Like Honey (2 page)

“W
hy don't you want to come to the beach with us?” Maeve said over the computer during their weekly Skype session.

“It's not that I don't want to come. I'm just not sure I can get away,” Jen replied. If only Maeve knew the panic, the way Jen felt that every minute mattered.

“Jen? Look, I know it must be tough. But you are still young and really need to get on with your life.”

A pang of grief seared into her. A pang she knew too well. A pang she slept with, ate with, breathed with.

“I know Ren would not want you to sit around holed up in that huge country house of yours, feeling sorry for yourself,” she said. The light from Maeve's room flickered behind her. What time was it in New York?

“What makes you think that's what I'm doing?” Jennifer finally said. “I'm running a business. Just had the managing beekeeper quit on me, and I need to hire someone fast because it's almost starflower time. And I don't have much money to play with.” She was immediately sorry she said that.

Maeve sat up straighter in her chair and leaned in toward the computer screen. “If you need money, we can lend you some.”

Jen shook her head. If only she knew—it would take thousands to save the business now. The business that Ren's family tended for generations and that he finally inherited. How did it get into such a hole?

“I'm not borrowing money from you; I've told you that before,” she said.

“How about taking me on as an investor?” Maeve said.

“I'll think about it.”

Damn, now that Maeve suspected a financial problem, Jen knew her longtime friend enough to know she would not let it go.

“And just last night I went to the Mead Maker's Ball and wore a lovely kitty mask,” she said, remembering with a shudder her masked friend's words: “My, what a pretty little pussycat you are.”

“Did you have a good time?” Maeve asked.

Jennifer shrugged. She had thought she'd tell Maeve all about it, but now she felt foolish. She'd almost given herself to a complete stranger and had to leave the ball in an embarrassed hurry.

“I need to go. I have an appointment,” Jennifer said.

“With Liam?” Maeve said, grinning.

Liam was the man she had tried to date. Once.

“Liam? No,” Jennifer said, thinking she needed to be careful here. She didn't want Maeve to know about Liam—um, or know more.

Maeve knew she had been lusting after him and feeling guilty over it, but she didn't know quite how far it had gone. Too far. Way too far—in a humiliating way, with him groping at her and her backing off, being called a tease. She just wasn't ready for another relationship. Whatever attraction she thought she felt towards him completely vanished after that one date.

In fact the first time she really felt like wanting a lover was with her masked man from the ball. Who was he?

“Why don't you just sleep with Liam?” Maeve suddenly said.

“We are not all like you,” Jennifer said, almost to herself. Remembering only too well what had almost happened last night. Almost. Until the sound of the host's voice brought her back to earth. Who did she think she was? What made her think she could have sex with a perfect stranger on a moonlit night in the snow?

For that matter, what made her think she could have sex with Liam? If it wasn't so humiliating, she'd laugh.

“What do you mean by that?” Maeve said.

“I mean so confident, and everything,” Jen said. Maeve was a famous cookbook author married to a famous photographer—but before that she committed to not being committed, with a long list of lovers. Not Jennifer, who had always wanted a relationship with her lovers. Ultimately marriage. And she had finally gotten married a little over two years ago, but two months after they had married, her husband was killed in a car accident. This, only six months after his parents died in a boating accident.

Maeve laughed. “Are you kidding? You are the confident one,” she said.

Jen smiled, remembering her old self, the confident one, the one who loved a man with her whole self and had found a slice of precious happiness, only for it to be taken brutally from her. When she thought about the old wisecracking, steady, kick-ass Jennifer Blackburn D'Amico, it sometimes felt like that was another person's life. Would she ever get over the raw loss of her husband?

The doorbell rang.

“I gotta go,” she said. “There's my appointment.”

She flipped off the computer and walked to the door of her office.

When she opened it, she was certain this was not the man she had just spoken with on the phone. She expected an older, more sophisticated, and way less attractive person to be Grayson McGhilly.

There must be some misunderstanding
.

Rendered speechless, his blue eyes seemed to tug at Jennifer's lungs, and she couldn't find the breath to speak.

“Hello,” he said, sending electric spirals up and down her spine, just like she'd read about in romance novels. Dang. That voice. A deep rich timbre. He held his hand out to her. “Are you Ms. D'Amico?”

