Wrapped Up in a Beau (14 page)

“Don't change the subject, Sophie. He may be nice to everyone but I have a feeling he's pretty gaga for you.” As they walked toward the lobby she corrected herself, recalling the heated glances exchanged between the pair. “Scratch that. It's more than a feeling. It's a fact.”

“If that were true, he would've asked me out by now.”

“Maybe he thinks you'll turn him down. You don't exactly put out the come-and-get-me vibes.”

Sophie laughed. “Greta! I'm not you. Those kinds of vibes don't shimmy out of me naturally. Besides, I don't want him to ‘come and get me'. The last thing I need is a guy to take up even more of my treasured, pitiful amount of free time.”

Greta was unconvinced. “Or you're just a fraidy-cat.”

Sophie bumped Greta with her elbow. “Will you stop?”

“For now,” she teased, patting her friend's hand.

She wished there was something she could do to encourage Blake to try a little harder to win her friend over. Sophie was totally worth the chase. Hmm…

Later, Mason and Christopher arrived for dinner at the restaurant. Greta carefully avoided Mason's gaze, choosing to smile at his shoulder instead. The eldest Renclair looked so cute in his burgundy tie and sport coat. He told her he only wore them because he knew she'd like it. What a charmer. Right before they sat down, Sophie had remarked they never had eaten as a family as often as they did since she came to town.

“Well, I hope it doesn't stop once I leave,” Greta said, taking her chair at the four-person table, the best seat in the house of course, with an unobstructed view of the pond. Mason sat to her right and it took considerable effort to keep her eyes off him. He smelled so good, freshly showered and clean-shaven, wearing a quarter-zip dark gray pullover. His brown hair gleamed in the lowlights…her fingers itched to ruffle the locks and trace down his smooth cheek.

His blue eyes met hers and she jerked her gaze, face flaming.

“Maybe you shouldn't go back to the foreigners, Greta,” Christopher commented in a gravelly voice. “I don't know what they've got over there that we don't have here, except annoying accents and a royal family. If you like cold weather, old buildings and boring townsfolk then you can find that all right here in Swan's Crossing.”

“Grandpa,” Sophie warned lightly.

Unfolding her napkin, Greta smiled softly at Christopher. “That's something to consider.”

“Don't pretend you wouldn't love it if she moved to town, Soph,” the elder remarked.

Sophie shrugged. “I'm not pretending anything. She knows how much I adore having her around. I think Swan's Crossing is too simple for the likes of Greta. She wants to explore the world, not shackle herself to our dot on the map.” She sent her a wink.

Frankly, Greta had seen a lot of the world already and although she couldn't say without a doubt she'd had her fill, she was ready to let the dust settle for a while. That's why she saved up for the cottage in Willowcombe, so she could start a life that didn't begin with unpacking a suitcase. “This town is the best-kept secret dot this side of the Atlantic. You're fortunate to live in a place that holds its own through the changing times. Old-world charm and beauty—it's not as easy to find anymore. But I think I've finally found a place almost as good as Swan's Crossing.”

Christopher grunted. “Got a lotta people who'd miss you, huh?”

“Um…” She thanked the waiter as he handed her a menu. “A few.” Lie. She had yet to make any real friends in Willowcombe. Never there long enough to get to know the town. Why she kept leaving instead of staying put eluded her.

“What about family? Got some relatives out there?” Christopher asked.

Greta's stomach dropped at the simple question. “Er…well—”

“Grandpa,” Mason interjected, “stop asking nosy questions and select an entrée.” He gave her an apologetic look, knowing how uncomfortable it made her to talk about the family she didn't have.

But their grandfather refused to be left hanging. “No family then?”

With a reluctantly sad smile, she shook her head.

Christopher gave a single nod as though he'd made a decision. “That's okay. We'll be your family. Whether you're here or in Siberia. Don't have to be related to count. Sophie thinks of you like a sister anyway.”

“Feeling's mutual.” She smiled at her friend.

“Then it's settled. I'll be your grandpa, Sophie will be your sister, and so on.” He pointed a finger across the table. “Except for Mason. He can't be considered a brother when you two have been frolikin' in the daisies. He'll have to be somethin' else.”

