Thirty Nights (American Beauty #1) (11 page)

“You’re serious?” Aiden chuckles.

“Oh, yes. He was quite overcome. Before he was locked up to distill the geraniol oil, he managed to get security permission for me and my mum to see the roses.”

I pad along the perimeter of the Shakespeare Garden, stopping at the purple floribunda bush. I sense Aiden behind me like a shadow.

“The
Purpura romantica
looked similar to this one,” I say. “Except its blooms were smaller and it smelled like honey.” I caress the deep purple petals. Aiden’s fingers cover mine, feeling the petals too.

“Like your eyes,” he says.

I nod. “And my mum’s. And my grandma’s before then. I think it’s why Dad worked so hard to get permission for those roses. He exchanged his annual bonus for some blooms.” I swallow the wave of tears rising in my throat. It does not take the supernatural strength it usually does.

“My mum, Clare, was in seventh heaven. She was very fond of roses—something she inherited from her mother.”

I start leaving the
floribunda, but Aiden wraps his arm around my waist and draws me to him. He bends his head, running his nose over my throat to my chin. Inhaling deeply. Then his warm lips press against mine. If I live a million years, I will not be able to describe Aiden’s kisses. This one is slow at first, soft like petals. His lips and tongue fight for dominance over my mouth until they combine forces and I surrender. My arms hang limply on his shoulders, all nostalgia forgotten. Was that his plan? He pulls away, smiling.

“You smell better than this rose,” he says. “Now carry on.”

“I like your smell test but the olfactory sense is fooled by sex hormones. So you see, your conclusions are unreliable.” I take his hand and follow the Shakespeare circle to the tall tea rose. His low throaty chuckle blends with the night. I tap his nose with one of the cyclamen buds. He smiles and sniffs.

“You still smell better.”

“You wouldn’t want my mum to hear that. She was born to aristocratic Lady Cecilia Juliana Sinclair. This rose—
La France
—was Cecilia’s favorite. Each Lady Sinclair has a signature rose, I’m told.”

Aiden tilts my face up and kisses me again. “I had a feeling about you,” he says against my lips.

“What feeling?” My words sound more like sighs.

He pulls away, running his thumb over my lower lip. “When I first saw you, you seemed so…defeated. But you had this dignity about you, like someone slapped you and you were turning the other cheek. The words ‘grace’ and ‘aristocratic’ came to mind.”

I laugh. “You’d be the first to apply those words to me, I think.”

“I highly doubt that. And I really dislike your self-deprecation.” His jaw sharpens against his skin.

“I’m British, Aiden. Self-deprecation is our national trait.”

“You’ve managed to Americanize your speech but not your outlook? There has to be more to it than that.”

“Well, quite obviously, I was waiting for a man to buy my naked paintings. Nothing is more beneficial for a woman’s self-esteem than being wanted only for her body,” I say, trying to keep a serious face.

He smiles and presses me close to him again. “What about being wanted for her insufferable know-it-all attitude?”

I laugh. “That’s a genetic trademark.” I shuffle my hand over the tea rose buds, remembering Mum complaining about the same thing in Dad.

“So what happened to Lady Cecilia?” Aiden prompts, no doubt thinking that my know-it-allness comes from my aristocratic line.

“She ran away with the family butler, Franklin Brighton—my grandfather. When the scandal broke, her family disowned her and removed her name from the inheritance. They never reunited. She and Franklin were both gone by the time I was born.” I tap the rosebud one more time and traipse across the grassy circle to the ivory hybrid in the corner.

“Another rose with special meaning?” Aiden asks.

“Not as special as the others. But it’s part of the story. My mum met Dad when she worked at the Ashmolean as an assistant curator. It was love at first sight, they said. And by what I saw, it does exist.

“They married in six months. I was born only a year later, right as my dad got a professorship at Oxford. They moved to a tiny cottage in Burford, a small town close to the university for my dad.

