Say You Will (8 page)

She arched her hips against him. “I can feel how much you want me.”

“Badly,” he murmured against her neck.

“Then take me. We can go to your place.”

It almost killed him, but he shook his head. “You promised nonsexual.”

Heaving a sigh, she let her head drop back. “Tomorrow then.”

“No.” Not until he settled things with Summer. If this thing with Rosalind became as important as he felt it could, he didn’t want any deceptions undermining the foundation. “We barely know each other. I think we should take it slow.”

“Are you for real?” She gaped at him. “I’m telling you I want to tear the clothes off your body and have my way with you, and you want to get to know me first?”

He rubbed his neck. Luca would call him
pazzo
. “You’re more important than a one-night stand, Rosalind.”

“I—” She closed her mouth and lifted her hands helplessly. “How can I argue with that? You win. We behave. For now.”

That sounded both promising and ominous.

Chapter Ten

The goose bumps that rose on her arms warned Em that Joe was behind her a split second before he touched her shoulder.

But then his hand was on her, and she jumped, her chair skittering backward as her earbuds popped out. “Joe! You startled me.”

“Obviously.” His gaze traveled up and down her body, a combination of pleasure and puzzlement on his face. “I suppose I shouldn’t think you’re here on a Saturday because you couldn’t bear to be parted from me.”

“Not at all.”

“You are a cruel woman, Em.”

“Only to you,” she said with a sweet smile.

“So what are you doing here?”

She tugged her sweater tighter around her, conscious of her casual clothing. But it
was
Saturday, and she figured it didn’t matter what she wore. Besides, she was scheduled to work on Ben’s garden project after. “I’m here to let in the workers who are painting the back offices.”

“Ah, yes.” Joe nodded, glancing at her legs again.

She knew she shouldn’t have worn jeans—it wasn’t proper, not even on the weekend. She scooted her chair under the desk. “What are you doing here?”

His brow arched. “I work here.”

“Yes, but it’s Saturday.”

He smiled ruefully. “One of the perks of being a partner is that days don’t matter. We work all the time.”

“Oh,” she said stupidly.

“Although perhaps this is the firm’s way of incentivizing us. I wouldn’t mind coming in on the weekend if you were what greeted me, Em Shepherd.” He frowned suddenly. “You know, I have no idea if your name is Emma or Emily.”

“It’s not. Just plain Em.” She grinned like she didn’t have a care in the world and repeated the joking answer she’d learned to give as a teenager. “My parents were too lazy to give me more than two letters.” Though it’d be more accurate to say they were too poor from spending their money on alcohol and drugs to afford a bigger name.

Joe studied her like he was trying to puzzle her out. The air between them changed, no longer light and bantering but heavier and more serious.

It made her uncomfortable, like they weren’t on their normal footing.

Em cleared her throat. “Now that you’ve seen me, feel free to run along to your office and get to work.”

“Ouch.” He put a hand over his heart. “You wound me again, Em. Am I that unwelcome a sight?”

Actually, he looked delicious, like the confections in the window of the bakery she walked by every day. Just like with those desserts, she knew better than to give in to the temptation.

He leaned onto the top of the counter in front of her desk. “What are you thinking of that has your cheeks turning red?”

“Cake,” she said, mostly truthful.

“Do you like sinful things, Em?”

She glanced at his lips. “I don’t indulge.”

“A pity.” He stood straight. “I should return to my work, or I might be here all weekend.”

She felt the words on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t do anything to keep them in. “Would you like help?”

Before she could back out of the offer, he grinned in his predator way and said, “I’d love that.”

What had she gotten herself into? Sighing, she placed a note for the workmen on her desk and then followed him to his office. She tried not to stare at his bum on the short walk down the hall.

She failed.

“This way.” He held open the door for her with his arm, waiting for her to pass.

She hesitated a moment before she took a deep breath and brushed by him.

He smelled as delicious as the pastries she studiously avoided.

She had willpower. She passed the pastries every day and managed not to be lured by them, she could do the same with Joe.

