Petals on the Pillow (4 page)

“Right,” Kelly said, sarcasm adding a little bite to the single word comment. She’d seen how Kendra reigned like a queen at the dining table, commanding the staff here and there with mere flicks of her long fingers. She’d also seen, and interpreted quite clearly, Kendra’s very proprietary attitude toward Harrison. It was crystal clear in the way her hand dropped to his arm whenever she spoke to him and the way she deferred to him whenever he spoke.

No, Kendra wouldn’t be giving up formal dinners at Hawk Manor without a fight. But then, it wouldn’t be Kelly’s fight. She stooped to pick up the scattered pieces of charcoal.

Harrison knelt beside
her, handing her a few pieces of chalk. One black brow arched. “I take it you disagree.”

“I just think you underestimate how quickly routines become rituals,” Kelly replied with a shrug. “But I also think you should do whatever you think is best. However, what’s best for me now is some sleep.”

“Yes, well, I suppose I should get back to bed myself.” Kelly’s gaze caught with Harrison’s. The unspoken message that passed from him to her was as clear as if he had voiced it. She hadn’t imagined that moment between them. Kelly ducked forward and let her hair shield her face. She was too tired and too lonely to let herself get caught in that tractor beam stare again. She practically sprinted for the French doors to her room.

“Sweet dreams this time, Kelly.”

His voice was soft and warm. It poured over Kelly like honey, stopping her in her tracks. She turned. The wind from the Sound ruffled his hair. In his T-shirt and sweat pants with a day’s growth of beard across his chin, he no longer looked like the imposing captain of industry whose mere glance could make Kelly self-conscious and uncomfortable. He looked like a man. An appealing, handsome and very sexy man with needs any woman would want to meet.

For a moment, Kelly let herself imagine what it might be like if she walked back to him now. What it might feel like to wrap her arms around that waist. What those granite lips might feel like against hers. What his hands might feel like against her skin. The rush of heat that passed through her left her flushed and breathless.

Not for you,
she reminded herself.
No one ever said he wasn’t sexy. He’s just definitely and unquestionably way out of your league.
“Good night, Harrison.” Kelly started for her room.

“Kelly?”

“Yes?” She turned.

He stood with his back to the moon, face unreadable in the darkness, shoulders hunched against a sudden chill in the wind. “I hope you’ll take one bit of advice from someone older and wiser. The truth isn’t always all it’s cracked up to be. Sometimes we’re better off, at least happier, without it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Good night, Harrison.” Kelly ducked inside her room.

As she climbed back into bed, Kelly caught an unexpected fragrance. Glancing around, it took only a second for her to notice three white waxy flower petals scattered across her pil
lowcase. She looked down at them in wonder and then quickly around the room. Who had been in her room? Her heart began to beat more quickly again.

“Christ,” she muttered aloud. “Just getting to sleep in this place is like an aerobic workout.”

The door was still closed, her boots still lay on their sides under a chair and her T-shirt was still draped over its back. Her little conversation with Harrison had been distracting, to be sure, but they had been standing just a few feet from the open French doors to her room. Surely they would have heard anyone coming and going behind them. God, she hoped so. Trying to explain away that little scenario would be quite a trick.

She picked up the petals and rubbed them between her thumb and forefinger and the sweet and slightly familiar smell floated into the room.
What is it?
Kelly pondered.
Something sweet. Something just a little old-fashioned.
It reminded her of her grandmother. That was it! Gardenias. The old woman had always worn a perfume scented with gardenias. It had been just about the only sweet thing about her.

She tossed the petals into a silver bowl that stood on her bedside table, but their fragrance still filled the room. She straightened the sheets on the stately old bed and slid between them again. They felt fresh and cool once more.

Just as they were closing, her eyelids flipped open. She slipped out of the bed again and tip-toed quietly into the bathroom. Remembering Betsy’s magical appearance in her room earlier, she ran her hands over the panels of the walls, gently pressing here and there. Finally, one swung open. Behind it, a tunnel of blackness yawned. Kelly sat back on her heels and stared into the gaping hole.

