“I brought dinner,” he said. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“Oh…gosh…I…” I had been planning on microwaving anything in the refrigerator that still looked edible and eating dinner while soaking in the tub. Then straight to bed.
“Is that a yes or a no?” he asked. “It’s hard to tell with you sometimes.”
I opened the door and let him in. “It’s a yes. But I really need a shower. I just walked in the door.”
“Then show me where your kitchen is,” he said, “and go have your shower.”
He’d brought filet mignon, baking potatoes with sour cream, and white asparagus. A fabulous bottle of Pétrus to go with the dinner, and fresh local raspberries and blueberries for dessert.
By the time I got back downstairs he was making a vinaigrette for the asparagus. “This is very extravagant,” I said. “No offense, but I thought ‘British cuisine’ was an oxymoron.”
“There are a lot of things you don’t know about the British, then. Here, try this and tell me if there’s too much vinegar in it.” He held a spoon to my lips.
“It’s perfect.”
I didn’t have too many illusions and he wasn’t subtle. We started kissing in the kitchen and continued throughout dinner, which we ate at dusk on the veranda. I lit the candles and the torches that ringed the porch while he finished grilling the filet mignon.
He came around to my chair to refill my wineglass yet again and kissed my hair. Then he put the bottle down and started to rub my shoulders.
“You’re very tense,” he said. “Your shoulders feel like they’re made of concrete.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m serious. I’m giving you a massage tonight. You need it.”
If he meant what I thought he did, then he would finally see my bad foot, now well hidden under a floor- length halter dress. “Let’s take this kind of slow, okay?” I said. “I’m a little overwhelmed.”
He went back and sat down, then took my hands in both of his. “I signed the papers the other day so the Studebaker place is mine. I’m not going anywhere. We’ve got plenty of time.”
“When do you move in?”
His mouth twitched. I’d changed the subject and we both knew it. “I’m going back to Florida in a few days to wrap up matters there.”
“Are you going to stay with Ross in the meantime?”
Mick shook his head. “I took a room at the Hilton by Dulles Airport the day of the funeral. Ross needs some time on his own.”
“He stopped by this morning,” I said. “He thinks there might be a trial. Did you know he’s planning to leave Atoka once it’s over?”
Mick picked up his wineglass and slowly swirled the contents around, watching the long viscous legs slide down the side of the glass. “I’m not surprised. Easier to forget an unhappy chapter of his life. Beginning with his marriage to Georgia.”
“What do you mean? He adored her.”
“She was miles out of his league. Not financially, of course. He had the dosh she needed to be Madame la Marquise. But she was rather a tart, wasn’t she? All those affairs, left, right, and center. Ross put the old blinders on because he loved her so much as you said, but it hurt.” He stood up and came around, pulling me to my feet. “And now enough about Ross and Georgia. Right now I want to concentrate on you.”
He kissed me again, a long, deep kiss, then murmured, “I assume we’ve got the place to ourselves? It’s nice here under the stars. You’re very beautiful by torchlight, you know?” He untied the straps to my dress and moved his hands down my body.
I thought of Quinn’s telescope in the summerhouse. He’d removed it this afternoon. I hadn’t checked, but I’d figured that’s where he’d gone after our argument.
“Mick,” I protested, “I’m not sure…”
But he wasn’t listening. Before I knew it, he’d slipped my dress off and it fell around my feet. He unbuttoned his shirt, then picked me up in his arms and carried me over to the hammock. “I’ve wanted to do this ever since I met you,” he said.
“I thought we were going to wait and take it slow,” I whispered into his neck.
“We did wait,” he mumbled, laying me down as he finished undressing. He knelt over me and bent to kiss me again. “We finished dinner.”
Chapter 19
We drank the champagne tangled in each other’s arms, then made love again. I got the wedding-ring quilt off my bed and brought it outside. We finally fell asleep and when I opened my eyes as the first streaks of daylight appeared in the sky, he was watching me.
“Morning,” I said. “Have you been awake long?”
He reached down and picked up his wristwatch off the wood floor. “Morning, love. No, not long. Since it started getting light.”
“How did you sleep?”
“I think I’m going to feel like a contortionist when I stand up, but no regrets. You were wonderful.” He kissed me. “I hate to say this, but I’ve got to go. I have a meeting in Washington in a few hours, so I’d better head back to the hotel for a shower and a change of clothes.”
“Want breakfast?” I sat up and held the quilt over my breasts.
He moved to the edge of the hammock and carefully stood up so I didn’t go sailing off the other side. “I wish I could.”
“How about dessert?”
He turned and looked at me. “That,” he said, “is another matter altogether.”
Afterward, I walked him to the front door, still wrapped in the quilt like it was a sari. “I’ll give you a ring,” he said, running a finger down my bare arm.
I shivered, then he kissed me again and left.
I showered, changed, and cleaned up from last night’s dinner. Though it was early, I drove to the winery. I’d been at my desk for about half an hour when I heard Quinn arrive. Normally whoever got here first stopped by the other’s office. Maybe he didn’t think I was in.
I picked up my coffee mug and went next door. “Good morning.”
“Good morning.” Whatever he was searching for on his desk, it apparently required all of his attention, because he didn’t look up.
“Everything okay?”
“Yep.”
“I’m sorry about yesterday,” I said. “Truce?”
He looked up and said coldly, “No apology needed. I picked up my telescope last night. I won’t be bothering you when you’re out on the veranda again.”
Last night. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask what time he’d been there, but I couldn’t. My mouth went completely dry and my throat got a lump in it.
Finally I stammered, “I-it wasn’t about the telescope…”
“I said I won’t be invading your privacy again.” He was curt.
He’d been there when Mick and I were out on the veranda. He knew. I nodded. “I understand.”
“By the way,” he added, “I ran into your sister last night. She’d been drinking again.”
“Where? When?”
“At the No-Name. That bar on the Snickersville Turnpike. Obviously they weren’t checking for ID. ’Course, those guys wouldn’t.”
“The shack on the way to Philomont? The biker bar? What was she doing there?”
“Drinking and playing pool.”
“Oh, God. What time did you see her?” I asked.
