Waking Up To Love (Lakeside Porches Book 4) (2 page)

Fiona came and went from the bedroom, with a cheery “Tea’s good and hot, miss.”

But she couldn’t make herself move. Only when the water had cooled did she haul herself out of the tub to dry off.

Wrapped in a towel, she scrounged warm clothes from her already packed suitcase. Even though it was early August, she donned a blue cashmere turtleneck, a gift from Kyle at Christmas. She’d gotten him a manly slate-and-green striped scarf that made him smile like a delighted child watching the first snowfall of the year.

She dressed in dark indigo jeans and thick socks. She would let her hair curl and not worry about styling it for tomorrow’s flight. A new look to go with a new chapter in her life.

For now, she lifted the tea cozy and poured fragrant Darjeeling, the Pennington House specialty, and let the vapor penetrate her nasal passages until they tickled. She carried her delicate flowered cup and the plate of tea sandwiches to the window seat.

Pennington House sat high on a ridge a few miles from Padstow in Cornwall. Lyssa’s guest room had a clear view of the sea. The same wind that rattled the windows kicked up whitecaps as far as she could see. Closer to the house, it tossed the stately evergreens and ancient oaks and plane trees on the grounds. An eerie light promised more squalls to come, but for the moment, the rain had let up.

She hadn’t envisioned spending her last night in England alone in her room. Well, not her room exactly, but the one she always used when she and Kyle came down on weekends to visit his aging mum. Lyssa knew Moira Pennington as a strong-willed, proper lady, and she was sure that was why her bedroom was half a house away from Kyle’s. Not that she and Kyle were sleeping together, here or anywhere else.

In the beginning, the weekends in Cornwall were Kyle’s way of showing her around his home country, just as he’d shown her the London theatre scene, the Yorkshire countryside, and every other sight she’d asked about. By springtime, though, they were spending every weekend here at his ancestral home.

They’d met a year ago by chance at a gathering, a faculty soiree at the University of Chicago’s London campus, and had such good times this past year while she’d been at the university on her post-doc. She’d never asked how he happened to be at the gathering that night. He did say he occasionally taught a course for the university, but hadn’t in a few years.

From that night on, they’d been a couple, no strings, no expectations, just good times.

Some weekdays he’d picked her up at the flat she shared with her friend, Karin. Usually he was worn out and tense from work, but within minutes they’d be laughing over some silly thing she’d seen or done that week, and off they’d go to dinner or a show or an event at the university.

He’d been married once “briefly” he’d told her, a decade ago, when he was Lyssa’s age. No children. An only child of older parents, he’d gone to the best schools, had a doctorate in something to do with computers and “worked too much.” He’d described his job as “computer security, very boring stuff, believe me it’s a yawn.” But judging by his hand-tailored suits and jeweled platinum cufflinks, he made a lot of money.

She hadn’t felt compelled to ask for details. She simply knew he was the sweetest, smartest, most-caring man she could ever meet.
How can I get on a plane tomorrow and never see him again?

But she had no other choice. No options to keep her in the UK. Just a promising job interview in the very city where her sister lived. Manda, her only living relative. Their parents, both teachers, had named them Lyssa and Manda without the leading A’s, as incentive to earn their A’s. And they had.

The storm rattled the windows, and Lyssa’s stomach growled. She set down her teacup and reached for the plate. Fiona’s tea sandwiches were crustless and cut on the diagonal. She lifted up the bread for a peek. No wimpy canapés for Pennington House. These were packed with thick-sliced cheddar, fresh tomato, and watercress.

Midway through the third little triangle, she was stuffed. Her fatigue had lifted, but her sadness had not.
Face it, Lyssa, you’re in love with Kyle
.

And your heart is breaking.
A few tears slipped down her cheeks.

She refilled her teacup and stretched out her legs on the window seat. Sighing in harmony with the howling wind, she couldn’t think of a single reason Kyle was wrong for her.
Although he
is
a little off-type for me.
She’d always imagined herself falling for a hot, young guy who loved to dance and who lived on the edge. Kyle was handsome and muscled and sexy in a quiet, classy way. She didn’t know if he could dance, but he definitely didn’t live on the edge.

