Lizzie shifted her eyes over to lemonade—and really tried, honest-to-God tried, not to imagine dousing the woman in the stuff. “I’ll have Mr. Harris send someone—”
“Oh, but he’s so busy. And you can just run it in—you’re such a help.” The woman went back to her iPhone with its University of Charlemont cover. “Where was I? Oh, so they took her out the main front door. I mean, honestly, can you imagine …?”
Lizzie walked over, picked up the pitcher, and then strode back across the gleaming white terrace to the green grass. “My pleasure.”
My pleasure.
Yeah, right. But that was what you were supposed to say when the family asked you to do something. It was the only acceptable response—and certainly better than, “How ’bout you take your lemonade and shove it where the sun don’t shine, you miserable piece of veal—”
“Oh, Lisa? It’s a virgin, okay? Thank you.”
Lizzie just kept on going, tossing another “My pleasure” grenade over her shoulder.
Approaching the mansion, she had to pick her point of entry. As a member of the staff, she wasn’t allowed to enter through the Four Mains: front, side library, rear dining room, rear game room. And she was “discouraged” from using any other doors but the kitchen’s and utility room’s—although she got a pass if she was delivering the three-times weekly house bouquets around.
She chose the door that was halfway between the dining room and the kitchen because she refused to reroute all the way around to the other staff entrances. Stepping into the cool interior, she kept her head down, not because she was worried about pissing someone off, but because she was hoping and praying to get in and out without getting caught by—
“I wondered if you’d be here today.”
Lizzie froze like a burglar and then felt a sheen of tears prick the corners of her eyes. But she was not going to cry.
Not in front of Lane Baldwine.
And not because of him.
Squaring her shoulders, she kicked up her chin … and started to turn around.
Before she even met Lane’s eyes for the first time since she’d told him to go to hell when she’d ended their relationship, she knew three things: One, he was going to look exactly the same as he had before; two, that was not going be good news for her; and three, if she had any brains in her head at all, she would put what he’d done to her almost two years ago on auto loop and think about nothing else.
Leopards, spots, and all that—
Ah … crap, did he have to still look that good?
Lane couldn’t remember much about his walking into Easterly for the first time in forever.
Nothing had really registered. Not that grand front door with its lion’s-head knocker and its glossy black panels. Not the football-stadium-sized front foyer with that grand staircase and all of the oil paintings of Bradfords past and present. Not the crystal chandeliers or the gold sconces, nor the ruby-red Orientals or the heavy brocade drapes, not even the parlor and the ballroom on either side.
Easterly’s Southern elegance, coupled with that perennial sweet lemon scent of old-fashioned floor polish, was like a fine suit of clothes that, once put on in the morning, was unnoticeable throughout the rest of the day because it was tailor fit to your every muscle and bone. For him, there had been absolutely no burn on reentry at all: It was immersion in ninety-eight-point-six-degree calm water. It was breathing air that was perfectly still, perfectly humid, perfectly temperate. It was nodding off while sitting up in a leather club chair.
It was home and it was the enemy at the very same time, and very probably there was no impression because he was overwhelmed by emotion he was shutting out.
He did, however, notice every single thing about seeing Lizzie King once again.
The collision happened as he was heading through the dining room in search of the one who he had traveled so far to see.
Oh, God, he thought. Oh, dear God.
After having had to rely on memory for so long, standing in front of Lizzie was the difference between a descriptive passage and the real thing—and his body responded instantly, blood pumping, all those dormant instincts not just waking up but exploding in his veins.
Her hair was still blond from the sun, not some hairdresser’s paintbrush, and it was pulled back in a tie, the blunt ends thick and sticking straight out like a nautical rope that had been burn-cut. Her face was free of makeup, the skin tanned and glowing, the bone structure reminding him that good genetics were better than a hundred thousand dollars’ of plastic surgery. And her body … that hard, strong body that had curves where he liked them and straightaways that testified to all that physical labor she did so well … was exactly as he remembered. She was even dressed the same, in the khaki shorts and the required black polo with the Easterly crest on it.
Her scent was Coppertone, not Chanel. Her shoes were Merrell, not Manolo. Her watch was Nike, not Rolex.
To him, she was the most beautiful, best-dressed woman he’d ever seen.