liberty, a chocolate Lab. I have two now, Liberty and Honey. I’m thinking about getting another one soon. I think Libby would enjoy a puppy to help her stay younger and to ease the transition when it comes.”
“That’s nice.” And it was, but the prickling down the back of her neck was getting stronger and harder to ignore. “Perhaps I should finally get one, too.”
Charles leaned closer. “Should I talk to my breeder? I know she has a litter due in a couple of weeks. There may be some puppies unspoken for.”
Jordan let her cheeks lift in a smile. Clay was right behind her now. She could smell the lemon edge of his cologne. “A Lab? I was thinking something smaller. I’d love a pet that curled up beside me on the couch. One that didn’t drag me when we walked.”
“A bigger dog is better protection,” Clay spoke from behind, and her nipples peaked.
He held out the glass of Sauvignon Blanc, and she took it, grateful for the chance to occupy her hands before she gave in to the temptation to fold her arms across her chest, flattening her aching nipples. The liquid silk of her dress was sure to display them far more than she wanted. She started to pull in a calming breath and stopped, pushing her chest out farther was not what she needed. “And what do I need protection from?” she asked, keeping her tone light.
“I can think of several things,” Clay answered, moving to stand between her and Charles. His tone sent tremors down her. He was not talking about burglars.
“I’m sure you have adequate security,” Charles put in. “But Windsor is right. It’s never a bad thing for a woman to ha
ve a dog as an additional layer of protection.”
Her eyes moved from one man to the other. Clay was taller by a good inch or two. Their shoulders were equally broad. Charles had a few more pounds on him, but not in an unattractive way, and she’d always found the weathering that came with age to be quite seductive, the knowledge that each line had been earned with experiences. She’d never been drawn to tight skin and defined muscles. Sure, she could admire them, but she’d always liked a face that said something about the man—and Clay’s expression gave away few of his secrets.
Still…There was no denying which of the two men before her made her panties wet. But that didn’t mean she had to give in to it. He had been fine for one night, more than fine, but would he be a wise choice as a more permanent lover? She looked at Charles, turning her face away from Clay. “Maybe when I visit I’ll meet Liberty and be persuaded. I’m afraid that I’ll be too lax with a puppy and then spend the rest of my life getting towed about. With a small dog, I’ll feel more in control.”
Clay had stiffened behind her the moment she’d mentioned visiting Charles. She couldn’t see him, wasn’t touching him, and still she knew every movement of his body.
“Do you need to feel in control?” he asked, and it was clear he was talking about far more than the dog.
She turned her face, aware of his scrutiny. Color rose in her cheeks, as a very different meaning to his question filled her mind. She shoved it away. “Well, yes, I do like control. I felt without it for enough years.” It was all she could do to hold her voice even. The look in his eyes brought back memories that had her on the verge of climax. She was standing in public, in the middle of a ballroom, and she was at risk of having an orgasm simply from a memory. She clenched her fists, letting her long nails bite into tender palms. “Doesn’t everybody like to be in control? Being helpless can be very hard.” She let her mind slip back to how helpless she’d been all those days with Mark in the hospital, how powerless she’d been to fight all the nasty gossip of the past. It helped. Her breathing grew more even.
“I don’t know,” Clay answered, his eyes focused on her lips. “I admit to liking control. I’ve been told I can be a bit of a control freak, but there are moments when I’m more than willing to let somebody else hold the reins.”
She would not lick her lips. She would not. “I—”
Charles cut her off. “It’s never good to lose control with a dog, even a small one. It should always be clear who is in charge.”
“Ah, now being in charge in contrast to being in control—it’s a subtle difference, but most important. What do you think, Jordan?” Her name drawled off Clay’s lips slow and easy.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. She rarely swore in public, but now she wanted to scream the word. “I think I need to excuse myself for a moment. Too much wine,” she said, holding up her glass and then turning to flee before either man could comment that it was still untouched.
* * *
—
Jordan leaned her face against the cool glass of the mirror, glad that the restroom was empty. What was she going to do? It had never occurred to her that Clay would pursue her…he was pursuing her, wasn’t he? She was way out of practice with understanding male signals. She’d hoped, assumed, they understood each other, understood that as far as the world was concerned that night had never happened—and certainly wasn’t ever going to happen again.
Clearly she’d been mistaken.
What was she going to do? She repeated the question to herself.
What did she want?
No answer appeared.
The obvious thing was to splash her face with water, put on her best social smile and sally forth. That was the advice Mark would have given and with exactly those words. His eyes would have smiled as he said them, enjoying their old-fashioned ring.
Only Mark wasn’t here.
She was alone.
There was the tap of heels in the hall. Glancing at her flushed face, Jordan stepped back into a stall, closing the door.
“I can’t believe he treated you like that, Lydia,” a high-toned voice rang.
“Oh, he’s always been like this, but you know it doesn’t matter once you’re in bed. The things that man can do with his tongue,” another female voice answered.