And anyway that definition of Mr. Right was before she got sober and realized there was more to life than booze, pot, and a different band every night. Those pot-smoking, beer-drinking days were done
.

Even though she’d struck out with finding a job in her field in the UK, if Kyle asked her to stay and make a life with him, would she do it?

But he doesn’t want that
.

She’d been trying to take their relationship to the next level for a month now. Hinting. Flirting. Touching. Always his gaze shifted or his eyes shuttered, and he moved away with a smile and a light-hearted remark.

Let him go, Lyssa.

But she couldn’t. Kyle had touched her heart with his gentle smile and refined manner, warm gray eyes, well-toned body, and incredibly sharp mind.
Why can’t I reach his heart, too?
Sadness washed over her.
Or even sleep with him once
.

Try again tonight
, her sexy self urged. He had obviously liked what he’d seen when her T-shirt got drenched this afternoon.

Yes, and then he sent you up to your room and had food brought up to you
, her grown-up self pointed out.

He wants to be alone.

Kyle swirled the snifter until the heat of his hand lifted the aroma. He held the Courvoisier 21 Year Old under his nose for a moment before downing half. The tingle and heat stilled his shudders but couldn’t touch his anger or sense of betrayal.

Justin Cushman hadn’t answered his cell a few minutes ago, so he’d left a message telling him exactly what he thought about snatching away, with no warning, the wholly desirable woman he’d put in his path a year ago.
Did he imagine I would lose interest in her after a month? Or a year?

Ever since that soiree at the university in London, Lyssa had brightened his nerdy life with laughter. His heart ached at the coming emptiness.

But did he really have anything to offer the lovely, vulnerable young woman upstairs? In the beginning he’d maintained his distance with Lyssa, because he’d vowed to Justin that he wouldn’t bed her. And then because he realized she was newly sober and just finding her inner strength and direction.

What was stopping him now? She wanted it. But she was just beginning what promised to be a smashing career, and he would not interfere with that. Even though he wanted them to spend the rest of their lives together.

He had to concede, with Justin’s plan, in one move she’d have career advancement and live close to her sister.
I’ve no right to deny her that
.

He tossed back the last of the cognac and cocked his arm, intending to hurl the glass into the fireplace. Instead, the gleam of firelight on fresh-polished mahogany caught his eye.

The breath rattled in his throat as he set the snifter firmly on a table and approached the piano. With a glance over his shoulder, he confirmed that the door to the library was shut. His music would not disturb the house.

It had been a year since he’d played this instrument, since he’d started bringing Lyssa to Cornwall with him. He played often at his flat in London, alone, but not here. Believing she would hate stuffy old classical music, as his first wife had, he’d never played when she was present, never considered taking her to a concert. Victoria had fallen asleep and snored at her first and last concert.

Kyle ran his fingers over the keys in a few practice scales.
God bless Padraig for keeping it tuned.

Fiona had brought her a fresh pot of tea along with a bag of ice and a towel for her ankle. “Keep that ice on there for half an hour at a time, ’til it’s melted.” As she removed the tray, she gave Lyssa an approving nod. “A good appetite means a good night’s sleep, miss, me mum always said.”

“Your sandwiches are the best, Fiona.”

Fiona gave her a little curtsy along with a rosy-cheeked smile. “It’s that good Kerry cheddar we have sent over. There’s none finer.”

When the door closed behind the housekeeper, Lyssa bandaged her ankle and packed it in ice. She sat with her left knee comfortably bent and her right foot straight out on the window seat.

Although she heard the wind thrashing the trees and the rain pelting the panes, she saw none of it though her tears. It wasn’t her ankle that hurt, it was her heart, and crying was the only way she could figure to let Kyle go.

The ice on her ankle had nearly melted when the wind quieted abruptly and the rain ceased. A faint sound reached her—piano music somewhere in the house.

Brahms
. Melancholy, forceful, and passionate in turn. She recognized it as the second rhapsody. Her dad had often played Arthur Rubinstein’s recordings of concertos and shorter piano works. That was the beginning of Lyssa’s love for classical music.