The heat flamed on Greta's face as she raised the menu higher to hide her flush. Sophie pressed her lips together, but her shoulders shook with mirth. Mason feigned no reaction except for the slightest twitch of his lips, which he discreetly covered with his fingertips.

“What drinks may I get for everyone?” the waiter, Ollie, asked clasping his hands behind his back.

“I definitely want to start with some wine,” Greta told the server.

“Ditto for me,” Sophie added between giggles. “We'll share a bottle of merlot.”

“Whiskey on the rocks,” Christopher ordered. “Your
best
, Ollie.”

Mason shook his head. “You know you can't—”

“Mom said it was okay.” Sophie waved. “It's not every day we eat out together.”

“Fine by me,” Mason shrugged. “I'll have water. Tap is fine.” Ollie gave a nod but Mason stopped him again. “Bring some extra cocktail napkins too, if you could.”

Once their drinks were served, they gave their dinner orders. Greta decided on seafood salad and lobster bisque, her appetite still a little curbed from her chocolate indulgence.

While she and Sophie laughed about their random adventures from when they first met, Christopher concentrating on complaining about the temperature of his food, Mason remained mysteriously quiet. More than once his eyes were on her, and Greta had a devil of a time pretending not to notice. It was unnerving and he knew it. On occasion, his knee would brush hers and her pulse would jump. She'd had no idea she could get a thrill from a simple knee contact. Not fair.

When it happened again, she brushed a hand where it tickled and, attempting to ignore it, moved her knee as far away from his as she could. “Well, with New Year's around the corner, anybody care to share their resolutions?”

Christopher was the first to answer. “Blech. Too old to care.”

Greta chuckled. “Then you're off the hook. Sophie?”

Her friend flicked her gaze up as though considering her answer. “I just finished a great book called
Fun, Fearless, Forever Young
and it inspired yet depressed me at the same time. I never go outside of my comfort zone. I need to do something
exciting
. Scary, even. That's my resolution.”

“Scary?” Mason asked. “Such as?”

“I don't know. Like I said, something outside the box.”

“Carrying a spider from the house to the yard could be considered scary and exciting for you,” he commented in a wry tone, eyes twinkling.

She straightened her posture. “You shush. I don't have anything specific in mind, but I have a few more days to think about it. What about you, Mason?”

“I think I took care of mine already. Spend more time with the fam.”

“Doesn't count. Has to be for next year,” Sophie protested.

“Says who?”

“I do. Now think of something else.”

He rolled his eyes. “I already gave my answer.”

“Fine. I'll come up with one for you.” She picked up the wine bottle and poured for herself.

“That won't exactly work. I have to
want
to make this resolution, Sophie.”

“Well, you resolved to spend more time with us and it's already done? You're such an overachiever.”

“I won't be so available once I go back to the office, but I'll do my best.”

Sophie smiled. “Good enough.” She turned to her grandfather. “One thing you could make a resolution for is keeping a nurse for more than, oh, thirty days. We have to start interviewing for another one after the New Year. Mom and I can't take care of you by ourselves. You need someone there round the clock.”

Christopher gave his signature glower. “You talk about me as though I have one leg in the grave!”

“I do not!” Sophie cried.

As granddaughter and grandfather went back and forth about the nurse situation, Greta felt warm fingers at her knee. She glanced at Mason, who kept his gaze elsewhere. Something was in his hand. He glanced at her and gave a single nod for her to reach for what he had. Brows furrowed, she hesitated then slowly moved her hand underneath the table. He'd left a napkin behind. So this explained his odd request for extra. Discreetly, she pulled the napkin to her lap and read:

Are you still mad at me?

She hid a smile. When in blazes had he written this? Probably during Sophie's conversation about their silly misadventures in Florence. Playing coy, she tucked the napkin under her plate, avoiding Mason's gaze. Was she still mad at him? No. In fact, she never really had been. She was more mad at herself for the things she'd said, than the things he did.

“Maybe we should be interviewing male nurses instead of female,” she heard Sophie say. “A strong, strapping guy who's nice and professional.”

Of course her grandfather disagreed. “Gah! No! I don't want a man. I like a gentle
woman's
touch.”

