The Good Provider (19 page)

“William,” a voice hailed from some distance.

“Daria.” He waved to the figure on the second-floor balcony. Two white Adirondack chairs occupied part of the space, along with baskets of brilliant red geraniums. “You beat me. I thought you were coming later.”

She held out a wineglass. “Change of plans. Chilled wine in every room. How cool is that?”

He yanked his suitcase out of the trunk, along with the picnic tote Moira had donated to the cause.

“Finally,” she’d complained. “It’s about time. You do know the only reason I took this job was because I thought a handsome, young Hollywood agent like you had to be living a dashing, romantic life. You have no idea how disappointed I’ve been.”

Notty, too, was pleased and optimistic about William’s chances for romance. “Ravage her to within a breath of her life,” he’d advised with a gleeful cackle earlier that morning. He’d been promptly shushed by both of William’s parents.

The memory made him smile. His father had sounded better. Stronger. And his mother had been less sharp with William when she’d given him the daily status report. He only hoped he’d actually be able to get there as planned. JoE was trying to get out of rehab ahead of schedule. Not because he was out of the woods rehab-wise, but because his record label had talked him into performing at a huge televised cable awards show.

William had not approved. He was afraid this could be a gigantic mistake—possibly even a lethal mistake. “You’re not his babysitter,” Moira had said, soberly. But she also knew about Bianca. It was a different kind of weakness, but JoE could wind up just as dead.

He pushed the thought aside as he hurried inside. He’d figure something out when he got back to L.A., but at the moment, he was here. Now. And life was looking very, very good. Daria—sans wine glass—danced down the wide, open staircase to his right and flew to his side. “William.”

He catalogued a quick image of stone-washed jeans, classy flats and a white cotton sweater before she wrapped her arms around him. Her perfume was new, heady. “I’m so happy you’re here. You have no idea.”

He was still holding his bags and was afraid to let go for fear they’d land on her foot. “You look fabulous. You cut your hair. It’s great.”

She let go of him to ruffle her fingers through the much shorter bob. “I wanted something easy and different. I’d kept it long all those years because Bruce would have thrown a fit if I cut it. Julie said you’d be disappointed because men like long hair, but you’re not, are you? Disappointed?”

He set down his bags and reached out to finger one feathery lock. “Of course not. It’s your hair. Dye it pink if you want. Besides, the style suits you. It’s fun.”

She beamed and stepped back to do a little pirouette.

Something else was different about her. He studied the outward changes that had taken place since he last saw her. “You’re glowing.”

“I spent yesterday at a spa. And I joined a gym. I’m very strong now.” She flexed her arm for him. “You should be afraid. Very afraid. I’m a force to be reckoned with.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “You’re even more beautiful than before. I like strong women—my mother claims she once fired a machine gun over the heads of a band of rebels who intended to steal drugs from the hospital. I’m not intimidated.” But he was conscious of conducting this conversation in public. “Have you registered?”

She picked up the picnic bag. “All taken care of. Follow me. I’ll show you our room.”

William liked the large, airy room, which included a micro-kitchen and sitting area in addition to the deck. It was classy and beautifully decorated with antiques, including an armoire that doubled as an entertainment center.

He set his bag on the folding rack, deposited the picnic tote on a low table and did what he’d been dreaming about all week. He kissed her. Her arms went around his neck without hesitation. Her lips parted and she welcomed his tongue with a soft peep of pleasure. She tasted of wine and mint. The odd combination told him she’d gargled before racing downstairs to greet him.

His feelings for her sharpened to a fine point, so clear and defining he knew without a doubt that this was a life-changing moment that he would never forget. He was a heartbeat away from spilling his guts when she suddenly broke off the kiss and jumped back, excitedly.

“Perfect. That’s exactly how I had our reunion scripted in my mind. I need to take a picture.”

“What?”

“Not what—who. You. This room. Me. The new me. And the old you.”

“I’m old?”

“The
same
you. That’s a good thing, by the way. I really, really like the you you are.”