“Mum loved to garden. Her pink English roses slowly took over the cottage’s bricks and even the shingles on the roof. It looked more like a fairy tale than a twenty-first century home.”

“Is this rose your mother’s favorite?” Aiden points at the pale bloom.

“No. This is very similar to the hybrid she cultivated for me.”

A soft, cinnamon gasp leaves his lips. “It’s beautiful.”

“Yes, it is. She worked on it for years. Named it Elisa, of course. This here is called centifolia because it has precisely one hundred petals. The Elisa has fewer but it’s the same color and fragrance.”

Aiden leans in and smells it. “I like this rose best. But with all due respect to your mother, you still smell better.”

“Especially after sweating in these clothes.” I raise my face to his, prepared for his kiss this time. As his lips mold to mine, I realize he is kissing me by each rose. I don’t know if it’s to keep my memories at bay or simply because he can, but whatever the reason, this stroll feels new. More mine, less my parents’.

“Come, one more stop,” I say when I can speak again. He follows me out of the garden, along a corridor of climbing English roses.

“No longer Shakespeare,” he muses, as though he is speaking to himself. I shake my head. Does he know the end is coming?

“Do they have your mother’s roses here?” he asks, never releasing my hand.

“No. Her favorite was pale pink English garden rose. The closest they have is right above us.” I point at the rose canopy over our heads.

We leave the rose tunnel and step into the heart of the garden, at its curvy, tiered fountain. It gurgles cheerfully the same way it has greeted me these last four years. The soft yellow light at the bottom of the pool turns the water a molten gold. Hundreds of copper pennies and silver quarters litter the granite floor. I perch at the edge, dipping my fingers in the water. I expect Aiden to sit next to me, but he picks me up and cradles me on his lap.

“A fountain this time?”

“Yes. My parents didn’t make much money but once a year, they’d pick some place in the world they thought I ought to see before college, and we would go. Dad sometimes left a day or two early to set up a treasure hunt for Mum and me. Usually, for her, he’d hide things that meant something to the two of them alone. On our last vacation together, in Rome, he hid a pair of lacy knickers in the Fontana di Trevi, which completely scandalized her but I thought it was hilarious. She berated him in front of the fountain, except in her fluster, she forgot that she was still carrying the offending unmentionable and was waving it at him. I never saw him laugh that hard again.”

I pause to let the lump in my throat drop to my stomach. Aiden runs his thumb back and forth on my hand but does not move. It looks like he is not breathing.

I risk a look at his face. I see many words in his eyes but he does not interrupt. He takes my hand, which is clenched into a fist, and covers it with his. It’s warm, and it keeps me going.

“They were driving home from Oxford on January 4, 2011. The roads were icy and a truck hit them. Their car saved an SUV with two children and their mum from being crushed.”

My lungs shudder, and I breathe to halt any tears from rising to my eyes.
Hydrogen, 1.008
— Aiden kisses my lips and my breathing steadies. Oddly, in this moment, I feel stronger. As if he shoulders this pain like Atlas with me. I swirl my index finger in the fountain until it forms a little whirlpool.

“Where did you go after the accident?”

“At first, I was in the hospital for a few weeks—I wasn’t well enough to go to school. Then I went to my grandparents’ house and finished my classes online. I was admitted to Oxford, where I had applied before the accident, but I couldn’t face the school that meant so much to them. In fact, the entire United Kingdom became an enemy. It didn’t take much to convince my grandparents that I had to leave.”

“So you picked Reed?”

“Yes. Oxford and Reed have sister programs so Reed let me apply even though the deadline had passed. I landed at PDX on August 24, 2011, and started school that same week.”

Aiden’s eyebrows arch and he smiles. “Really? That’s a coincidence.”

“What is?”

“That’s the date I bought my home.” He looks like he wants to say more but shakes his head at some unspoken thought. “What happened to the rose cottage?”

