Nancy Warren - British Bad Boys

Shudders rocked her. She felt that she was floating, with only the solid walls of the historic mansion and the solid arms of George holding her to earth.

When he came it was like an explosion inside her.

He staggered a little, and she clutched at his shoulders, wondering if they’d topple to the ground, but he recovered enough to let her down slowly.

They stood there, panting, leaning against each other until she whispered, “Your place or mine?”

“Let’s start in your bed and end up in mine.”

“Good plan,” she said, and led him back the way she’d come.

Her room seemed overbright when she flicked on a lamp. Her nearly packed suitcase sat by the door, a reminder, if they needed one, that this was good-bye for a while.

Sure, they’d be able to visit, but it wasn’t going to be the same. The fairy tale quality of living in his house and creeping to his room via secret passageway each night was over tomorrow. The next stage wouldn’t happen because of circumstance and convenience; they’d have to make a deliberate and extraordinary effort to keep seeing each other.

Would they? She wondered. As strong as her feelings were, she wondered if she’d get to the next site, throw herself into the next program, or series, or concept, and discover sooner than she could imagine that George was a sweet and erotic memory.

Then she felt his arms come around her, leaned against the solid warmth of him, and knew it wasn’t ever going to be like that.

“I’m in love with you.” The words, spoken aloud, surprised her even as she said them.

“I know,” he said. When she turned and gazed at him, she found all the understanding she could have wished for in his face. He did know.

He kissed her softly, and the last of her barriers fell. She loved him. She’d owned up to the feeling she’d hoped would disappear, or at least turn out to be false. But it wasn’t. She’d lived long enough, known enough men, to recognize that this was the real, till-death-us-do-part thing.

This time when they made love it was in the light. With gazes fixed and the passion slower, but deeper. With the truth out, their bodies could express the love they’d finally admitted.

She wanted to imprint this moment and carry it around her neck in a locket forever, so she could take it out and look at it every once in a while, when she was lonely or far away or simply irritated with life.

When he entered her, she felt herself open as she never had before. Love was scary, she realized. It made you utterly vulnerable. Except this didn’t feel scary, it felt right.

His skin was warm and smooth against hers. There was a smatter of freckles on his shoulder that she’d never noticed before and which filled her with such tenderness she wanted to weep. She didn’t. She kissed them, those pale, almost unnoticeable sun freckles. And she kissed the place where she felt his heart beating, and then she kissed his lips and was lost.

They lay with their hands clasped, heads close together on one pillow, legs entwined.

“This situation, as you Brits would say, is bloody inconvenient.”

“It is.”

She sighed, and gazed at the gorgeous room, with enough antiques to remind her of where she was and who he was. “If you could change your circumstances, would you?”

“As you Americans would say, in a New York minute.”

“Really?”

He traced her nose with a finger. “I was an architect in London, as you know. And a pretty bloody good one, if I do say so. I could have met you at a club in Soho, or maybe your firm would have done a bit on Britain ’s sexiest architects.”

She made gagging noises, but he merely grinned and carried on.

“And we’d have met. I’d have fallen all over myself trying to impress you.”

“You’d have succeeded,” she offered.

“And we’d have gone to dinner. Walked around Hyde Park, gone to the theatre. And when you went home, I could have followed you.”

“Would you really? What about your job?”

“A job you can get anywhere. A woman like you comes along once in a lifetime.”

She glanced at him sharply. Was he making a point? That she should quit her job and move to England to be with him? But he didn’t seem to be hinting. She thought he really was contemplating his own life. He was right, though. This kind of love didn’t hang around on street corners waiting for you to bump into it.

“And then your father died.”

“Yes. I’d always known he would, of course. And I’ve always known this would one day be my life. My duty.”

“Duty. Such an old-fashioned word. An important one, though.”

“I could hire somebody and then leave the place for a good portion of every year.”

“But you won’t,” she realized. “And maybe I wouldn’t love you if you were the kind of man who could. The estate needs you. I can see how much good it does for you to be here, a part of it, trying to bring it back to prosperity.”

“Yes. I suppose so. It’s ironic really, isn’t it? I’m a sort of Robin Hood in reverse. We charge the tourists money in order to hang onto a symbol of ancient wealth.” He shook his head. “It’s a funny old world.”

“There’s so much potential here, too. You could expand the wedding business and add more holiday options.”

“We rent two of the former laborer’s cottages,” he said. “We’ve got them fixed up for self-catering holidays.” He looked at her apologetically. “But this is still a private home. I don’t want to live in a hotel, or operate a caravan park or something.”

“No, of course not.” But there were ways. She could see there were things that could be done to improve the bottom line. What this place needed was someone with some fresh ideas. Someone who had ties to the United States. Someone, in fact, like her. If she wasn’t already employed.

She’d imagined they’d make love most of the night, but as it was they talked. Silly, intimate stuff. What scared you when you were a kid. (Him, the dark. Her, the fear of getting lost.)

“What scares you now?” she asked.

“I would have said losing Hart House. But now, I very much fear it’s losing you.”

Oh, how her heart leapt at those words. “We’ll work this out,” she promised. “I’m not sure how, but we’ll work it out.”

He nodded. Maybe a little sadly. Well, it wasn’t like he could do much. She was the one who had to make a decision to change her life-or not. They both knew that.

“What about you?” he asked. “What’s your biggest fear?”

She took a deep breath. “Failure.”

“But you’re amazingly successful.”

“Yeah, well, now you know why. I’m terrified of failing. I think that’s why I’m so driven.”

“I suppose, then, that a lot hinges on your definition of success.”

“And failure.”

Sometime in the night they fell asleep.

George woke to the ominous sound of a zipper. He wasn’t certain why it was ominous until he opened his eyes and realized that it was the zipper on Maxine’s travel case. And that it meant she was leaving.

He flopped to his back and watched her. He didn’t know what to say, only no. Please, no. Please don’t go. But of course he didn’t. Instead, he watched her gather her things together and then turn. She started slightly when she saw his eyes were open and on her, and the expression of longing he’d caught was quickly zipped away along with her makeup bag.

But he’d seen it. Recognized it. Inside herself, he knew she was saying no to their parting, too.

He had to say something, but they appeared to have run out of words. Good morning wouldn’t do it. It was a shit morning. She was leaving. Have a nice trip? He hoped she had such a rotten trip she was back here within a fortnight.