Inglath Cooper - A Year And A Day

She glanced around for Jonathan.

A few minutes ago, he’d been standing by the bar talking to Ross and a younger man she did not recognize.

She caught sight of Jonathan at the foot of the curved marble staircase. He adjusted his bowtie, then took the stairs two at a time.

Her lungs seized with the need for air. She weaved her way to the back of the house and pushed out the French doors into the night.

LAURA WEBSTER STOOD in the middle of her childhood bedroom, halfway through her second glass of wine. Ridiculously enough, the room was still pink and white, her old toys neatly arranged on the shelves next to her bed.

She glanced at her watch. He was late. They’d agreed to meet at ten-thirty. Nearly an hour ago.

Patience had never been one of her strong suits.

Laura hated to be kept waiting. As an only child, her life to date had been one of immediate gratification, and she wasn’t very adept at handling anything less. Both her parents generally fell over themselves making sure her every need was met.

And she had a lot of needs. Most recently, a fondness for Prada, which she’d indulged during a weekend trip to Manhattan, maxing out her platinum Visa.

Her dad obviously hadn’t gotten the bill yet. All of his blood vessels were still intact.

But then giving her stuff made her parents happy. They were the ones who’d set it up that way. No, Laura, we can’t make it to your horse show this weekend, but if you do well, we’ll talk about that new pony.

They’d taught her the payoff system early in life. And she had always been a good student.

She moved to the dresser, picked up a sable powder brush and flicked it over nose and chin, studying herself in the mirror, liking what she saw. Small nose, full mouth, chin-length dark hair with subtle highlights courtesy of Madison Avenue’s Jean-Paul. When she walked by, men looked. A date tonight would have been a non-issue, and yet here she stood, waiting.

A knock sounded at the door.

Laura picked up her wineglass, and cleared her expression of everything but indifference. “Come in.”

The door opened. She hadn’t turned on a lamp, and for a moment, Jonathan was illuminated by the light from the hallway. He stepped inside, closed the door behind him. “I’d given up on you.”

“Sorry,” he said, but didn’t look it.

She tamped down her irritation, refusing to let it show. She’d wanted him since she was sixteen years old. Had started flirting with him at her parents’ parties, a brush of the arm here, a lingering look there. Teasing him had been like tossing a match at the edge of a streak of gasoline, hoping it would strike and yet clueless as to how to put the fire out if it did.

It had taken six years for her efforts to finally burst into full flame. Sometimes, she wasn’t sure if she could handle what she’d gotten herself into. But she did like trying.

She crossed the room, slipped her hand inside his white shirt.

“I don’t have long,” he said, looking down at her with a flare of heat in his eyes.

Laura liked that.

She slid the strap of her dress off one shoulder, then the other. It fell to the floor. Beneath, she wore nothing.

His mouth found the curve of her throat, teeth nipping just behind her ear.

There were no lights on in the room, but the curtains were open, and noise drifted up from the party. He backed her closer to the window, kissing her so hard that she felt a bruise bloom on her mouth.

Anyone who looked up could have clearly seen them.

Laura liked that, too.

NICHOLAS’S SOCIAL SKILLS could be classified as rusty at best, and, with another half hour to go before midnight, he headed out one of the doors at the back of the house, intent on a few minutes of solitude. A slate terrace took up much of the yard. Round white tables with matching chairs were scattered across the expanse of it, umbrellas planted in the center of each one. A set of wide stone steps led away from the lit-up house.

Three-quarters of the way down, he saw her. Her hair was a pale blond, straight, parted in the middle. It grazed the curve of her shoulder. Diamond earrings matched the one on her left hand in size.

Compared to the plunging necklines most of the women had worn here tonight, her dress rated conservative. Understated though it was, it failed to conceal the curves of her body. She had a quiet elegance that was undeniably appealing.

He recognized her then. Recalled a newspaper photo of her at some fund-raiser.

Colby. Audrey Colby.

He should go back inside.

Nicholas had always trusted his intuition. It was almost never wrong.

But he ignored the voice of reason now. Something stronger pulled him across the terrace, as if he’d been drawn by some magnetic force field.

She looked up and took a step back. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I didn’t hear you,” she said, one hand at her throat.

He slid one finger around the rim of his shirt collar. “It was getting a little stuffy in there. The air feels good.”

“Yes, it does,” she agreed after a few seconds. She watched him for a moment, then said, “Excuse me,” before stepping past him toward the steps that led to the house.

Again, that voice. Let her go. “You’re Jonathan Colby’s wife, aren’t you?”

She stopped on the third step, her back to him, pausing before she half turned, silent.

“I’m Nicholas Wakefield,” he added. “Ross just hired me. I’ll be working with your husband.”

She stared at him for another long moment during which he saw something in her expression he couldn’t quite identify. Disapproval? A quick in-take of breath, and the look disappeared to be replaced with blankness. He thought he might prefer the disapproval, even though it made him curious as hell. He filed that alongside his initial impression of Colby. Interesting.

“Congratulations, Mr. Wakefield.” She started up the steps. “I really have to go now.”

Nicholas didn’t think there would have been much of anything left in the world that could bother him. For the past nine years, he’d had crazies traipsing through his office, calling him obscenities that would curl most people’s hair. Why then was he bothered by this woman’s tone? Maybe because there was judgment in it. And he wanted to know why. “Did I say something to offend you, Mrs. Colby?”

His question stopped her again halfway up the stairs. She turned around, slowly retracing her steps. She glanced quickly over her shoulder at the house. “I don’t know what would make you think that.”

“Why don’t we try this again?” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Nicholas Wakefield.”

Reluctantly, she offered her own. “Audrey Colby.”

Her voice was Southern-soft at the edges. Even in the shadowed light, her eyes ensnared him. Wounded eyes. As if they held scars that ran deep.

She glanced again at the doorway, then stepped deeper into the darkness close to the rock wall behind them. “All those people…it gets a little close.”

He couldn’t have said why, other than the fact that she was married to his new firm’s biggest client, but he was uneasy being here with her. It had been a long time since he’d felt awkward around a woman. “Yeah,” he said finally. “That crowd can get a little—” He broke off, deciding she wasn’t the person to whom he should reveal his real feelings about the party.

“Presumptuous?” she finished, surprising him.

He tilted his head to one side. “Your word.”

“Yes. My word.”

“Good music, though.” Jill Scott floated out from the speakers at the back of the house, the band apparently taking a break.

She glanced again in the direction of the door.

He leaned a hip against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. “So. Made any resolutions for the New Year?”