скачать книгу бесплатно
They walked outside, down the cobbled path to Adam’s car. The May day was beautiful, bright and clear but not yet humid, not that she could enjoy it with him staring at her with those unnerving, puppy-dog eyes.
Feeling fidgety and awkward, she glanced over at the Foster place. There were definite signs of activity now; a moving van occupied most of the long drive and in front of it sat a dark Range Rover. Uniformed movers swarmed in and out of the front door and up and down the driveway—
Without warning, Adam cupped her cheek and kissed her again, his mouth firmer and more confident this time. After one stiff second, Jillian responded with her lips but the rest of her body remained aloof, well out of Adam’s reach. And then she had enough.
She pulled away, flustered. “What was that?”
“That was, ‘I hope I’ll see you soon.’ I’ll call you, okay?”
“Okay.”
Watching him drive off, she touched her tingling lips and then caught herself. Don’t be silly, Jill. It was time to get cracking. Those rolls still weren’t in the oven and lunchtime would be here soon—
A low bark from her left startled her.
Turning, she saw the new neighbor’s dog trot out from behind a forsythia bush at the edge of her property, his pink tongue lolling in a friendly doggy smile.
“Hello, cutie.” She held her hand out for inspection. “Hellooo.”
The dog ambled over. He was big and black with short curly hair, pointy ears, long legs and huge paws. Probably less than a year old, he wriggled with excitement and had a red collar with a numbered tag.
He snuffled her hand, apparently decided she was okay, and then nudged her. She accepted this obvious invitation to scratch his ears, and the dog all but passed out with pleasure.
Oh, man. Her heart turned over, hard.
This wasn’t a standard poodle. This guy was a Bouvier des Flandres, the type of dog she’d had as a child. His long hair had been shaved, probably because it was so hot here in Georgia during the summer, but he looked exactly like Ishmael, and the sudden sweet nostalgia from her childhood was almost unbearable.
Just like that, she remembered the joys of pet ownership, especially during that terrible year when Mama died, leaving her and her older brother, John, alone with their grieving and distant father.
It all came back to her: the nightly warmth of Ishmael’s heavy body stretched out across her feet at the end of her bed; Ishmael sprawled between her and John on the floor in front of the TV; a soap-covered Ishmael resisting his bath in the plastic pool next to their estate’s enormous inground pool.
Good times, good times.
Boy, did she miss that dog. He’d died of old age when she was in high school. Come to think of it, she missed Ramona, too, the chatty Siamese she’d named after her favorite Beverly Cleary character. That silly cat. When Ramona wasn’t ignoring her and John or terrorizing Ishmael, which was most of the time, she was underfoot, meowing about the general unfairness of life and demanding to have her chin scratched.
Wow. She hadn’t thought about Ramona in ages. The ache of nostalgia grew. Allegra occasionally made noises about wanting a pet; maybe it was time to think about getting one.
In the meantime, this dog needed to get home before he ran out into the street, and there was no time like the present to meet the new neighbor. Those rolls could wait another minute or two.
Oh, but wait. New neighbors had to be greeted with food. It was a rule.
“Come on,” she told the dog.
He followed her inside the kitchen, where she quickly washed her hands, lined a basket with a large cloth napkin and filled it with leftover pumpkin muffins from breakfast.
“Now we’re ready.”
The dog agreed with another bark.
What a sweetie. Scratching his head again, she led the way.
They walked up the lane to his owner’s driveway, where serious progress was now being made. Someone had lowered the ramp on the moving van, and there were various blankets and dollies lying around, but no signs of human life. A discreet glance inside the van as she passed revealed several nice pieces, including a black leather sofa and an enormous entertainment center. A man’s furniture. Definitely a man’s.
They climbed the shallow steps and crossed the huge veranda, which crunched beneath Jillian’s feet. Hopefully, the new guy had a rake and a broom because there were dead leaves everywhere. This baby needed a lot of cleanup. It was a beautiful house, though, with clean lines, exquisite woodwork and beveled glass framing the open front door.
She knocked and waited.
No answer.
She tried again, this time using the heavy brass knocker.
Still nothing.
The dog looked up at her, and she could swear he raised his furry eyebrows in a What now? gesture.
Well, the door was open.
Stepping inside, she gasped at what had been a remarkable house and, with a little love, would be again. Several rooms spun off the foyer, the centerpiece of which was a wide staircase with a carved handrail, and every room that she could see was bathed in light from full-length windows. Ornate woodwork framed every doorway, and there was an enormous marble fireplace in what was unmistakably the living room.
No signs of life, though, and—
Oh, wait. Were those voices upstairs?
Turning back in the direction of the staircase—maybe she’d wandered a little farther inside than she should have—she opened her mouth to call out a hello, but a movement out of the corner of her eye stopped her.
A man’s hand on the brass handle of a cane came into view, followed by one long khaki-trousered leg and a foot encased in an expensive loafer.
“Hello,” Jillian called. “Your dog wandered down the street to say hi and I was just bringing—”
The rest of the man came into view and Jillian’s words stopped dead.
Oh, God. No. God, no.
Above the khaki pants was a lean, broad-shouldered torso in a white dress shirt. Above that was the face of the man who had destroyed her marriage, her heart and her happiness—the man she hadn’t spoken to directly for three years and who made regular appearances in her dreams to this day.
She staggered back a step, putting a hand on the wall for support.
Beau. It couldn’t be.