“Just because it's a man doesn't mean he can't be gentle—”

“What do you know? When's the last time you let a man handle you?”

“Grandfather!”

Greta stifled laughter, then felt a napkin on her knee again. She raised an eyebrow at Mason. Again, he ignored her. Casting her gaze down, she opened her message.

I'm sorry for being a jerk.

Folding the napkin, she ignored the butterflies dancing in her stomach. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mason clicking a pen and writing another discreet note. Sophie and Christopher were oblivious to this, as the conversation had amusingly transitioned from nurses to Sophie's love life.

Greta's heart pounded in anticipation. A giddiness to read his third note had her near-squirming in her chair. Moments later, a napkin was set on her thigh. Even though she wanted to snatch it, she took her time, pouring more wine in her glass, and taking a savoring sip before reading it.

I need to see you tonight. Please.

She held her breath, sensing the urgency and sincerity in the words.

A tap tap on her knee. A pen.

He wanted an answer.

Chapter Thirteen

Greta looked from Sophie to Christopher, who were still playing verbal tennis about…something. Mason was too good at this covert messaging.

Did she want him to come over?

Of course she did. It'd be silly to pretend otherwise and push him away. She didn't have time to play games. Funny how she didn't want to go that route, as she usually did with men. Make them beg for her forgiveness and chase her down. Nah. Their little argument hadn't been that serious. Plus, he used two key words in his notes. He was sorry and he needed her. A thrill raced down her spine. She'd never been told she was needed before, and even though she knew he probably meant sexually, she didn't care.

Lifting her lashes, she met Mason's gaze. His expression was virtually blank, unreadable, but those eyes gave her all the confirmation she wanted. Hiding her own feelings, she discreetly placed the napkin on her lap, clicked the pen and replied to all of his notes:

No. Me too. I'll be waiting.

“Greta.”

Startled—caught—she lifted her gaze to Sophie's. “What?” she blurted, completely guilty, face heated.

“You're on my side on this, right?”

No clue what Sophie was referring to, and in the middle of passing a cocktail napkin to Mason, she grappled for a reply. “Well…”

Apparently that was sufficient enough because Sophie beamed. “It's so nice to know someone sees my side of things! Bless you, Greta.”

Whatever Sophie's side was, Greta would likely agree with it, but she felt bad for not paying attention. Mason grabbed the napkin from her so quickly she gave a soft gasp.

Christopher heard it. “You all right, kiddo? You seem skittish.”

Putting on her best aura of calm, she shook her head with a smile. “I felt a cold breeze go through. I'm fine.” She flicked a glance at Mason, whose mouth half-lifted, a sensual promise in his gaze. He'd read her note.

Sophie clasped her hands. “Who wants dessert?”

“No dessert,” her brother asserted.

“But—”

“Grandfather needs to take his medication and I have no room after that steak. Get it to go.”

Sophie frowned at her brother's command. “Seriously? You didn't even ask Greta.” She moved her gaze. “Split a slice of pie with me?”

Now that her stomach was filled to the brim with butterflies, not to mention, Mason's potent desire for her had multiplied her buzz, she didn't think she could fit anything more. “I'm stuffed, Sophie,” she responded apologetically.

“Okay. I'll get it to go. It'll taste all the better when I'm comfy in bed.” She smiled, rising from her seat. “Excuse me while I run to the ladies' room.”

As Sophie walked away, Mason gestured to Greta with two fingers. She leaned over.

“You're going to taste even better in bed too,” he crooned.

Her heart thumped as her cheeks warmed. “You shouldn't say such things in public.”

“It'll only get worse in private. As soon as I drop off Grandfather, I'll be at your door.”

The promise elicited a thumping excitement in her chest, one she found challenging to conceal. She used to find such boldness annoying in men, but not in Mason, for some reason.

Back at the guesthouse, she tried not to watch the clock. She'd lit candles, opened a bottle of wine and dabbed on some fragrant perfume oil. The one that guaranteed Mason would bury his nose deep in her neck and drive her lust-crazy.

She'd been waiting for almost an hour, and with every passing minute, her anticipation waned to indignation. He was doing this on purpose, she thought pushing up from the sofa. Well, if he thought he could take his time and she'd wait up all night then he was wrong.

