Say You Will (13 page)

That wasn’t good—at all.

And tomorrow she’d get her head firmly back in place, but for now she was going to enjoy his attention. “Have you eaten here? Is there something you’d recommend?”

“Em, I hadn’t realized how heartless you were until this moment. To think I once thought you were a good girl.” He lifted a hand for the waiter.

The waiter arrived and Joe ordered a bottle of wine before she could stop him. She didn’t like wine. She sighed. Now she’d have to pretend to drink some so he wouldn’t get offended.

The waiter returned with the wine and two glasses. Joe tried a small sip after the waiter opened the bottle and nodded his approval. The waiter poured some for her and took their order.

Joe lifted his glass to her. “It’s more of a summer wine, to have on a picnic, but I think of warmth and sun when I think of you, so it seemed appropriate.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you putting me on?”

“No, I’m not.” He smiled indulgently as he took a sip of wine.

She looked at her glass. It was a golden color instead of the pale color most wines were. She took a careful taste and blinked in shock. “This is delicious.”

He nodded, looking amused.

Alarms began to go off in her head. “What are you up to, Joe?”

“What do you think I’m up to?”

“Making another conquest.”

“A conquest?” He smiled, but there was nothing humorous about it.

Why did he look unhappy at that assessment? Confused, Em took another sip of wine. “I don’t see what else it could be. I’m just a receptionist, and you usually go out with exciting women.”

He arched his brow. “You keep track of who I go out with?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Maybe I’m not who you think.”

Em snorted.

“You’re rather judgmental, aren’t you?” he said, crossing his arms.

For a full thirty seconds she gaped from that statement, it was so inaccurate. “Of course I’m not.”

He studied her, but she couldn’t tell what he saw. What surprised her was what she wanted him to see: an exciting, smart, sexy woman.

Which was so wrong. She didn’t need anyone to think of her as sexy. She just wanted Ben to love her. She pulled her sweater collar up. “I don’t need your approval, Joe Winslow.”

“We have a lot in common, Em Shepherd. The only difference is that I’ve learned to put the chip on my shoulder down.”

“I don’t have a chip.” She quickly checked her shoulder, just to be sure.

His mouth quirked. “Would it surprise you to know that my family was so poor that my brothers and I used to steal bread from the baker?”

She blinked in shock. “What?”

“Of course, I found out years later that the baker was letting us steal the bread. He was a nice man to let us keep our dignity, such as it was.” Smiling softly, he sipped his wine.

“But you went to Oxford. If your family was so poor, the odds against being accepted were high.”

“Yes, but I was determined. I put myself through school on my brains and fists. You should be able to understand that.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Like recognizes like, Em. I know where you’ve come from, because I’ve been there myself, and I respect what you’ve done to change your life.”

“Working as a receptionist?” she asked with a sarcastic lift of her brow. “That’s hardly the same as becoming a partner in one of London’s top firms.”

“To each his own.”

The waiter returned. Em glanced down and picked the first thing that caught her eye. She’d have expected Joe to be fussy, but he ordered quickly.

He waited until the waiter left to ask, “What do you see in Bob?”

It took her a moment to understand who he meant. “Ben.”

“He’s not worthy of you,” he said as if he didn’t hear her. “He’s an idiot.”

“He isn’t.” She herself heard the lack of conviction in her voice. “He’s a pillar in the community.”

“He can’t see the treasure he has in front of him, and that makes him an idiot.” Joe frowned at her from behind his wine glass. “Really, Em, I’m beginning to question your good sense.”

Eyes narrowed, she lifted her chin. “That’s only because I’ve refused to fall at your feet.”

“So far.” He grinned wickedly. “I’m holding out hope.”

She snorted again.

“In any case,” he continued, “you’re much too passionate to be satisfied with the sort of bland existence Ben will offer you. You’ll combust and take him with you. You can’t seriously see yourself toiling in dirt for him, can you?”

“I can tend his garden.”

“But you don’t like doing it.”

She wasn’t going to confirm that. “Why do you say that?”

“When you dislike something, you get two lines of discernment between your eyebrows.”