But no other man in the world had those amazing hazel eyes. No other man in the world had that beautiful honey-brown skin, those slashing cheekbones or that lush mouth. No other man in the world had those silky-sexy waves of soft sable hair or that potent brand of masculinity that reduced her to a vibrating mass of overheated flesh every damn time, aeons since she’d first laid eyes on him at the orientation at Columbia Law.
“Is it you?”
Stupid question, yeah, but she had to ask, just to be sure; her untrustworthy eyes needed confirmation that it really was him. That despite all the time and distance, both physical and emotional, that she’d put between them, this man was back in her life and would be living down the street.
After an endless wait, one corner of his mouth curled.
His face. Oh, God, his beautiful, ruined face.
He had a jagged, puckered scar that cut across his cheek, went past the edge of his mouth and ended at his chin. Yet he was still breathtaking, damn him, and that was unquestionably still Beau’s wry smile. Worse, those were Beau’s piercing eyes staring at her with such unwavering focus, and Beau’s delicious scent of fresh cotton and sporty deodorant she smelled.
“Yes,” he said, and the world spun out from under her.
Chapter 3
Apparently she looked as shell-shocked as she felt. Leaning on his cane and favoring his left leg, Beau took a halting step forward and put his hand on her arm, his eyes wide with concern.
“Are you okay?”
No. “Yes.”
Pull it together, Jill. You can do this.
She stepped out of his reach and away from the wall with only her pride to keep her going. This man would not get to her; she could stand on her own two feet.
He dropped his hand and stared at her until her burning face made her wish that she were in the molten crater of a volcano or the heart of hell itself—anywhere but here, with him.
Bitter tears of humiliation burned her eyes, but she blinked them back, ruthless in her determination never to shed another tear over this man. She ran through her lifetime allotment of tears for him years ago.
“It’s good to see you,” he told her in that deep, black-magic voice.
“I can’t say the same.”
A faint smile flickered across his face. “I know you can’t.”
She was lying, though. She had to lie. Because even now, even after all the things he’d done to her and all the ways he’d damaged her, there was a tiny corner in the dark recesses of her soul that was glad to see him.
How sick did that make her? Pretty damn sick.
Even scarred and limping, he stole her breath. Always had, always would. Even a near-fatal car accident couldn’t reduce this man’s effect on her and she hated him for it.
She hated herself even more.
“Is that something in the basket for me? I didn’t eat breakfast.”
What? Basket?
He pointed and she belatedly remembered the muffins. Now that her bewilderment was turning into anger, she tightened her grip on the handle and jerked the basket to one side, well out of his reach.
“They were for my new neighbor.”
“That would be me.”
“Not on your life.”
“Ah.” He let his head hang with exaggerated disappointment.
“What’re you doing here, Beau?”
“I’m moving into my new house.”
Having already seen the van outside, this was not breaking news. The confirmation was still a serious jolt, though, along the lines of an anvil dropped on her head.
“Did it ever cross your mind that maybe you should have given me some warning that you’d decided to relocate from Miami?”
“It did, but it’s hard to give you warning when you don’t return my phone calls.”
Oh. She fidgeted with nerves and guilt. So that’s what those voice-mail messages had been about. She’d deleted them all, the way she’d deleted him from her life.
It was all part of her policy to never speak to him again, if she could help it. A little harsh, true, but she’d managed remarkably well. In the three years since the divorce, she’d only seen and talked to him once, in the hospital after his accident, and that didn’t really count because he’d been unconscious at the time.
What else could she do? Why would she talk to this man if she could avoid it? So he could hurt her again? Uh—no, thanks.
Direct communication wasn’t necessary, anyway. He’d lived in Miami, she’d lived here, Barbara Jean had shuttled Allegra back and forth between them and e-mail had worked perfectly well to discuss parenting issues. Now here he was, bringing in stormy seas to rock the boat and ruining things the way he always ruined everything.
She jammed her fists on her hips. “Why didn’t you e-mail me?”
“E-mail doesn’t work for everything.” That bright gaze held hers, but revealed none of his secrets. She was sure there were secrets; there always were with Beau. “I’ve decided to take a more proactive approach with several things in my life from now on.”
“Such as what?”
He paused and stared, drawing out the tension and letting the panic grow in her chest. In no particular hurry to answer, he made his slow way to the only piece of furniture in the room, a console by the far wall, and leaned against it.
“For one thing, I want to be much more involved in Allegra’s life. Seeing her for a couple of weekends a month isn’t enough.”
More time with Allegra? Over Jillian’s cold, dead body. It was hard enough to part with Allegra for those weekend visits—how would she deal with her precious daughter being gone more often?
“I beg your pardon, but you haven’t filed any paperwork to change—”
One hand came up, stopping her bluster in its tracks. “We don’t need to involve the court with this, Jillian. We’re both reasonable human beings and we can work together to find a system for me to see Allegra during the week. How hard could it be with me living right down the street?”
“Why would I want to work with you on anything?”
“Because.” Unmistakable sadness darkened his eyes until they were almost brown. “Even though I was a lousy husband, I’m a good father. Since you’re a good mother, you know how important it is for a young girl to have her father actively involved in her life.”
Shut down on this issue—he was a good father and Allegra did miss him between visits—Jillian hitched up her chin and changed the subject.
“What about your job? You can’t just up and quit—”
“I did up and quit. That’s one of the benefits of having a little money.”
A little money. Hah. Good one. He had a big enough stake in his family’s beer distribution empire to support him and several small countries for decades to come.
“Anyway, my heart wasn’t in the big-firm, corporate-lawyer life.”
Jillian laughed sourly. “Well, I can certainly understand that since your heart has never stayed in one place for very long.”
His jaw tightened, but he said nothing, and her anxiety increased.