“I used my microscopic inheritance to pay the mortgage. Before I left, I gave a key to Mum’s favorite gardener, Mr. Plemmons. I couldn’t bring myself to rent it out and have someone else touch their things. And Mr. Plemmons has taken care of it.”

“Are your grandparents still in England?”

“No. Grandpa Snow passed away two years ago. My grandma lives in Prague now with my uncle. He teaches at the Charles University there.”

Aiden caresses my cheek, looking into my eyes. “You really have no one back there, do you?”

“The U.S. is my home now. It built me back piece by piece. It’s been a good four years. Better than I could have ever hoped. This was a country worth fighting for.”

His eyes still at the last sentence. I see a flash of anger there before he controls it. I don’t understand it so I squeeze his hand and press my index finger to his lips. He kisses it, like I knew he would. I smile and press it on my forehead, not quite in the center but close by. He smiles, too, dips his hand in the water and splashes me.

I laugh. It’s the sound the night needed. I look at the coins, wishing I had brought my wallet.

“How many of these coins here are yours, Elisa?”

Bloody hell!
I need to be careful around him. Nothing seems to escape his vigilant eyes.

“A fair few. A girl needs her luck.”

He chuckles. “That’s not very scientific.”

“Luck never is. Otherwise, it would be predictable.”

He digs into his pocket. “We can’t mess with luck,” he says and hands me a few quarters.

I take the coins with a smile, closing my hand into a fist. Then, I turn my back and shut my eyes. Over the last four years, I have wished for my supplement, for the Solises’ safety, for Reagan’s finals, for my green card. But today, I don’t wish for any of that. There is little luck can do for me now. So instead I make the only wish my mind has been able to form since that horrid day a week ago. I blow on the coins once and throw them over my shoulder. They splash with a satisfying
plop
.

When I turn, Aiden is standing right next to me. He pulls me to his chest and I rest my cheek there, feeling lighter than I have ever felt in this garden.

“What did you wish for?”

“If I tell you, it won’t come true.”

“Or maybe it will.”

I look up at him, dissecting his face. What do I have to lose?
Everything,
that vicious voice inside spews in terror. The closer we get to dawn, the more panicked it becomes. Of its own volition, my wish bursts from my lips.

“I want another day like this!”

Aiden frowns, his eyes on my lips as though the words are still hanging there. He puts his hands like a vise around my face, his eyes searching mine relentlessly. I have nothing to hide in this wish so I simply watch him, begging in my head.
One more day, please. One more day
.

“You want another day of embargo?” he asks, sounding awed.

Is that what I want? No, not exactly. Sometime between his first kiss and this last wish, things changed for me. Instead of wanting to share nothing but the present, I now want to share everything but a part of the future. And that’s a big difference.

“No. I want a day with you. We can both choose what we share. Not by rules, not by embargo, but because we want to.”

He shakes his head slowly and pulls away. He runs his hand over his hair and pinches the bridge of his nose. Is the idea of another day with me this difficult?

“It’s your choice what to share, Aiden,” I say quietly. “I want the day to be fun for you too. Just like you made today for me.”

“And in the end, you will tell me what you’re hiding?”

“You have my word.”

He takes a deep breath and nods. “Then another day it is.”

Chapter Twenty-One

New

There is something about the scent of a rose that defies biology. You smell it with your mind first before the rest of the senses fall in rank at its fragrance. So it’s the first thing I register now as something soft dances on my lips. I inhale as the scent becomes stronger, mixed with sandalwood and cinnamon—

“Oh!” I gasp, flinging my eyes open.

Aiden is sitting at the edge of the bed, his face eclipsing the ivory centifolia rose he is fluttering over my lips. He seems to have gotten better looking overnight. It’s not just the dark jeans and the light blue shirt that offsets his eyes. It’s the breakfast tray on the nightstand and the lopsided smile the moment I open my eyes.

“Was that a good ‘oh’ or a bad ‘oh’?” he says, tapping the centifolia on my lips.