“Yes,” she said, much more breathy that her usual voice.
Did that sound just come out of her?

“I'm Grayson McGhilly,” he said, taking her hand and shaking it. His hands were strong, working man's hands, but his fingers were long and lean and well manicured.

She tried to calm herself.
He's just a man. Get it together, Jen.

“Your staff said it would be okay if I—”

“Yes,” Jen said. She looked away from him, the only way to gather herself. He was so handsome that it hurt to look at him. “It's fine. I don't stand on formality. Please come in and have a seat.”

“Thanks,” he said, and walked toward the chair.

He was wearing jeans. Jeans? To a job interview? Must be pretty confident. Or cocky.

He took a seat. He wore a brown tweed jacket and a blue tie. Impressive. His outfit worked. And of course, he was applying for the managing beekeeper position, so it was a management position in which he'd have to wear suits, every now and then, especially on sales calls.

Jennifer sat behind her desk, which used to be Ren's desk, and she always felt like he was somehow with her in this room. The leather chair. The books on bees, honey, and beekeeping. His nameplate, R
ENALDO
D'A
MICO
, still on a shelf behind her. The best computers and technology that money could buy. Comforted by her surroundings, she regained her composure.

“How comfortable are you with sales and marketing?” she asked.

“Very,” he said, and grinned. “Though my favorite part of the job is working with the bees.”

She responded with a nod. “How about supervising? I see you have some experience with it. But do you like it?”

“Comes with the territory. I like to surround myself with people who are smarter and stronger than me and who like to work hard. I don't mind being in charge,” he said.

Oh, I can sense that, all right. Mercy,
she thought.

“Mr. McGhilly, I see that you are an American,” she said.

He nodded. “Scottish American. My mother's people are second-generation immigrants to the States. I speak fluent Scottish Gaelic, as well as French.”

Oh I bet you do,
Jen found herself thinking.
Naughty.

With his chiseled face, lips surrounded by dimples, pulled tight by high cheekbones, he was all angles and blue eyes.

“And you also know bees and honey,” she said.

“I grew up in Virginia, learning the business from my mother and her family. But my Scottish grandparents also keep bees.”

“Why are you not involved in the family business?” Jennifer asked. She knew it was a personal question, but it was also a professional one. Why would he leave such a successful operation and be in Scotland?

He sat back and rubbed his hands on his jeans.

“I'm here because of a woman,” he said with bluntness.

“Wife?”

“No,” he said as his face reddened.

Was he blushing?

T
heir eyes met in acknowledgment. Two Americans in Scotland, both here because of relationships. Now bound to the country for each of their own reasons. The air bristled with energy and knowing, and the room stood in watch.

No, the woman was actually his bitch of a boss, he thought smugly to himself, though he enjoyed seeing Jennifer squirm a bit at the thought of maybe getting too personal with him in this job interview. It was perfect, really. He knew more about bees than he wanted to—he had tried to escape the bee culture his whole life. Funny, this would be his first assignment from Kasey, of all people, who knew his story all too well.

“I didn't mean to pry,” she said, looking away. “It's just that this is a position of great responsibility. I leave your personal life up to you of course, but if it gets in the way—”

“Understood,” Gray said. No chance of that. He had no personal life. At all. And that was because of that same bitch-boss woman—and his job.

In fact, he'd done nothing but watch Jennifer for weeks. After the initial shock of hearing about the job from Kasey, he conceded there was no better way to get close to her and her business.

“What do you know about the local honey?” she asked.

“I know that heather honey is some of the finest in the world. But the weather here can be a bit of a challenge for beekeepers. But it can be managed.”

She nodded and cleared her throat, looked down at her fingernails. She was nervous. Or remembering something. Or someone, Grayson reckoned.

He knew her story, of course.

“But what about pest management?” she asked.

“I know that as a general rule too many pesticides are used in the business. I prefer other methods,” he said. “The problem is if you want a quick yield, it's difficult. Organic methods take more time.”

