Нора Робертс - Hideaway

For now, he’d simply love her, and know the heart beating under his lips held him in it.

When she rose over him, shook back her hair in the last pulsing lights of the sun, he knew he’d love her every minute of every day for the rest of his life.

She brought his hands to her lips, held them there as she took him in, slowly, slowly, slowly took him in. And when her head fell back from the pleasure of it, as her sigh shuddered out, she glided his hands down to her breasts.

Easy movement, slow again, and long and deep. Wave after wave of that pleasure, more pleasure, with the rise, the fall, the fall and the rise.

The light softened like a pearled mist, held and held there as she held him. And as night crept closer, as the first stars waited to wake, he lifted to her, wrapped around her to take them both over.

She dropped her head to his shoulder, let her body melt to his.

“I’ve never felt for anyone what I feel for you.”

He stroked a hand down her back. “I know.”

Melting or not, she laughed. “Confidence. Heading toward annoying.”

“I know because it’s the same for me. It’s just fact I’m what you want and need. I can wait until you get there. It’s not going to take much longer anyway.”

“I’m seeing a new side of you.” She eased back, tried to see his expression in the encroaching dark. “And it’s leaning heavily toward arrogance.”

“It’s not arrogance to know what you know. No one’s ever going to love you like I do, Cate. It’s going to be hard for you to hold out against that.” He gave her a quick kiss. “I’m starving. I’d say you are, too.”

“I could definitely eat.”

“See? I know what I know.”

While Cate ate fajitas with Dillon in candle- and starlight, Charlotte stormed around her bedroom suite. She’d just had it redone, in gold, gold, and more gold, with emerald and sapphire accents.

She’d demanded opulent, and the decorator delivered with miles of fabric, acres of glittering crystals, including the seven-tiered chandelier imported from Italy.

Under its light she could—and did—lie in a bed draped in gold silk to admire the ceiling mural. Images of Charlotte as Eve, as Juliet, as Lady Godiva, as queens and goddesses gazed down to wish her pleasant dreams.

She had it all to herself now that Conrad occupied his own suite. The poor old thing had sleep apnea, required that awful mask at night. Poor ancient thing, she corrected.

Sleep apnea, two heart attacks, a bout of pneumonia over the winter, prostate issues, skin cancer that had required surgery and reconstruction of his left ear.

And he just kept ticking.

When would he just die, quietly, painlessly, of course, and free her to take a decent lover? The prenup—ironclad—left her nothing if she had even a tiny, little affair.

Which hadn’t been a problem, or not much of one, up until the last few years. No, ancient Conrad could barely get it up now, and sure as hell couldn’t keep it up.

She’d never expected him to live this long. Surely not long enough he had to use a cane to walk across the damn room, not so long his body went from robust to flabby, and she had to at least pretend to care about the pharmacy of drugs he needed to stay alive.

But at least she didn’t have to pretend to want sex with him anymore. And he was sweetly grateful she “understood” he wasn’t capable any longer—and remained his loving, devoted wife.

All the money in the world, and she couldn’t afford to get a decent lay.

That wasn’t the worst of it, oh, no, not nearly.

Having the cops come to her door—that trumped all. She hadn’t spoken to them, of course. And damn well wouldn’t. Her lawyers crafted a statement, her lawyers handled the idiotic police.

Imagine wanting to question her about murders and attacks that had nothing to do with her. About people she didn’t give one good damn about.

Good riddance to that asshole Denby. And so what about Scarpetti, who hadn’t been smart enough to keep her out of prison? Her only regret about that bastard hick cop? He hadn’t plunged to his death. She hoped whoever had arranged it tried again, and did a better job.

And Grant? She wished he’d died choking on his own blood!

She paused to draw a finger down the gold silk drapes her maid had already pulled for the night.

No, she didn’t. Not really. She still had a little, tiny soft spot for Grant Sparks.

She wondered if he’d kept that body in prison, if he’d kept his looks.

He’d be out in a couple of years, and if Conrad finally died, she might just have him brought to her. She’d even pay him to bang her brains out.

Just thinking about it, about the sex she’d had with him, made her hot and itchy.

She’d have the maid come back, draw her a bath, lots of oils. And she’d take care of the itch herself.

She paused to study herself in one of her dressing room mirrors. Thanks to implants, her hair remained lush and full. Regular tune-ups kept her face taut, smooth.

Admiring herself, she undressed, turned naked this way and that. Breasts full and high, ass high and tight. Implants and tucks worked wonders. She smoothed a hand over her belly—flat thanks to her last tummy tuck.

Smooth thighs, no wagging under the arms. The wonders of modern medicine—and the money to afford it, she thought with a slow smile.

She wouldn’t have to pay Grant Sparks or anyone to get into her bed. To her eyes, she barely looked thirty-five, and with a perfect body. No one looking at her would believe she had a daughter over … how old was the bitch again? Who could remember? But no one would believe she had an adult daughter.

Maybe time to remind them, she considered as she reached for a white satin robe. Squeeze a little more juice out of that lemon. She’d get her publicist on that in the morning, but now, she wanted that bath, that self-release.

Then she’d take a pill, call it an early night.

She had a photo shoot the next day, had to look her best while she did the spread. Then a dinner party after where she could complain about exhausting herself for her art.

Really a perfect day, she decided as she rang for the maid.

The only thing that could make it better would be if poor old Conrad died in his sleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Relationships, Cate discovered, could offer a steady, satisfying kind of routine. Because she barely surfaced, if at all, when Dillon left each morning, she woke alone, took her time clearing her brain with coffee and the view.

Depending on her workload, she might put in an hour in the studio before walking up to the main house to nag her grandfather into the gym.

Better, as June hinted at summer, she nagged him into the pool.

She’d researched water aerobics.

“Swimming’s supposed to be relaxing.”

“It will be, when you finish those squats and biceps curls.”

Standing in the shallow end, she did them with him.

“Whoever invented pool weights deserves to be shot.” Sunlight beamed off his sunglasses as he curled the bright blue weights up through the water. “Then run over by a train. Then shot again.”

“Consuela’s making a frittata for breakfast.” She squatted, curled, admitted a secret desire for that bullet and train. “But you have to earn it. Fagfaimid! Two more, Sullivan!”

“Now she throws Irish at me. I love my granddaughter, but my personal trainer’s a pain in the ass.”

“One more, and … done.”

She laughed when he sank, Ray-Bans, sun hat, and all, under the water.

“Let’s stretch it out,” she said when he surfaced. “You’re getting shredded there, Handsome Hugh.”

He gripped the side, did the calf stretches, the hamstring, the quads. “A man my age should be allowed to get creaky and flabby.”