But this is not the Rubinstein
. She knew that recording by heart.

When one phrase stopped, repeated, stopped and repeated again, she realized it was not even a recording.
Unless it’s an old vinyl record and the needle is stuck
.

Curious, she unwrapped her ankle, pulled on her sock, and padded across the room. She barely limped now, thanks to the ice treatment. When she opened her door a crack, strains of the solo Brahms piece floated up the carved-oak stairway and enticed her down.

The music came from the library, where she’d seen a beautiful, mahogany grand.
It has to be Kyle.
Reluctant to intrude, she sat sideways on a step, midway down, and hugged her knees.

He played with passion and authority. The authority she’d seen on the cliff path today, but she’d never heard passion pour from him.
I knew it was there
.

When the rhapsody finished, the piano bench squeaked. Paper rustled. At the opening notes of a Bach invention, Lyssa’s tension released. She stretched out her right leg, rested her head against the banister behind her and soaked in the measured phrasing.

Her eyes closed, and she puzzled about the respectful distance Kyle always maintained with her.
He’s into my body, and he’s never made a move. Why?

Half an hour later, when he started up to bed, Kyle found her on the stairs, asleep. He sat on the step below her and pressed his hand against the ache in his chest.

So beautiful
. Breathing through his pain, he watched her, silently, until he could trust his voice.

“You’re lucky you didn’t take a tumble.” His teasing awakened her.

She opened sleepy eyes and smiled.

Those sapphire eyes
. “Why didn’t you come into the library?” he asked.

“It was such beautiful music.” She tugged at the collar of the soft, linen shirt poking above his merino crewneck. Her lips moved with some unspoken thought. Her eyes met his and quickly shied away. “I couldn’t bear to interrupt,” was all she said.

He swallowed his disappointment and put on a brave face. “Hogwash. How could it be beautiful if it put you to sleep?” They laughed. “Up with you. We need an early start for the airport.”

He stood tall and reached a hand to her.

With a sigh, she took his hand and rose to her feet. They walked side-by-side to the top of the stairs.

“Sleep well, luv.”

“You as well, Kyle,” she whispered when they parted ways.

“Pennington, you’re a damn fool,” Kyle muttered to himself and anyone else in the vicinity of Gatwick’s international terminal. An Air India flight just lifting off snagged his last word and screamed
fool
across the sky.

Hands stuffed in the pockets of his cashmere coat, he turned into the wind and headed back across the car park. After a few chilly steps, he turned up his collar and held the lapels tight by his throat. The motion released Lyssa’s scent.

Lily of the valley and roses tantalized his nose and filled his head. He wanted to kick himself. “You could have stopped her.”

A passerby gave him a sympathetic look and a wide berth.

Exactly right, sir. I’ve lost my mind.

Lyssa had sniffled all the way to the airport. As they’d pulled in to the curb, he’d told her, stupidly, for perhaps the seventh time, “It’s your dream, luv. You need to chase your dreams.” He’d hauled her bags out of the trunk and signaled a porter to help. Then he’d pulled her close, so close he’d nearly lost himself, nearly told her to stay and to marry him and have babies with him and grow old together.

If she’d said yes, it would be the end of her career. You knew that.

So, instead, he’d backed away, straightened her pink paisley scarf, landed one gentle kiss on her perfect pink lips, and said, “Safe flight, luv.” It was absolutely the right thing for a thirty-six-year-old man to say to a vivacious twenty-six-year-old just starting her career.

Well, wasn’t it?

Lyssa apparently hadn’t agreed. She had searched his eyes with her intense blue gaze until tears welled up and spilled over. “I think I’m in love with you, Kyle,” she’d choked out.

Startled, he’d lost his grip on her arms, stood open-mouthed with horror, and bloody let her go. She’d fled into the terminal and been swallowed up by the throng of departing passengers.

In a fit of insanity, mindful of the bobbies patrolling every square foot of curbside, he’d driven to the short-stay car park, grabbed a space, and come back for her. But she must have finished with check-in already and cleared security, for she was nowhere to be found, and her cell was switched off.