Her eyebrows lifted and she smiled. It gave him a start, this smile of hers. He hadn't been this close to her before, but his male hackles were raised from the beginning, which he had to ignore. No doubt about that. But that smile was wanton and sweet at the same time and promised of pleasure he dare not think about.

He crossed his legs.

“The family has been reluctant to switch. But I am open to the possibilities,” she said. “We've been making inroads and sort of transitioning, but I'd like to see us go completely organic, eventually.”

The family? He knew she was basically alone. She had a brother-in-law somewhere, Ren's brother, Harrison, who lived in the States and didn't want to be bothered with the business at all. And he was an ass. Gray knew this because they very distant cousins. In fact, he tried to use their relationship to get out of this assignment. The agency did not care.

“Honestly, I don't see why you couldn't do that,” he responded. “Depending on who your contracts are with as far as pollination services. But it might take a few years until you have profitable yields.”

“Many of the farmers we take our bees to don't use spraying. Which is a good thing. But I suspect some systemic pesticides. I don't want my bees to get hurt or die,” she said. “At the same time, I simply don't have the time to follow up on all of the contracts.” She paused. “That would be a part of your job. I've come to love my bees. I want what's best for them.”

Loving her bees? He grinned. She sounded just like his grandmother, who knew more about bees than any person he'd ever met. But most of that knowledge came from experience and, she claimed, “loving her bees.”

“What's so funny?” Jennifer said.

“Not funny, but charming,” he said, still grinning. “You are the second woman I've known who loves her bees.”

She tilted her head and leaned forward. “Nobody is more surprised than me to hear myself say that. A few years ago, I just thought of them as pesky insects to be swatted away. Of course I don't mess with most of the bees. I don't have the time. I'm busy managing things, crunching numbers, but I have a competent crew. And I inspect from time to time. But I have my own bees that I tend. Special bees that were given to me as a gift.”

“I see,” he said. From her husband? He wondered.

Quite a story those two had. Meeting in Saint Lucia, him a detective and then coming into this honey business, moving to Scotland and marrying. Married two months, was it? And he was killed. Another woman might have been devastated. He considered her, the woman before him, sharp, beautiful, and calm yet filled with energy. But the biting of her lip, the tapping of her finger, looking at her nails, the wistful glances, and he wondered if she really was devastated and hadn't acknowledged it to herself. Intriguing.

“Would you like to see the grounds?” she asked, standing up as if she couldn't wait to move. She was energized, didn't like sitting behind that desk he concluded.

“Yes, sure.”

“We have two hundred acres,” she said. “Most of it is wild. But we have tended patches of wildflowers, planted flowers and plants throughout the property for the bees. We, of course, move them from place to place depending on what's blooming.”

He followed her outside.

They walked up a slope.

She gestured. “D'Amico Honey Farm.”

It was a scene of green and rock and rolling hills and crevices, with leveled off spots here and there. He loved this house, the grounds, the whole situation. It was like something out of a painting. The farmhouse was huge, almost a mansion or estate really. The family kept an office there, in a newer-built outbuilding, with just a few employees. But the lands were vast.

Walking out into the spring day with Jennifer, surrounded by the trees and flowers newly bloomed, he could not help feeling a stirring as she walked by him. She smelled fresh, like she just walked out of a field of heather.

“Would you like to see your quarters first?”

“Quarters?”

“Yes, this position has a house to go with it. It's part of the family tradition. Our master beekeeper stays on site. The cottage is just over here,” she said, leading him down a path through overgrown trees, surrounded by an untended garden and bursting with the first blush of spring.

He liked following her through the thicket; liked the shape of her. He knew that was unseemly since he'd be working for her, but he was a man—he certainly could look, if nothing else. And that seemed to be his luck these days. All looking, no touching. He didn't want to think about the hot moment he almost had last night with little miss pussycat. He didn't need another hard-on.

The masked woman at the ball popped into his mind. He'd like to shrug her off as one of the pretentious elite young women looking for a husband. But she roused something in him—he wanted to fuck her, yes, but also to protect her. Sometimes he could be so stupid—how could he get any sense of who she was beneath that mask? These intuitions he had were usually spot-on. This one flummoxed him.

“Well, here we go,” Jennifer said, stepping aside.

What stood before him was astounding.