Chapter Three

Kelly stumbled into the kitchen at nearly nine o’clock the next morning. Her head throbbed and pounded as heavily as if she’d been on a bender the night before. After she’d carefully closed the swinging panel in her bathroom, she’d gone back to bed, but sleep had been elusive. Fragments of the dreams that had disturbed her all night still chased through her thick head along with the scent of gardenias, even after standing in the stinging spray of the shower for half an hour.

That was definitely one of the glorious luxuries of Hawk Manor compared to the apartment she shared with Lisa through the school year. The Manor had no shortage of hot water in the morning. She and Lisa had had to limit themselves to showers of ten minutes if both of them were going to get hot water each morning. Here she didn’t even have to share a bath
room!

Even with that luxury, her reflection, when she had checked it in the cheval mirror, showed the dark circles under her eyes. She had used the edge of her T-shirt to rub at a smudge in the mirror’s corner, but it wouldn’t come off any easier than the shadows under eyes would wash off.

Led as much by the smell of strong, fresh-brewed coffee as her memory of how to get from one place to another in the Manor, Kelly found the kitchen. Pushing through the swinging doors, she found a large airy room already busy with preparations for another day. A pot simmered on an old gas stove that looked like it could have been part of the original house. Freshly washed vegetables sat waiting to be scraped and chopped on a big butcher’s block covered with deep scars that sat in the center of the room. Most important to Kelly at that instant, however, was a very modern coffeepot full of strong black liquid that stood on the countertop. She poured the hot coffee into a thick, white, ceramic mug that stood next to the machine and, leaning back against the counter, savored the first sip. It was as strong and potent as its aroma. Kelly wrapped both hands around the mug and practically hummed with pleasure.

“Well, good morning to you, miss.”

Kelly was grateful she was still too tired to jump, otherwise the hot coffee would have probably scalded her. She swung around slowly. The woman coming into the kitchen with a metal bowl full of small red potatoes in her arms had a soft round face topped with gray hair pulled into an old-fashioned bun. A floral housedress covered what Kelly would in a more charitable moment characterize as a somewhat Rubenesque figure.

“Good morning to you, too.”

“My name is Mrs. Jenkins. You must be Ms. Donovan,” the woman said as she waddled past Kelly to the sink.

“Yes.” Kelly took another sip of hot coffee. “You can call me Kelly, though.”

Mrs. Jenkins turned on the tap and began to wash off the potatoes with a vegetable scrubber. “I think Miss Donovan would do better.”

Kelly shrugged.

“I wasn’t sure what time you would want your breakfast brought up.”

“Brought up?” Kelly echoed.

Mrs. Jenkins closed the tap and dumped the potatoes in a bowl. She turned to fix Kelly with bright blue eyes. “Brought up to your room.”

“To my room?” Kelly stared blankly back.

Mrs. Jenkins regarded Kelly, with her meaty fists pillowed at her expansive hips and her lips pursed. Her expression clearly stated she thought she might be dealing with a mental defective. Slowly and with a great deal of show about the business of enunciation, she said, “Generally, people don’t want their breakfast left on the stairs, miss.”

Kelly grinned, instantly recognizing someone who could dish it out as well as she could herself. “Generally, I’m up and working by seven. If it’s all right with you, I’ll just come down to the kitchen when I get up and grab a cup of coffee and some fruit.”

Mrs. Jenkins’ eyes remained narrowed, but finally her dough ball of a face creased into a smile. “We’ll be getting along all right, then,” she said as she ambled over to the butcher’s block, ample hips rolling. She picked up a chopping board covered with onions and shuffled back to the stove, sliding the vegetables into the pot that was simmering there. “What would you like this morning?”

“Really, just a piece of toast and some fruit will do,” Kelly assured her.

“Fine. Sit down then. I’ll have you fixed up in a minute.” The older woman sent Kelly scurrying to the table with an imposing nod of her top-knotted head. A piece of toast and an orange were in front of her in seconds.