Lydia? Was that the Lydia who worked at the foundation? It did sound like her.
“And the things he can buy with his wallet,” the first voice continued.
“You know I’m not like that, Carol. Okay, you know I’m exactly like that.” A little laugh. “I thought I was getting somewhere. We ran into his parents in the park two weeks ago and he actually introduced me.”
“Well, nobody ever said he wasn’t polite.”
“I do believe that people say that all the time.”
More laughter.
Lydia spoke again. “I wouldn’t mind so much if he hadn’t gone to talk to Mrs. Robinson right after being so rude to me. She always seems like she has a stick up her ass, and she’s old. She must be almost forty, even if she is well preserved. Did you see the way he looked at her? I never knew he had mommy issues.”
Ice filled Jordan’s veins. They were talking about her—her and Clay.
Carol answered, “Now you’re just being catty. Remember you work for her. You should be careful. Besides, she’s not quite old enough to be his actual mother; although I do think he may have dated her stepdaughter back when I was in high school.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” Lydia asked, her voice eager.
“Don’t you remember her marriage? I know everybody was shocked when Mark Robinson married a child. She was younger than we are and he was much older. And richer. Everybody thought she’d married him for his money. She was just a poor, uneducated townie.”
Lydia hesitated. “I knew she’d been married to some rich guy who was sick for a long time and then died and that’s why she started the foundation, but I never really paid attention beyond that. I certainly don’t remember it from back then…”
“I only remember because my mother was obsessed with it. She couldn’t believe that anyone would treat sweet Mr. Robinson in such a way. She was always talking about ‘that slimy money-grubber.’ Although it’s probably because she was after him herself. You know how my mom is. Always looking for the next man. Maybe Mrs. Robinson is the same way.”
“And you say Clay was dating her daughter? That sounds scandalous. Do you think they had something going then? I bet he was hot even at that age. Maybe they were going at it behind the girl’s back.”
“Amelia did become a lesbian. Could be they scarred her for life.”
Jordan closed her eyes and swallowed back bile. At least she was in an appropriate place if she gave in to the need to vomit. She’d barely remembered Clay. She certainly hadn’t been involved with him.
Well, at least not until this past week.
God, she knew it had been unwise.
Lydia gave a harsh laugh. “She does have the look of a man-eater. She’s probably after any man she can get.”
Jordan was going to fire her. She was going to tell little Miss Lydia that…okay, hell, she wasn’t going to do anything. She was never going to admit to having heard this conversation.
“So why was Clay talking to her now?” Carol asked.
“It must be about business. Maybe he wants to give money to the foundation? And if he does I know exactly who his contact person should be.”
“I don’t know. You were just talking about how he was looking at her. That didn’t sound like a business look.”
A slight pause, then Lydia continued, “I have heard that men sometimes still fantasize about older women. Perhaps she was his first?”
Jordan had to place her hands over her mouth to keep a moan from leaking out. It was so hard not to fling the door open and defend herself, assuming she
didn’t toss her cookies first. God, she’d love to see Lydia’s face if she knew she’d been overheard. But all she could actually do was pray for patience and that they’d just leave—and never talk about this again. She knew how quickly a little idle talk, malicious talk, could grow. People didn’t want the truth. They wanted scandal, even silly, made-up scandal.
Water splashed in the sink. Perhaps they were finally going to finish and be gone.
At last Lydia answered, “If she was his first, I should thank her. Somebody certainly taught him well.” A sharp giggle.
“You’ll have to tell me more later. And who cares if he has some sort of cougar fetish anyway? I’m sure you can win him back. I don’t care how attractive she is; you can see the wrinkles around her eyes. I bet other things are starting to wrinkle as well. We should have lunch and head to La Perla tomorrow. A little lingerie and he’ll be begging you for more.”
“Now, that sounds like a plan.”
Then, finally, she heard the sound of the bathroom door swinging shut.
Waiting a few moments to be sure there were no forgotten phones or lipsticks, Jordan slipped out of the stall and came face-to-face with her image in the mirror. She looked like a zombie. She couldn’t remember even touching her hair, but it was completely disarrayed, and somehow her lipstick was smudged to her chin, much like dripping blood. Had she put her hand to her mouth? And her skin had a definite green tinge to it.
At least it gave her something to do for the next three minutes—and that was with checking her eyes for extra wrinkles, and wishing she had some eye cream in her tiny clutch. But then she was back together and still standing in the bathroom. It had been years since she’d felt this nervous about leaving a room, but she was helping to host the party. Would it matter if she just disappeared? Probably not. Everyone would assume she was somewhere else.
It was tempting. So very tempting.
But, as Lydia and Carol had made so apparent, she was not a child anymore or even a young woman. She was about to turn thirty-eight and while that might be far from elderly, despite the women’s comments, it was certainly old enough not to let other people’s opinions stop her from doing what she wanted.