She put a hand to her forehead. “I do?”

He smiled like the Sphinx.

Their food arrived, thankfully. It gave her the perfect excuse to ignore him while she pulled her thoughts together.

The bad thing was that the meal wasn’t long enough for her to compose herself. Normally she had enough willpower to withstand temptation, but Joe was tearing down her defenses. She pushed her empty plate away, perplexed.

“Dessert?” he offered wickedly as if he could read her mind.

She crossed her arms. “I don’t do dessert.”

“Not today, but one day.” He reached across the table, cupped her head, and leaned forward to kiss her.

She told herself it was surprise that made her part her lips, not because she desperately wanted it.

He took advantage of the opportunity to taste her—briefly, deliciously. Then he drew back.

She ran her tongue along her lips, still feeling the tingle of his. She knew he’d quickly pulled away to leave her wanting more.

It’d worked.

And now she also knew that kissing Joe Winslow was like heaven.

“Shall we?” he said, leaving money on the table and pushing his chair back.

Shall we … what? Kiss more? Go someplace and get naked? Make mind-blowing love?

She shook her head.
No
. No, they shan’t, because she needed sweet Ben, not wicked Joe.

Only she liked wicked Joe.

She gaped at him. She
liked
him. She liked flirting with him and verbally sparring, but she also liked sitting with him and getting to know him.

She liked him
.

This was a disaster. How could she have let it happen?

“Em?” He slipped on his jacket. “Are you coming?”

She wished. She wished his hands were in her panties as he kissed her like he just had, across the table.

“
No.
” She shook her head vehemently. She didn’t want that.

“You want to stay?” he asked, looking confused.

“No. Sorry.” She needed to leave before she launched herself at him. She got up so quickly her chair almost toppled over. “Let’s go.”

He touched her back as they walked out. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” She gave him a bright smile, even though she was far from okay. She assured herself when she got home, she’d focus on her collage and Ben. She’d wipe this infatuation with Joe Winslow from her mind.

She hoped.

Chapter Seventeen

Rosalind and Portia stood in the threshold of their father’s closet, staring in.

Her sister shook her head. “I don’t want to do this, Rosalind.”

“We have to clear out his things. You don’t want Mum to do it, do you?”

“No,” Portia admitted reluctantly. “Mother will most likely create a bonfire on South Street with his belongings.”

And no one would blame her.

“I don’t like this closet,” she declared.

Portia glanced at her. “That’s strange, since you have a penchant for them. You were always hiding in Mother’s closet when we were children.”

“Mum’s closet is orderly.”

“Father’s closet is orderly, too.”

To the point of being irritating. She took a blue dress shirt and stuck it right in the middle of all the white ones. “That’s better.”

Portia put it back in its original place. “I don’t think we should do this now.”

Ignoring her sister, she pulled out a drawer. “Where are those boxes Fran said she put in here?”

“He only just died,” Portia said, pushing the drawer closed and standing in front of it. “It’s too soon.”

“I know it seems like it’s too soon, but it won’t make any difference whether we do this now or next week.” She put a hand on her sister’s shoulder. “It’s going to be difficult regardless of the day, Portia. But his memory will always be with you.”

Portia shook her head. “Obviously I care about him more than any of the rest of you. You’re all so willing to erase his memory, but I’m not going to let you.”

“He doesn’t deserve your loyalty and goodness.”

“Yes, he did. He was the best.”

Rosalind stared at her sister. “Are we both talking about the man who died with his mistress next to him?”

“Of course he had a mistress,” Portia retorted. “If you had to live with Mother, you’d get a mistress, too.”

Her eyes narrowed as her temper rose. “Did you ever think Mum’s the way she is because Father was such a bastard?”

“Don’t talk about him that way.” Portia opened the drawer and threw a rolled up pair of argyle socks at her.

Arms crossed, Rosalind let it bounce off her chest. “He was a bastard. He never did anything kind for anyone, and for all his belief in
Honour and Family
he treated all of us with callous disregard. Acting like this isn’t going to make him come back, or make him love you.”