“I got the blackberries you wanted.” Betsy came tripping into the kitchen through the back door. She wore an old tat
tered cardigan over her overalls and carried a wicker basket cradled in her arms. Seeing Kelly at the table, Betsy ducked her head and dragged her feet. A blush stained her fair cheeks under her brace of freckles.

“Well, come here, child. Don’t dawdle by the door all day,” Mrs. Jenkins commanded from the stove. She took the basket from Betsy. Flicking gently at a berry with a sausage-like finger, she said, “You’ve got such a light touch, child. Not a single berry bruised. And them so fragile when they’re ripe. You’ve got the fingers of an angel.”

Betsy blushed harder. “Good morning, Kelly.”

“Hey, kiddo.” Kelly patted the chair next to hers. “Come and sit down. We’ve got work to do today.”

“What kind of work?” Betsy asked as she slid into the wooden seat.

“The most important part. Preparation.
I need to see the wall I’m supposed to work on and check out what work it will need before we start.”

“It’s just a wall. What do you have to check it for?”

“Cracks. Rough spots in the plaster. Stuff like that. I’ve learned from experience that a little extra work at the front end, making sure everything is prepared properly, can keep you from completely screwing up a project at the end.” Kelly jumped as a huge glass jar full of change was thumped down in front of her. She looked up into Mrs. Jenkins’ face. “Yes?”

“That’ll cost you a quarter, young lady.”

“Excuse me?”

“No, ma’am. There’ll be no excuse for using foul language in my kitchen.” Mrs. Jenkins shook her head.

“What foul language?” Kelly looked to Betsy for an explanation.

“I think she means the ‘s’ word you just said.”

“‘S’ word? You mean ‘screwed’?”

Mrs. Jenkins thumped the jar on the table again. “You’re up to 50 cents now, Miss Donovan.”

Kelly looked to Betsy for help. Betsy shrugged and said, “Even Dad pays up.”

“I didn’t bring my wallet with me. Can I give you an IOU?” Kelly smiled up at Mrs. Jenkins’ impassive face.

“Fine, then. Put a note in the jar before you leave the kitchen and I’ll thank you to remember to keep your language clean when you’re in here from now on.” Mrs. Jenkins headed back for the stove with a meaningful backward glance from Kelly to Betsy.

“Okay. Like I said, we have to get the wall prepped proper
ly so we don’t sc—I mean, mess up the final painting, and then we’ll need to finalize the working drawings.”

Betsy focused her attention on her hands in front of her, but regarded Kelly out of the corner of an eye. “I wasn’t sure you’d still be here this morning. The way you ducked out after din
ner last night, I was afraid you’d be trying to catch the early morning ferry back to Seattle.”

“Nah.” Kelly tilted her head to peer into Betsy’s face. “It takes more than an incredibly boring dinner to scare me away. Besides the food was too darn good to leave without trying it again.”

“Hmmph,” Mrs. Jenkins snorted over at the stove where she stirred the bubbling pot. “As if you’d know from what little you ate.”

Betsy giggled behind her hand. “It was awesomely boring, wasn’t it?”

“Totally,” Kelly agreed. “But let’s move on. Let’s talk about this mural you want painted, patron. Do you want Cinderella to look like you? Who do you want the prince to look like? Leonardo DiCaprio maybe? Or how about Luke Perry? I like to think about these things as I prep the support. It kind of gets my juices going.”

The smile faded from Betsy’s face. She picked at an unrav
eling thread along the cuff of her sweater. “Whatever you want.”

“But it’s your mural. I want your input,” Kelly encouraged.

Betsy just shrugged.

“Seriously,
I need to know who to model the people in the mural after and then we can start looking at costumes.”

Betsy just stared at her hands.

“Betsy. What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I hate Cinderella,” Betsy finally burst out. “She was such a total geek. She just ran around and did whatever they told her to. She never stood up for herself or anything. She’d still be hanging out with those stupid mice if it wasn’t for the Prince. What a loser!”

“If you feel that way, why on earth do you want an entire wall of your bedroom done as a Cinderella mural?” Kelly asked.

“I don’t,” the child wailed. “I said I wanted a painting or something on the wall.
I was just talking to Dad about it and then old Kendra Kill-Joy butted in and ruined everything.”