“I’m working on a pro bono case for a woman who had her children taken away from her.” He gestured to the mess of papers all over his desk. “I need to highlight all the outcalls from Children’s Social Care, and then I need to organize them according to date.”

Nodding, Em moved a chair closer to his desk. She took a pad of sticky tabs from his desk and primly sat down. “Do you have a pen?”

He handed her a highlighter.

She took it, looking up when he didn’t let go. “What?”

“I was going to offer you a more comfortable seat.”

Before she could help herself, she glanced at his lap. Flushing, she covered her naughty thoughts with a saucy tilt of her chin. “I’m fine where I am, and if you don’t let go of the pen, I’ll never get anything done. I wouldn’t want to be accused of keeping you in the office all weekend.”

“There’d be worse fates than being here with you,” he said as he let go.

She arched her brow. “You’re assuming I don’t have other engagements.”

“Do you?”

“Of course.”

“I could make you forget them.” His eyes promised sin and delicious things.

She wanted it all, which was why she tugged her sweater down and said, “I’m sure you could, but to what end? You aren’t my type, and I’m certainly not yours.”

“You sound so sure of that.”

She tugged at the pen. “Let go.”

He seemed like he was going to argue, but he surprised her by letting her get to work.

She marked everything he’d asked her to mark. At first, it was difficult concentrating with him so close. She swore he smelled like cake—the most devilish, tempting chocolate cake ever. She wanted to run her finger in his icing and lick it.

But she didn’t want cake. She wanted something substantial and true, not a fleeting satisfaction that’d make her crash.

She wanted Ben.

She lowered her head and focussed on the work.

She got to the bottom of the paperwork and set the pen down. “Done.”

He looked at the neat pile. “Now we need to organize them by date.”

“Already done, and I marked each quarter with a tab.” She turned the stack of papers to show him the blue tabs peeking from the sides.

He frowned. “That was fast.”

“Are you saying I didn’t do a thorough job?” She dared him to say otherwise with her gaze. “Because I can assure you that I did.”

“No, I’m saying you’re a wonder.”

“Oh.” Flustered, she felt herself blush. She stood and pulled her sweater down. “If you won’t be needing me …”

He stood, too. “I need you, Em.”

There was a hint of dark desire in his voice, and it made her shiver. She lost her voice, not sure what to say because she was sure
Take me
wasn’t right, even though it was the only thing in her head.

He stepped closer, reaching out to her—

A knock on the doorframe startled her.

“Sorry, miss,” a workman said. “We’re done now.”

“Yes.” She cleared her throat and gave Joe a reproaching look before briskly following the workman to let them out.

To be safe, she left with them. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Joe—she didn’t trust herself.

She took the underground to Shoreditch, walking dazedly to the coffeehouse. What had just happened? If she didn’t know better, she’d have suspected that he’d been about to touch her—maybe more.

He was a player. Whatever he’d been up to couldn’t have been good.

“Hello, Em.”

Startled out of her daze, she realizing she’d almost walked straight into Ben. She frowned at him. “What are you doing here?”

“I work here.” He flashed his sweet smile at her. “You’re right on time, like usual. Ready to go out to the greenhouse?”

Not thinking, she winked at him and held up one of her gardening gloves. “More than ready. Want to help me get it on?”

Confusion shadowed Ben’s face. “Is something wrong with your hand?”

She blinked. What was she thinking, trying to flirt with Ben? It was Joe’s fault, which was exactly why she didn’t want him. Ben was much more suitable as a husband and father: dependable and loyal.

Dull
, said a voice that sounded suspiciously like Joe’s.

She lifted her chin. Dull was just what she needed.

Chapter Eleven

“Sorry I’m late,” Sara said as she unwound her black scarf and shimmied out of her overcoat.

“I only just arrived.” Rosalind smiled at her reassuringly. “I’m glad you picked this teahouse. It’s adorable.”

“My mother loved it here.” She nodded in thanks at the waitress who took her coat, tugged her skirt straight, and sat across the table. “I haven’t been here in a while.”

She felt both sadness and envy—envy because she and her mother had never had proper tea together. “It’s difficult planning a wedding without your parents at hand, especially your mother.”