“Are you by any chance channeling Dr. Seuss?”

Her laugh was pure joy, and William quickly forgot about spilling his guts. There would be time for heartfelt confessions later. Or not. Maybe the new Daria needed to enjoy herself without any encumbrances like the old William’s declaration of love.

“You need wine,” she said, apparently seeing something too serious in his face.

“Yes, I do.”

She poured him a glass. The house chardonnay, she said, chilled to perfection in a special wine cooler.

“Now, about that photo,” she said after his second sip. “Would you please stand by the door to the balcony? There. Ooh, yes, looking very dapper.”

She clicked off several shots.

“Your turn.”

He framed the shot. She looked gorgeous, exhilarated. But there was the faintest hint of worry in her eyes. He snapped the shot, then picked up his wineglass and walked to where she was standing.

“How are you? Really?”

She sighed. “I’m good. Excited and happy, but I feel a little guilty about being so excited and happy. Weird, isn’t it?”

“No,” he answered. “Some of us are taught from a young age to put other people’s needs first. When we start making our own needs a priority, the conflict can get dicey.”

She inhaled deeply and let the breath out slowly. “I’m also a little nervous. I’ve never asked a man on a romantic tryst before.”

“Me, neither,” he said with a wink. “So, let’s agree to acknowledge any awkwardness by acknowledging that there will be awkwardness. Agreed?”

“That sounds very British. I like it. I like you.”

“The
old
me? That stung, by the way,” he teased.

She pouted playfully. “Poor you. Can I kiss that bruised ego and make it feel better?”

There was enough sexual sizzle in her tone for William to set down his glass and back her up against the wall. “Let me show you where to start.”

He pulled back enough to look into her eyes. “I want to be with you, Daria. Are you sure that’s something you’re ready for?”

“Yes.”

He stepped back and offered her his hand. When she’d been alone, waiting for him to arrive, she’d entertained several fantasies about making love to him—in the fabulous four-poster bed, in the shower and on the balcony, where they were now standing. But not in broad daylight. She wasn’t that bold. And she liked that William apparently felt the same.

He closed the French doors and released the drapery swags before he pulled her into his arms again. She pressed as close to him as possible, wanting to feel every bit of him against her body.

His hands roamed freely, touching her hair, her back, her butt. “I love the shape and texture and substance of you,” he said between kisses, placing both hands beneath her buttocks to pull her closer.

His arousal took her breath away. She’d been thinking about this moment for far too long. She put her hand between them to touch him. Even through his pants he felt hard and thick. She gave a tentative squeeze. He cupped her breast, murmuring something low and encouraging.

She used both hands to undo his belt. Her fingertips slipped under his waistband to figure out the clasp. “Oh,” she gasped. Her fingers touched something far too soft and silky to be jockey shorts. “You’re not wearing underwear.”

“I know.”

He let her have as long as she needed to decide how she felt about that. “I am,” she told him. “Victoria’s Secret. Violet lace.”

“I can’t wait to see it. Shall we adjourn to the bed?”

She nodded, surprised and pleased by how easy he made what could have been an awkward moment.

Before she could move, he bent over and scooped her into his arms. “Oh, my,” she exclaimed, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Are you sure about this? I’m not that light.”

“Not to fear. I’ve been working out.” After he set her down, he flexed one arm in a he-man way. “I’m strong. But you don’t need to be afraid. I promise.”

He couldn’t have said anything that touched her more. He not only listened when she spoke, he understood the subtext of her words. She’d joined the gym to feel more empowered. After everything that she’d been through, why wouldn’t she?

She did feel empowered. And she knew exactly how to prove it. She sat on the edge of the bed and motioned him closer. “You realize, don’t you,” she asked, getting rid of his belt, then carefully easing down his zipper, “that they call this ‘going commando?’ I don’t think I’ll ever be able to watch another action-adventure movie without picturing you like this.”