Mrs. Jenkins was by Betsy’s side in an instant. A tissue appeared from one of the many pockets in her voluminous apron and she dabbed at the tears that had started to leak out of Betsy’s bright green eyes. “There, there, child. Calm yourself. And for pity’s sake, stop calling Miss Campbell names. No mat
ter how you feel about her, she’s been a godsend to your father. I don’t know where he’d be without her.”

“Wait a minute,” Kelly interrupted. “Slow down. I don’t get
it.

“It’s all just a stupid mistake. You shouldn’t be here at all.” Betsy sniffled. “I thought if I asked for something really outra
geous, you know, like hiring an artist to paint a wall of my room that Dad would ... well, that he’d ”

“That Dad would what?” Harrison St. John asked from the doorway
to the kitchen. He sauntered in, completely oblivious to the undertones in the conversation he was interrupting, and poured himself a cup of coffee. He wore what Kelly already thought of as his Corporate Captain clothes. This morning it was a navy blue suit instead of yesterday’s understated charcoal gray. Like yesterday’s suit and last night’s tuxedo, it too had clearly been tailored by an experienced and expert hand, framing his broad shoulders and then draping to his lean hips. He wore it with the ease that most men reserved for jeans and sweatshirts.

In an unspoken alliance to shield Betsy from her father’s piercing gaze, Mrs. Jenkins and Kelly moved to block her from his line of sight, but it really wasn’t necessary. Harrison’s eyes sought out Kelly’s from across the room, not Betsy’s. She raised her eyes to his and for an instant, she saw a flicker of that other man, the one she’d met on the terrace last night, the one who seemed to lurk behind the business facade, as he turned his head a fraction of an inch and gave her that slightly crooked and way too sexy smile.

“Good morning, Mr. St. John,” Kelly said wishing formality could make her forget how close she’d come to kissing him the night before. The memory made her blush a little.
What a way to get recommendations for future commissions,
she scolded herself,
jump into bed with your patrons before you even present them with working drawings.

“Good morning to you, Miss Donovan,” he replied. His voice rumbled like rough silk. Kelly wondered if anyone else had noticed that the temperature in the kitchen had risen a degree or two or that Harrison’s glance seemed to be travel
ling up and down her until her T-shirt and jeans felt transparent. His obvious appraisal of her left her breathless and she seriously doubted that this was the same measuring look he had given to all the nay-sayers on Wall Street when they’d told him he was crazy to sell off his grandfather’s prosperous lumber firm. It absolutely couldn’t be the same look he’d used to cow the advisors who had told him never to invest in such a specialized and high-tech business as the building of automatic pilot systems for jets, and it definitely was not the chilly glance he gave to the sycophants of the business world who now fawned over him when he deigned to grace them with his presence from time to time, all of which he was famous for. Not unless Harrison wanted half the financial world entertaining some very unbusiness-like thoughts about him.

“Will you be wanting some cream in your coffee then, Mr. St. John?” Mrs. Jenkins asked, her voice bright and false. “I’ve some fresh in the refrigerator. Help yourself.”

Harrison frowned, twin lines creasing his forehead, as he turned to look at Mrs. Jenkins. “You know I always take my coffee black, Dora. What on earth are you talking about?”

“Just thought you might like a change,” she answered, wip
ing away the last of Betsy’s tears before heaving herself back to her feet and lumbering back to the stove to give the pot a stir.

Betsy kept her head ducked forward, allowing her straight dark hair to shield her face, but she needn’t have bothered. Her father’s gaze skipped lightly over her again to follow Mrs. Jenkins to the stove. He spoke to the air when he said, “So what were you all discussing so intently when I came in?”

Kelly trod lightly on Betsy’s foot before the girl could reply and shook her head quickly. She tried to keep her own voice nonchalant. “Oh, we were just making some plans to do our preparatory work. Why don’t you run along, Betsy? Meet me in my room in about ten minutes and we’ll get started. Okay?” Kelly gave the girl’s hand a squeeze. She got a squeeze back in return and Betsy scurried out of the room.