She held her hair up and blew out the candles then whisked past the window, forcing herself not to glance outside to see if he was on his way.

“Thanks, Emmett. I'll talk to you tomorrow.” Mason hung up the phone he'd used in the estate den to call a project manager for one of the commercial properties they were restoring. Emmett had texted him about a small emergency, and although his staff had handled it as expected, Mason called for a complete assessment. The astute manager brought him up to speed on a few things as well and before Mason knew it, an hour had gone by. He didn't mean to make Greta wait, but he knew she'd understand. At least, he hoped she did. If she had still been mad at him and said no when he asked if he could come over, he would've had a long, sleepless night ahead.

Greta Marcum had a power over him and the realization gave him serious pause. She was like a drug. One he couldn't get enough of.

Ever since he met her, he'd done things out of character just so he could be in her presence. More often than not he recognized how he'd been reduced to an aching, desperate man at times—a side of him he hadn't thought existed. Never before had he been this crazy for a woman. Of course he enjoyed the fairer sex as much as any hot-blooded male did, but he'd never felt as though he would break through brick walls to get to one.

This was no good.

She could wait a few more minutes.

Seeking to distract himself momentarily as he digested this knowledge, he pulled out his phone and mindlessly scrolled through some of his emails. His foot tapped, tapped, tapped as he scanned his personal Outlook account. An email from an old classmate, a few spams telling him he'd won the Euro lottery, an invitation for a New Year's Eve party. Who cares? With a groan, he dropped the phone on the desk and leaned back in the chair.

He was anxious to go over there. Why stall?

Because he couldn't show up in this condition, damn it. He didn't want her to know how badly he longed to have her in his arms, how much he loved to hear her laugh, how he couldn't wait for her fingers to tightly intertwine with his when she had an orgasm. He raked a hand through his hair. Thoughts like that drove a man crazy.

But he could wait. His body might claim otherwise, but his head demanded some form of restraint. Dropping his head back, he sighed, and folded his hands.

As Sophie would say, he had it bad.

Over dinner, he'd pretended not to be deeply interested in Greta's responses about her life abroad. She'd seemed almost reluctant to answer. Especially about her long-gone relatives. Mason had been about to change the subject when his grandfather proclaimed
they
would be her family. The expression on Greta's face had been nothing short of awe. The old man was clearly a big fan of Greta's, so much so he tried to talk her into becoming a permanent resident. The assurance she had a pseudo family who would welcome her anytime must've touched something inside her. If Mason hadn't been watching her intently, he might not have caught the brief consideration and longing in her eyes, but it vanished quickly when she remarked she'd found a place almost as good as Swan's to call home. Willowcab or wherever.

Part of him wanted to join forces with his grandfather to convince her to make the U.S. her home again, but he quickly decided against it. It was one thing to persuade her to stay another week, quite another to encourage her to change her life plans. And why would he do that unless he had intentions of his own?

While he was crazy about Greta, he'd only known her a very short time. It wasn't logical to woo her with something more. First of all, she was going back, and second, a decision like that took time. He preferred getting to know a woman in small measurements, with eyes wide open, before he considered getting serious. Some would call it dragging his feet, but that was the way he played it. Nice and slow. His affair with Greta notwithstanding of course.

Hell, his ex-girlfriend had lasted less than six months, and when they broke up, she confessed she never really knew for sure if they were exclusive. She'd lived in another town half an hour away and, in hindsight, it had been little more than a convenient weekend relationship. Even if he wanted to keep this thing going with Greta, it wasn't realistic. A long—very long—distance affair would be impossible.

As he shrugged on his jacket and headed out the east-wing door, his heart began hammering again, that predictable anticipation building with every step on the recently shoveled path. Guess when it came to her, his body had very little control. “I give up,” he mumbled, shaking his head with a rueful smile.

The door was locked.
That's a first
. Brows drawing, he tried again. Then softly knocked.

She didn't come.

“Greta?” he called.

No answer.

