Return To Me. Shannon McKenna
Blakely wrote to me about it. My high school art teacher. Remember him?”
“Of course. I didn’t know he knew where you were. Where were you, anyhow?” Her eyes were full of wary curiosity.
“Afghanistan.” He offered no further explanation.
There was an awkward pause. “So he left you his property, then?”
“I have no idea,” he said. “I don’t particularly care.”
“And you hadn’t seen him since you—”
“Nope.”
El tilted her head to the side and studied him thoughtfully. “Why did you come back, then?”
He made a helpless gesture. “I don’t know. Gus, killing himself. I couldn’t take it in. I needed to see the place. Wrap my mind around it.”
“I see.” Her steady, penetrating gaze made him transparent. Like he was eighteen again, scruffy and needy and underfed.
He stared right back until his cool regard made her blush and look away. “I asked around for a hotel,” he said. “People told me you’d converted this place into an inn.”
Her face tightened with alarm. “You want a room here?”
“I can’t stay at Gus’s place. There’s no water, no power, and it’s a foul mess. I’ve slept in worse places, but that one I can’t take.”
She twisted her slender hands together. The downy hair on her arms was pale, glittering gilt. Her nails were pink-tinged mother of pearl. He made her nervous. She didn’t want him in her house. It was childish to get his feelings hurt. He knew damn well he should take pity on her and haul his ass to another hotel, but knowing it wasn’t enough. The contrary bastard inside him that took after Gus wanted to goad her.
“If you’re scared of me, I’ll leave,” he said. “I don’t want you to sweat nails, El. I’ll go to the hotel out on Hanson.”
“Scared of you? For heaven’s sake. Don’t be ridiculous!”
He shook his head. “Nah. If you’re uncomfortable with—”
“Why should I be uncomfortable? I’m a professional. The motel on Hanson smells! And there are cigarette burns in the furniture!”
“God forbid,” he murmured.
She glared at him. “And bugs! Do you want to share your bathtub with cockroaches? Do you want cobwebs in your window curtains?”
Bull’s-eye. He got her. He lifted his hands in surrender and struggled not to grin. “Anything but that.”
Her narrowed eyes said that she knew she’d been manipulated. “So I take it Missy hasn’t checked you in?”
“If you’re referring to the girl who was at the front desk, no,” he said. “She took one look at me and ran. She seemed pretty freaked out.”
El sighed. “Oh God. What am I going to do with that girl? So she didn’t give you our spiel, then.”
“Nope, no spiel,” he confirmed.
“Very well. Follow me.” She marched towards the dining room. “I’ll explain our policies. Payment is in advance, cash or major credit cards. I prefer to avoid out-of-town checks. Continental breakfast is served from seven-thirty to ten on week-days, and a full brunch on Saturdays and Sundays from nine to twelve. Early risers will find tea and coffee in the dining room from six-thirty A.M. Coffee, tea and light refreshment is served in the dining room at five—”
“Light refreshment?” he echoed. “Fancy.”
“Yes, scones, or biscuits, or fresh pastry,” she said, flashing a glance over her shoulder that dared him to make fun of her. “And of course, you are encouraged to join me with all the guests in the salon for a glass of sherry in the evening before retiring.”
He followed her out of the kitchen, gazing at the graceful lines of her back. “A glass of sherry. Wow. Aren’t we refined.”
“You are also free to skulk alone in your room, if you prefer. I personally could care less.” She slid behind a desk in the foyer and pulled out a credit-card machine. “The room I have available is one hundred and twenty dollars a night. Will that be cash or charge?”
“Charge, I guess,” he said, bemused.
“Very well.” She plucked a charge slip from a cubbyhole in the credenza and slapped it into place. “How long do you plan on staying?”
“Let’s start with a week, and take it from there.”
She held out her hand for his card. He fished it out of his wallet and slapped it into her palm. “Cut it out, El.”
Her eyes slid away, and her professional smile slipped a notch. She fit the card into the machine. “Cut what out?”
“The professional song and dance. This is me, Simon. Remember? Hello! Anybody home in there?”
She dragged the press over his card and dialed the authorization code, fingers stabbing at the number pad. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Seventeen years without a peep from you. No way of knowing if you were starving, or sick, or dead in a ditch somewhere—”
He held up his hands. “Hey, one thing at a time, OK?”
“And when you finally do get around to coming to see me, it’s just because you need a place to crash. Just like old times. Good old El. So useful and convenient.” The code finally appeared on the screen. She scribbled the number down and threw his card back at him. “What the hell do you want from me, Simon?”
He planted his hands on the desk, and leaned forward. “I’ll tell you what I don’t want. I don’t want to use you. I never did. Not then, and not now. If you want me to leave, I will.” He bit out each word.
She made a furious huffing sound, and wrenched a drawer open. She plucked out a long, old-fashioned key and tossed it across the desk at him. “You’ll be staying in the tower room.”
“Your old bedroom, huh?” He took the key. “I remember. You let me sleep there whenever Gus was too drunk for me to deal with. You brought me cookies and cocoa and leftovers. I don’t think I’ve ever entered that room through the door, though. I always came up the tree.”
Her eyes dropped, and the pink on her cheeks deepened. She shoved the credit-card slip and a pen across the desk.
He signed it and shoved it back. “El, let me explain something.”
“No. There’s nothing to explain, and I’ve already said too much.” She scrambled out from behind the desk. “I’ll show you up to your room now, if you’d like. I hope Missy got around to cleaning it.”
“El, let me—”
“You have your own bathroom,” she said, backing towards the stairs. “I remodeled the place. All the rooms have private baths.”
“Thank God,” he said. “I need one. I can’t face Mrs. Muriel Kent without a shower and a shave.”
She cleared her throat. “My mother doesn’t live here anymore. She moved down to California some years ago. I bought the house from her. So you’re, um, safe.”
“I see.” He stared at the curve of her cheek and wondered if her skin was as soft to the touch as it looked. He tried not to look into her eyes—oh, hell. They were incredible. Hypnotic. Splashes of forest green in the midst of the sensual, liquid golden brown, and the endless black of her pupils dilated and contracted with delicate pulsations.
Sunlight slanted through the stained-glass window over the staircase, illuminating her eyes, her hair. They picked out her gilt accents: the tips of her lashes, the sun-bleached down on her arms. Her rumpled hair shimmered like an angel’s halo in an ancient fresco.
She’d