Nothing bad about this “oh”. Nothing at all.
Oh, oh, oh!
He is here. And still mine for a day. He lays the rose on my pillow and leans in slowly, his intoxicating scent rendering all roses redundant. He brushes my cheek with the backs of his fingers.

“Is the scientific study complete?”

I blink a few times. “Huh?” is my Einstein response.

“You’re watching me quite critically so I can only assume you’re solving a chemistry problem.”

“I don’t think we have a chemistry problem.” My voice is soft as though it’s evaporating in my dry mouth.

He runs his thumb over my lower lip. It pulsates a little under his touch. “No, I don’t think we do, either.” He kisses my lips gently. “I’m afraid I bit these too hard,” he says, running his tongue over them like a balm.

Oh no, do I have morning breath? Oh, who cares!
“You can bite them again if you want.”

He blows on them lightly and pulls away with a sigh. “Maybe you should eat your breakfast first. I already deprived you of dinner last night.”

I’m about to say
food is overrated
but my stomach growls. Embarrassed, I lean against the headboard and pick up the tray. Eggs, bacon, scone, orange marmalade, Cornish clotted cream, a flute of cranberry juice and a glass of water. But the best part is the apple slice and the Baci chocolate.

I laugh. “How did you know I liked Cornish clotted cream?”

“Your roommate mentioned it when she was berating you about Colin Firth.”

“Wow! You have a good memory.”

He shrugs.

“Well, thank you! This is beautiful. Especially the Baci. Did you do all this?”

“No, Cora did. But if it redeems me in your eyes, I placed the order and sent Benson to hunt for the rose. I did give him a picture of the Elisa look-alike.”

“You’re redeemed.” I laugh, tucking the rose behind my ear and taking a bite of my eggs.

“You’re stunning,” he says, almost under his breath. I look up ready for a joke, but his lips are parted and for an instant, I believe my own beauty. Then I remember I have my mouth open and fork in hand. I chew the eggs, lest they drop all over the bed and ruin my new image and his silk sheets.

“Your blush is making the rose jealous,” he chuckles.

“Occupational hazard of working with rubidium and bromine vapors.” I feel awkward so I change the subject to much more important matters. “So, will
you
tell me something that’s not embargoed?”

The turquoise depths still. “It’s kind of early for that, isn’t it?”

He’s probably right. Besides, I have all day. “Okay, so what would you like to do today?”

“Well, I was thinking you could pose for your painting and then this evening, we can be together.” He looks like he has spent endless thought on this plan.

My fork drops on the tray. “My—my painting?” It feels like the eggs are hatching in my stomach.

His face remains impassive. “Yes.”

“I don’t want to pose for the painting,” I blurt out. The flute of cranberry juice rattles a little. “I want to spend time with you.”

He smiles without his dimple and caresses my cheek with the backs of his fingers. “And we will. Tonight.” He picks up the fork, loads it with eggs and shoves it in my mouth, which has popped open for reasons having nothing to do with eating.

I chew and swallow as soon as I can do so without choking. He loads the fork again but I stop his hand.

“Aiden, we had a deal to spend the day together. I share something, you share something.” I try to keep my voice in calm territory, rather than in wailing land where it naturally wants to go.

Aiden’s jaw flexes as though he is clamping his teeth shut. He lowers the fork slowly on the tray. His left hand claws into a white fist in the comforter. A jolt of fury flashes in his eyes.

“Elisa, we can spend time together
after
you’re finished. This isn’t very complicated.” His voice is even, so even that I can only conclude it’s hiding a storm underneath. And he left out the “sharing” part.

“I don’t understand. Why is this painting so important that it can’t wait a single day?”

He shakes his head and stares at the paintings on the wall. I’m about to say
I quit
, but there is a helplessness in the way he regards them. Then, his eyes zero in on mine like a focal lens.

“Because I told you, Elisa. In a painting, you can always belong to me.”