His chuckle rumbled through his diaphragm, but it stopped the moment she touched him. Lightly at first, then less lightly, with her tongue.

“Oh. Uh…” His vocabulary continued to diminish in a way that fueled her courage. She liked knowing she had the power to rob him of thought. She liked the taste of him, too.

“Daria, stop. No, don’t. Yes, do. Oh, bloody hell, wait.” His voice had changed and he pressed on her shoulders in a way that told her she should stop. She didn’t want to, but she rocked back and looked up at him. “Stop?”

He let out a shaky breath. “Yes, thank you. That was quite delightful, but I can’t be greedy.”

He boxed his way out of his shirt and stepped out of his pants that were bunched around his ankles, kicking them aside. With a truly wicked grin, he dropped to his knees on the thick rug. “Your turn.”

“Does that mean you’d think twice before marrying again?” he asked.

She gave a small, bitter laugh. “I’d think five or six times and still probably say ‘No, thank you.’ Although, that could be the divorce talking. There’s nothing fun about the dissolution of a partnership gone bad.”

“One of my clients has been married five times, although she’ll only admit publicly to three. She calls herself a serial monogamist.”

Daria laughed. She was a changed woman, he realized. So beautiful and radiating a glow that had made men’s heads turn when she entered the B and B’s small, private dining room. Yet, she was so profoundly without conceit he couldn’t quite believe his good fortune to be with her.

“Did she ever propose to you?”

He refilled their wineglasses with a cabernet that was so intense and flavorful they’d both groaned with satisfaction when they’d tasted it. “Of course. Twice. Between husbands three and four—no, two and four.”

“But you declined.”

“I told her I’d have to drop her as a client if I married her. And since we were in the middle of negotiating a movie role, she let me off the hook. The second time, I think she asked simply to be nice. She didn’t want me to feel left out.”

Daria shook her head. “You have a strange business.”

“In all honesty, it’s not the business that’s the problem, it’s me. Some agents handle things differently.”

“What do you mean?”

He took a large swallow of wine before answering. “I was thinking about this on the drive up. Something you said to me about my relationship with Bianca made me ask myself whether or not I had let my clients fill some obvious holes in my life. Wife. Children. Family.”

“At least your devotion to your clients isn’t taking anything away from a wife and children and family.”

He cocked his head, waiting for her to elaborate. “My father was a workaholic, too, but he had a wife and kids at home,” she said. “Mom used to say Dad would give his customers the shirt off his back. She seemed proud of that. I don’t ever remember her complaining, except once, a month or two before she died. She said wistfully that she wished we’d taken more family vacations.”

She shook her head. “I think I told you that my dad remarried right away after Mom died. And less than a month after that, he sold his business and retired to Florida. Just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “I was too upset and hurt to look very deeply at why he couldn’t wait a respectable amount of time. Isn’t a year the traditional mourning period?”

He gave a noncommittal shrug. “Everything moves at a faster pace where I live. Even the mourning.”

She seemed to agree. “In all honesty, I don’t think Mom would have wanted him to wait. But it took me a long time to figure that out. Funny, huh?”

William didn’t think so. After all, he was still working through issues that most men his age would have cleared up or, at the very least, drunk under the table by now.

“The last time I talked to him he sounded…content. And I’m glad.”

He lifted his glass. “To your father.”

“And yours,” she added, touching the rim of her glass to his.

He wasn’t ready to talk about his family situation, although he had promised himself to completely come clean before the night was over. He stabbed one of the scallops on his plate and cut it in half. “The
coquilles St. Jacques
is fabulous. Would you like to try a piece?”

She’d been so caught up in their conversation she’d barely tasted her filet, but she leaned forward and opened her mouth. He swirled the scallop in the rich cream sauce then quickly lifted it to her lips. She moaned, chewing. “Yum. Oh, man, that could be the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Weren’t you smart to order it?”

“Would you like it? Here.” He picked up the plate as if to pass it to her.

She swallowed hard. “No. I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s yours.” Bruce would have stabbed her with his fork if she’d tried to take something off his plate.