Surely she hadn't left; she didn't have a car. Not that lacking immediate transportation would stop Greta, but he doubted she would leave without letting him know. Then again, she could be ticked off he'd left her waiting for over an hour when he'd said he would come right over. Peering in through the crack in the curtains, he saw her purse on the coffee table. Maybe she was in the shower. Now there was an intriguing idea. Except it wouldn't be very fun to be stuck out there in the freezing cold while she was naked and wet. A little perturbed he might miss out, he set his hands on his hips, thinking. There was an extra set of keys at the main house, but who knew where the heck his mother kept them? He didn't want to wake the housekeeper either.

Greta could be asleep as well.

Damn. Why hadn't he come straight over? He could've easily taken the phone call in the guesthouse. “Well, Miss Marcum, a locked door is hardly going to stop me,” he murmured feeling around the window. A push here, a yank there and a whole lot of failure. He marched through the snow to the window near the kitchen, and jutted his palms at the middle, pushing up. It started to budge. Hopefully he could get it open fully to squeeze his body through. It was going to take some maneuvering.

Only able to get the window three-quarters up, he figured he'd have to go in head first, on his back, and snake his way inside. He'd gotten an arm and his head through when the kitchen light came on. Busted.

Greta, in silk pajama pants and a tank top, gaped at him. “
What
are you doing?”

Only partly ashamed of his actions, he gave her a sheepish half-smile. “Breaking in. You locked the door.”

“That should've been your first clue I was no longer interested in a visitor.”

“Really.” He moved back outside and kept the window open, pretending to be completely affronted. “Well, I'm no ordinary visitor.”

“Oh?” she arched, coming closer to the window.

The winter breeze puckered her nipples through the thin material of her top. God have mercy. His breath fogged on the glass as he softly demanded, “Let me in.” Not bothering to shield the desire in his gaze, he waited. Their eyes locked, and her lips parted at the underlying urgency in his voice.

Then she slammed the window shut. “You're letting the heat out.” The statement came through muffled from the closed window.

“You're not going to open the door?”

“No.”

No? He gave her a look that said
I don't think so.
Crossing his arms, he sighed, blowing out a stream of white, wintry breath. “I thought you weren't mad at me anymore.”

“I wasn't, but the fact you made me wait for over an hour renewed that feeling.”

Pressing his hands around the sill, he leaned in. “One of the project managers needed me. There was an emergency. Took a while to get everything sorted.”

“Oh. Well, all right, I understand.”

“Good. Now…” He gestured for her to go ahead and open up.

She shook her head. “While I know what kept you, it doesn't change the fact it's late. And…” She hesitated. “I think we could both use some space tonight.”

Speak for yourself
. With no intention of going home, he determined one way or another, he'd be in there with her. “Space? Does this have to do with what happened this afternoon?”

“A little.”

Women. They claim they aren't mad, but still harbor grudges
. “I'm not leaving. And I
will
get inside the guesthouse, even if it's for a few minutes so we can talk. It's freezing out here. Now you can make this easy and open the door or I can wake up the main house for the spare key.” He set his feet, expression utterly serious, hands on hips.

The considerate and rational woman she was, Mason knew she wouldn't want him disturbing his parents or the staff. Moreover, she was well aware he would do it. He wasn't a bluffer, not when it came to something he wanted. Little would stop him, including the inconvenience of waking a relative.

Her pretty mouth quirked, shoulders slumped, and she swiveled on a heel toward the door. Mason lowered his chin with a private smile of triumph as he walked over, quick to erase the smugness from his face before she opened the door.

There was a slight smell of smoke in the air as he stepped in. A few recently snuffed candles had been set around the living room, two wine glasses were on the table and an unopened bottle of Shiraz sat beside them. She'd left the Christmas lights on, and the room was cast in a dim, sensual glow. He would never again think of Christmas as only a child's holiday; Greta had made the season sexy and fun. The little touches of the wine and candlelight told him she'd wanted to make the night special, and the guilt he hadn't been able to come over sooner swam in his stomach. “I'm sorry I didn't let you know I'd be late,” he apologized in a low, sincere tone after she closed the door.

The apology seemed to surprise her somewhat, and her expression softened as she came around to face him. “It's all right. Things come up.”

He kicked the snow of his boots, stooping to untie them. “I didn't mean to scare you by coming in through the window.”

“Yes! About that. I heard your knock.”

“Then why didn't you answer?”

“You gave me all of two seconds! I had to get dressed.”