“You’re just awful.”

She sighed. “I’m sorry, Portia. I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Okay, I did. But I didn’t mean to be cruel. She reached for a handle. “I know this is upsetting you, so just let me get it done. You don’t have to be here.”

“No.” Her sister wrestled to keep it shut. “Leave it.”

Rosalind yanked on it, trying to push Portia out of the way. Her sister lost her footing and fell backward onto a shelf of sweaters that came tumbling down. The drawer pulled all the way out, crashing onto the floor.

“Rosalind,” Portia cried, struggling to get off the pile of wool and cashmere. “Don’t touch anything.”

She wasn’t, because she could hardly believe her eyes. She tossed the few T-shirts left in the drawer aside and looked at the drawer’s depth.

Portia righted herself, tugging her clothing straight. Then she frowned. “What are you doing?”

“It looks like there’s a secret compartment. The drawer looks deeper on the outside than it is.” She turned it upside down and knocked on it.

Something fell onto her feet.

Setting the drawer aside, she lifted her finds. A leather-bound book that looked like a diary and some loose papers that looked like contracts.

Before she could stop her, Portia snatched the papers and began sifting through them. She gasped, paling, and abruptly sat down. “He sold Suncrest Park.”

“
What?
” Rosalind gently pried the papers out of her sister’s hands.

Sure enough, it was the deed of sale for Suncrest Park, their old ancestral house. It’d been in the family for centuries.

Rosalind had never been fond of visiting the enormous, crumbling estate—she was a city girl at heart—but Portia … She looked at her sister, feeling her heart break at the stricken look in her eyes.

“I don’t understand.” Portia held on to her pearl necklace. “Why would he sell it? It was part of the family legacy. I wanted to live there. He knew that.”

“He probably needed the money.”

Portia looked up. “I loved Suncrest Park.”

“I’m so sorry, Portia.”

Her sister shook her head. Standing up woodenly, she walked out of the closet.

Rosalind started to go after her, but then she glanced down at the book in her hands. It’d fallen open to the last entry. It wasn’t a diary—it was a calendar of sorts, and on the day he’d died the scribbled in entry said: Holiday, France, with TW.

“Bastard,” she muttered, wondering how many entries like that she’d find.

Some of the entries she couldn’t understand. Some of them were mundane, like his weekly appointment to get his hair trimmed.

Then a week before his death, she saw
Barrows
entered, followed by
papers to TW
the next day.

TW had to be Tabitha Welles, his mistress. Her mother had said that the week before his death he’d redone his will. Was she drawing conclusions thinking that he’d taken a copy to his mistress?

She pulled out her phone and called Beatrice. As soon as her sister picked up the phone, she said, “I think we have a problem.”

“Wait a minute,” Bea said. There was rustling in the background. A muffled conversation and a few seconds later, her sister returned to the phone. “Do you know what time it is here, Rosalind?”

“No, actually. But if it’s that late, then you can’t possibly be busy.” The telling silence made her gasp. “Beatrice Summerhill, do you have a man in your hotel room?”

“I refuse to acknowledge anything but the late hour, or early hour, depending on how you look at it. Is Mother all right?”

“I haven’t seen much of Mum. She’s been gone a lot.”

“Where is she going?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re supposed to keep an eye on her, Rosalind.”

She shrugged helplessly. “What am I supposed to do? Follow her?”

“If need be.”

“She’s our mother, not a jewel thief. I’m not going to spy on her.”

“Have you talked to her at all?”

“A little, but she’s being remarkably elusive, and I’ve been busy doing your dirty work”—she knew better than to mention playing with Nick—”which is why I called.”

“Have you found it?”

“No, and I’m afraid it might not be here.” She gave her sister a quick rundown, ending with, “I think you need to come home.”

“I think you’re right.” There was a masculine rumble in the background. “Rosalind, I need to go.”

“Lucky girl.”

“You have no idea.” She sighed. “Keep everything in line. I’ll be on the first flight back.”

Good. She hung up, worrying her lip, hoping her father wasn’t as much a jerk as she suspected he was, knowing he likely was.