William frowned, his mellow gray eyes turning stormy. Without hesitation, he reached across the table to switch their plates. “I’m sure you’re mistaken. I ordered the filet. I’m a steak man,” he said firmly, sounding very American. “I hate seafood.”

Daria had to laugh to keep from tearing up. She realized in that unlikely moment that she was very possibly in love with this man.
Too soon! Too soon!
the voices in her head cried.

William raised his glass, drank heartily, then attacked her steak with genuine gusto. He chewed and swallowed. “Perfect. Just the way I like it. Bloody but not raw.”

The moment of panic passed—probably thanks to all the wine she’d had. After making love that afternoon, they’d polished off their free bottle of wine, then gotten dressed and taken a tour of the winery, sampling quite a few other varieties.

She reminded herself that she was here to have fun, to try new things—like
coquilles St. Jacques
—and she wasn’t going to let her overactive imagination ruin the moment.

William held his breath, waiting to see if whatever the hell just happened had passed. Maybe he shouldn’t have switched plates. Did his autocratic manner remind her of her ex? William hoped not. He wanted her to feel entitled, not guilty, about enjoying the bounty they were sharing.

Once she started eating again, he relaxed. Her steak was good. The scallops were better, but he’d never tell her that.

“I know this is a sensitive subject, William,” she said between bites, “and you’re probably tired of me asking, but how is your father?”

Now? Should I tell her everything? Now?

He pushed his plate aside and sat forward, resting his elbows on the table. “He’s gay.”

She coughed. Twice. And swallowed hard. She pressed her napkin to her lips a moment, then asked in a tight voice, “Is that a side effect of the chemo?”

His low chuckle helped defuse some of the tension he’d felt building. And her clever quip made him even more certain how he felt about her. “No. I’ve known for…ever, I guess. Although he didn’t spell it out for me until I reached the age of majority.”

The humor in her eyes faded. “Does your mother know?”

“Yes, of course. I think most of the world does, although he’s such a good man and so well-loved by his constituents that his sexuality never became an issue. He advocates for equality for everyone, across the board. In her own way, so does Mum.”

“Is this part of the reason you didn’t want to go back?”

Her question took him by surprise. “No. At least, I don’t think so. I’ve visited him and Notty—” Her small gasp told him he’d left out an important detail. “Yes. I told you he wasn’t
really
my uncle.”

“But you didn’t say he and your father—” She didn’t complete the thought.

“They’re unbelievably discreet. London is not San Francisco, and although times have changed, they prefer to maintain a certain image. They share a majestic old house that Notty inherited. It sits on a corner lot and has two entrances that date back to the war, when the family needed some rental income. Technically, Father and Notty have separate addresses, but they’ve lived together pretty much all of my life.”

“And your mother is okay with that?”

“Yes. Whether she knew about Notty before or after she agreed not to abort me, I really can’t say.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Most of this I’ve gotten from Notty. Mum doesn’t like to talk about the past. Father is far too softhearted to rehash anything sordid or sad. But he did tell me once that Mum changed the way he looked at the world. She was a force to be reckoned with—like a small sun. And when he was orbiting in the range of her gravitational pull, he felt like a different person.

“They were prepared to call what happened between them a college fling and be done with it, until she found out she was pregnant. To make a long story short, Father insisted they get married. The plan was to divorce after a year or two. He would raise me on his own, allowing her the opportunity to follow her lifelong dream of saving the world’s poorest children.”

“But they never divorced.”

He shook his head. “Eventually Notty and Father reconciled. Apparently, Uncle was not thrilled by the whole marriage and child concept, at first. But he warmed to me after a few years.” He polished off the last of his wine. “It sounds like a British soap opera, doesn’t it? That’s why I don’t talk about it.”

She reached across the table to touch his hand. “I don’t know, I’ve never watched one. But I think your parents were very brave. Especially your father. As you said, times have changed, but forty years ago, circumstances were very different. And being a single parent—gay or straight—is no cup of tea. No English pun intended.” She smiled so sweetly, so kindly, he wanted to stand up and hug her, never letting go.