“Mum would have loved to see me find someone to love.” Sara blinked her eyes a few times, sniffling, and then shook her head. “But you’ve lost your father, too. You must be sad.”

Was she?

Yes. The answer was irrefutable. Only her sadness wasn’t that she lost him—it was because she’d never had him to begin with. “My relationship with my father was complicated,” she said lightly, smiling at the waitress who came to take their order.

After they asked for a pot of tea and scones, Sara said, “I’m sure your father loved you, even if he showed it materially. He must have left you and your sisters nice inheritances.”

The only inheritance Reginald Summerhill would leave his daughters was daddy issues.

Now wasn’t the time to have those bitter thoughts. She opened her sketchpad. “We should talk about happy things, like your wedding dress. I drew some initial ideas. There’re raw sketches without any details. I wanted to see what sort of shape you’d like before going further.”

Sara frowned at the designs.

“If you don’t like any of them, I can start over,” Rosalind offered.

“No, they’re lovely.” She hesitated and then said, “I just wonder if they’re me.”

“If you’re thinking of what Nick said about your wardrobe, don’t.”

She looked down at herself. “I wonder if he wasn’t right, though. Is the black awful?”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a solicitor.”

“Like Nick.” She smiled at the waitress, who set their treats on the table. “You’re lucky you have such a close friend in him. Did you two go to school together as well?”

“No.” Shaking her head, she lined up her utensils neatly in order before reaching for a scone. “Nick’s four years older than me.”

Rosalind studied the other woman as she poured their tea. Nick was right—black didn’t really suit Sara. “I understand you need to dress conservatively, but you could spice up your wardrobe with splashes of color here and there without compromising too much.”

“What do you mean?” Sara asked.

She unwound the scarf from her neck and held it out. “Take this.”

“I couldn’t possibly. That’s your scarf.”

“And I’m giving it to you. Our skin tones are similar and the colors will be perfect on you.” She nodded her head. “I want you to have it.”

Sara took it reluctantly. “You’re sure?”

“I wouldn’t offer it if I weren’t.” She watched the woman drape it around her neck. “Lovely. These scones look lovely, too.”

“Thank you.”

She looked up, surprised by Sara’s overly serious tone. She smiled and shrugged. “It’s no big deal. I felt like I knew you from the moment we met. But if it helps, think of it as an engagement gift.”

Sara lowered her head, playing with the handle on her teacup, obviously touched.

Rosalind sipped her tea, missing Bijou but happy she’d made a new friend.

“You can’t get rid of this. This has historical significance,” Portia exclaimed.

Rosalind glanced at the paper her sister held up gingerly. “What? Like the Magna Carta?”

“No, this is from 1904.”

They’d found a box of seemingly useless paperwork in the study’s closet. Rosalind had expected going through it to be a quick and painless. She’d forgotten nothing was easy when Portia was involved. In the two hours they’d been sitting on the floor, shifting through the box, her sister had found no less than sixteen historically significant documents.

Sighing, Rosalind looked at what Portia held out. “It looks like an old map.”

“It is. It’s the route Jasper Summerhill took on his grand tour. Look”—Portia leaned in and pointed to a scribble—”those are his initials.”

Enough. She wiped her hands on her jeans and stood up.

Her sister gaped at her. “You’re leaving? Now?”

Yes, before she threw the bronze pineapple at her. “I have some work I need to do.”

She waited for Portia to ask about it, like a normal person would, but her sister shrugged and continued looking through the box.

Rosalind should have known better than to think her sister was normal. Shaking her head, she went to her room to take a long, hot shower. She dressed in an underlayer of silk topped by cashmere lounging pants and a hoodie with a scarf tied around her neck.

Taking her sketchpad, she started to go down to the kitchen—brainstorming Sara’s dress with a cup of tea and Fran’s ginger shortbread seemed like the thing.

But she walked by the countess’s quarters and changed her mind. The better place to think about Sara’s dress was in her mother’s closet.

She went to her mother’s room and knocked on the aged wood. “Mum?”