Oxygen stops in my airways.
Always.
If “always” is what he wants, I cannot give it to him. But there is something else about his answer that terrifies me just as much.

“Do you like the image better than the real girl?” The question fires from my lips of its own volition. My stomach clenches violently at the thought—more violently than I imagined. I look at the breakfast tray, the twenty-nine remaining days fueling me to run, last night compelling me to stay. Overnight something changed for me. Something subtle, yet bold. Now, I don’t want to be just a portrait.

A small intake of breath interrupts my mental dirge. My eyes fly up to his. There is no trace of fury there. The tectonic plates shift and still and shift again, as though something is burning at the core. He cups my face, his long fingers reaching into my hair.

“Call Mr. Solis. The painting is off today.” His voice is soft.

I nod, my insides churning. “Are you sending me home?”

He smiles but there is a sadness in the corner of his mouth. “No, Elisa, I am not.”

It’s terrifying that these small words should be so cathartic. “Thank you,” I say, wrapping my arms around his neck and kissing him on the mouth.

For the first time since I tasted him, his kiss is hesitant. He blows cool air on my lips and then sets them aflame again with his slow tongue. I knot my fingers in his hair to pull him closer. Suddenly, his kiss changes. His lips stop moving and press hard against mine as though he is breathing my air. Then he releases me. His eyes are primal. For a brief instant, I have the compulsion to grip him tighter lest he disappear.

He stands and pinches my chin. “Why don’t you finish your breakfast and get dressed? I have some calls to make.”

“Okay,” I say, breathless whether from the softness of his voice or the desolation of the kiss, I don’t know.

He strides out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him. The instant the door clicks, I peel the Baci and shove it in my mouth, ritual be damned. As the familiar taste melts on my tongue, I read the note.

Love hurts the most when it knows the least.
By Anonymous.

I shake my head. Sometimes, I think these things are bewitched to read the minds of bloody idiots like me who believe this codswallop as Reagan would call it. I set the note on the nightstand, drink my water and cranberry juice and escape into the restroom for my morning needs.

Then, since I’m here and not really sure what to do next, I snoop. The polished cabinets are organized with military precision. Toothpaste. Dental floss. A comb. An old-fashioned shaving brush and razor. His cologne. I stare at it in disbelief. It’s a simple, clear bottle with A. H. embossed on it.
Bloody hell, he has his own cologne!
I sniff it, and shiver. Yes, that’s him.

As exploring goes, this was uneventful. I pick up his comb to sort out my hair but when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I do a double-take. The woman gaping back is new. Eyes brighter—amethyst instead of violet, cheeks flushed, lips darker and swollen. I touch them gently. They throb a little under my fingertips. I smile. I have sex injuries. Brilliant!

I leave the restroom and get dressed, putting on my own knickers. On impulse, I leave my dad’s watch in Aiden’s dresser. Then I dig my flip phone from my purse and ring Javier and Reagan. Neither picks up, Javier probably working and Reagan probably hungover at the Lucia. I leave a message for both, suddenly missing their homey, predictable voices. Then I tiptoe into Aiden’s closet to investigate a beautiful, hand-carved wooden box resting on a tall armoire in the far back. But I’ve barely crossed the threshold when a melody I have known all my life reaches me. “Für Elise.”

I sprint out of the bedroom and down the hall. When I reach the threshold of the living room, I stop, causing the lights to flicker constantly. But I’m too spellbound to move.

Aiden is playing on the piano. Two bluebirds swoop outside the glass wall, probably envious of his music. He smiles when he sees me. The desolation of the kiss has disappeared. He looks at me while his hands fly over the ivory without missing a note.

I start walking to him, slightly resentful of the palatial room that separates us. His eyes never leave me as “Für Elise” picks up its rapid ascent.
How extraordinary!
I’ve never seen a pianist not look at the ivory once. The song ends as I reach him, but he starts again without pause.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi.”

“You play beautifully.”

