“And what do we do with all this pesto?”
“Freeze it in ice-cube trays. Olivia and Maggie will use it all winter. They might use it at Olivia’s wedding in December.” Phoebe managed a smile. “It’ll remind everyone of summer.”
“I’m sure it will.”
“Will you be back for the wedding?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
Phoebe looked at the parmesan, basil, garlic and pine nuts and thought about the work ahead to turn them into pesto. How would she be able to stand it, knowing what she did? She gathered up the damp paper towels from the basil and tossed them in the trash. She tried to appear casual as she turned back to Noah. “You know, if there’s somewhere else you’d rather be—”
“There isn’t. I’m exactly where I want to be.” He opened a drawer and removed a knife. “I’ll chop. You mince and roast.”
*
Once the pesto was in the freezer, Noah saw there was no keeping Phoebe at Carriage Hill. She was out of there, tucking her empty canvas bag under one arm and all but racing out the door. Although he wasn’t by nature a patient man, years of martial arts practice and running a successful company had taught him that sometimes the best course of action was just to bide his time.
He followed her to her car. The afternoon sunlight caught the streaks of gold in her dark strawberry hair as she yanked open her car door. She turned to him with a quick smile. “Thank you for your help with the pesto. Enjoy your stay.”
“Anytime.”
She climbed behind the wheel, and he shut the door for her. With another quick smile, she had the car started and was on her way.
She’d recognized him as her swashbuckler, obviously, but she still believed—or was telling herself she believed—that he hadn’t recognized her.
Well, he had.
It was the fashion show flyer on the bulletin board that had finally done the trick. He’d started to suspect when he’d found her in the kitchen. The way she’d licked her lips, smiled, moved. The line of her jaw, the deep turquoise of her eyes, the sound of her voice. The shape of her hips, the curve of her breasts. They’d all come together when he saw the flyer, and he’d known.
Phoebe O’Dunn was his princess.
Noah walked back through the house and liberated Buster from the mudroom. They went out to the quiet terrace, but the big dog looked as restless as he was. “If you run off,” Noah told him, “I’ll find you and I won’t be happy about it. So spare both of us and stay put.”
Buster sat, panting, his dark eyes focused on Noah as if he’d gone crazy.
Noah laughed. “I just might have, my friend.”
The pesto was in the freezer and the kitchen cleaned up, but even out on the terrace, he could smell the mix of basil, garlic, roasted pine nuts and pure virgin olive oil.
Virgin olive oil. A Freudian slip, there. Dancing with his princess, he’d imagined her a virgin, as bold and as daring as she was when he’d swept her into his arms.
Was Phoebe O’Dunn a virgin?
Noah grimaced. Dylan would kill him dead for even letting such a question cross his mind. Dylan still had to tread carefully in Knights Bridge. Phoebe O’Dunn, her sister Maggie—these were Olivia’s people.
Telling Phoebe that he knew she was his princess was out of the question until he’d had a chance to think. He could act quickly, decisively, but not when he didn’t have a clue what in blazes to do. As he’d watched her pound the basil and garlic into a thick paste, he didn’t know why he hadn’t recognized her sooner. He hadn’t been thrown off by her dark strawberry hair and freckles as much as the fact that she was from Knights Bridge and Olivia Frost’s friend.
The note about his mystery man further complicated the situation.
Buster stirred, and Noah noticed a thickset man hopping over the low stone wall from the field behind the house. “Brandon Sloan,” the man said, stepping over knee-high herbs onto a path. “You must be Noah Kendrick. Dylan mentioned you’d be here for a few days. I’m working on his place up the road.”
“You’re one of the carpenters?”
“Sloan & Sons. I’m one of the sons. There’s a sister, too, but she showed up after the company was named. Sore subject.” He polished off an energy bar and dusted his hands as he stepped onto the terrace. “What do I smell?”
“Pesto.” Noah pointed to the patch of trimmed basil. “Phoebe O’Dunn was here.”
“Maggie, too?”
“Not Maggie, no. You two are…”
“Married.” Brandon pulled out a chair at the table and sat down. “I saw you the other night in Boston. You’d just come from hiking in the White Mountains. One of my favorite things to do.”
“It was an experience,” Noah said. “You were at the masquerade ball?”
Brandon grimaced. “I decided to go at the last minute. I’d told Dylan I’d rather have burning bamboo shoots shoved up my fingernails than go to a masquerade ball.”
“What changed your mind?”