He flagged down their waiter. “We’d like to take this with us,” he said, pointing to his steak. “And could we get our dessert to go, also?”

“We have a black forest cake that people have been known to travel thousands of miles for.”

Daria shook her head modestly. Her lips said, “No, thank you,” but her eyes said, “Two pieces, please.”

“Two pieces,” William said. “Is there flatware in the room?”

The waiter beamed. “Yes, sir. And we could send along a split of our very special port, if you’d care to give it a try. The combination is heavenly.”

“Perfect. May we have the check?”

Daria sat up, adjusting the neckline of her midnight-blue silk dress. “I thought we’d put it on the room. My treat.”

William forced his gaze away from the creamy skin and soft arc of her breasts to give her a that’s-my-bill-don’t-even-think-about-it look.

She blinked in mock terror. “Wow. I bet people quake in fear of that glare.”

He snickered. “Not usually, but my pride simply can’t take any more blows, Daria. You’ve insisted on paying for the room. I
will
get dinner. Are we clear on that?”

Her laugh was something beautiful and oddly healing. Sharing the truth about his family hadn’t been as painful as he’d expected. Maybe because forgiveness was such an integral part of who she was. She didn’t see someone’s flaws; she saw how they acquired those flaws and empathized with their pain.

The waiter returned a moment later with their check and a small green bottle. William paid in cash, adding a hearty tip. He wasn’t in the mood to wait for a credit card to be processed.

“Shall we?” he asked, extending a hand to Daria. “Dessert on the balcony, my dear?”

“Ah, William,” she flirted coyly. “You do know the way to a woman’s…heart.”

Daria quickly slipped her feet into the too-tight-but-terribly-sexy shoes she’d borrowed from Julie and took William’s hand. The night had been magical so far, even with the serious dinner conversation.

With their cleverly wrapped bag of goodies in Daria’s hand and William carrying the mini-bottle of port, they made their way to their room. William opened the door using the key she’d given him earlier. That act alone had made her feel bold, powerful and a tiny bit brazen.

She lingered in the doorway, trailing her finger across the shoulder of his dinner jacket. “You’re incredibly sexy. You know that, don’t you?”

“I grew up watching old American movies with Clark Gable, Cary Grant, Tyrone Power and the like,” he told her, shrugging the handsome white linen from his lean, beautifully contoured shoulders. Beneath it he wore a black, washed silk shirt that molded to his chest. No tie. He grinned. “Our cinema was very small and my nanny was very particular. She had her favorites, and those were the shows we saw. Over and over.”

“You could do worse for role models,” Daria said, kicking off her shoes as she crossed the room to open the patio door. The temperature was considerably cooler than it had been during the day, but she suddenly felt too warm.

William opened the port and poured them each a glass—a juice glass. “Have I told you honestly how glad I am to be here with you? Surprised, but pleased.”

She swirled the glass, releasing a bountiful bouquet. “Why surprised? You knew I was attracted to you in Sentinel Pass. You kissed me.”

He stood beside her, their shoulders touching, looking across the moonlit vineyard. Daria swore that if she looked hard enough she’d see the glow of fireflies, even though she knew that was impossible. But the area had such a magical feel to it.

Or was the magic what was happening between her and William?

He set both of their glasses on the flat, wooden arm of the closest chair and pulled her into an embrace. “You are so beautiful. Keats couldn’t do justice to your beauty.”

She hid her face beneath her splayed fingers. “Not true. You’re embarrassing me.”

“I shall forever regret not paying closer attention in literature class. I feel woefully inadequate to wax poetic about the perfection of this cleft, this hollow, this—”

“Quit,” she cried, squirming as his tongue tickled a spot along her neck. “I’ll concede that I clean up pretty good. Better than the person who shall remain nameless, though, or he might have taken me out more often, right?”