“It must be the muse.”

I smile, watching his skilled fingers, marveling at their versatile talent from pinching nipples to playing piano at concert level.

“How do you do it so well without looking?”

He shrugs. “I just do.”

I stare at the autonomous hands that seem to have sight of their own. He smiles. “Do you play, Elisa?”

“Not like this.”

He leans back, indicating for me to sit on his lap. His right hand joins the keys again as I slide in.

“Play with me,” he whispers in my ear.

I place my fingers on the ivory, close to his, and start playing. He buries his nose in my neck and inhales. I miss the C major. He chuckles and presses his lips to my throat. Another missed C. His lips travel to my earlobe and nibble on it. I give up on playing altogether and focus on breathing.

“They say Elise was a woman that broke Beethoven’s heart,” he says in my ear. “He proposed to her but she chose a nobleman instead.”

I turn to look at him. “Another theory is that she was his student who learned everything from him until her untimely death.” I kiss his cheek, trying to fathom his mood.

“I like the first theory better.” He kisses me, his lips and tongue moving in precise synchrony with the piano. The harmony is so overwhelming that for once, the heat doesn’t rise from my belly but from my eyes, as though tears are welling there. He finishes the song and wraps his arms around me.

“My apologies for earlier,” he says quietly. I freeze. “I promise to control my…thoughts better today.”

“Thoughts? I thought it was reactions. Can anyone really control thought?”

“For your sake, I hope so.” He chuckles. Then before I can interrogate, he continues. “Now, let’s start this over. What would you like to do today?”

I file his thought-control issues for future study. “Let’s go out somewhere.”

He stills and tenses. “Where?”

I’m lost for an instant in his reaction. Is it resistance to going out generally? Or a specific place? I know where I really want to go. I want to go to his Alone Place, but I can’t invite myself there just because I did the same for him.

“There must be a place you like in Portland, Oregon.”

“Oh no, this was your idea.”

“All right, one of my favorite writers is speaking at Powell’s City of Books. We can go watch him and then roam about? They have something there I’d like to show you.”

He smiles but his shoulders don’t relax. “Who is the writer?”

“Nigel Fleming. He’s a scientist, actually. My dad and I relied on his
Chemistry of Conscience
for the article we wrote together.”

He watches me, his eyes calculating. “Elisa, what if I could arrange for him to give us the talk in private? Would you like that? That way we don’t have to deal with crowds and lines.”

I gasp. Private talk by Nigel Fleming? Bloody hell! There is no chemist I know who wouldn’t raise a beaker to that.

“You can do that?” I say, my voice thick with awe.

He smiles. “There are some benefits to being me. Is that a yes?”

I pause for sense to return. “Aiden, that’s really thoughtful, but no, I can’t let you do that. It will cost a fortune. Let’s just go hear him. I’ll enjoy it just as much, especially with you there.”

His shoulders are still tense. “I won’t even feel the cost for this. I’d like to do this for you. And for myself because quite frankly, I’m not waiting in line or standing in a crowd.” His voice is harder for some reason.

“But it’s too much.”

He sighs and pulls out his phone from his back pocket.

“Aiden, what are you doing?”

“Saving the day.” He presses one button and before I can blink, someone answers.

“Benson, find the PR for a Nigel Fleming and arrange to extend his talk at Powell’s today for a private audience… Yes… ASAP… Then reserve Powell’s for the afternoon… All of it… Top, of course… Thank you. Call me with details.” He hangs up and looks at me as though he does this every day.

I try to remember English, blinking, breathing or anything in between but cannot. Bloody hell, he just rented Fleming and two enormous city blocks! Why? I won’t lie, it has been a fantasy to have Powell’s all to myself but this is madness. Who does this just to avoid waiting in line?

“Breathe, Elisa,” he chuckles, blowing gently on my face.

The cinnamon scent brings me back to my senses. “Aiden, thank you. Truly. But I think you’re barking mad.”