Stay (Dunham series #2) (33 page)

Not really.

For a single control freak running a 24/7 operation,
it was about as efficient as it could be, but that left Eric a
whole lot of room to improve.

A small family checked in and Eric found himself
having to wing it completely, but at the point he began to feel
overwhelmed with this process, Knox walked in with Mercy in his
arms. It only took one look for him to assess the situation, then
take over, training Eric the way he trained everybody to do
anything.

Once that family was settled and on its way to the
playground, Knox looked at Eric speculatively for a long moment,
then said, “Management’s management.”

Eric nodded. “Yup,” he replied and walked off to
take care of the next task.

The new bartender on duty signaled to Eric, and he
ended up serving drinks to an older couple out on the veranda who
were inclined to chat. So he did, graciously, attentively, and for
quite a long time.

By 9:30 that night, Eric had doffed his jacket and
tie, and rolled up his sleeves. He was back in Vanessa’s office
sifting through résumés for concierge (most went into the shred
bin) when Vanessa walked in about an hour later. She stopped short
when she saw him there, lounging back in her chair, his feet up on
her desk. He watched her as a series of expressions flitted over
her face, none of which he could identify. He wasn’t sure there was
a favorable one amongst them.

When
had she started being able to hide her
thoughts from him?

Suddenly he felt like an interloper. He took his
feet off her desk and stood, uncertain what to do or say.

She swallowed and murmured, “I— You— Um, dinner—”
Then she just stopped speaking and turned right back around,
walking out again.

Like last night, he didn’t know whether to follow
her or not. Last night, he’d decided Vanessa was a grown woman who
spoke her mind. If she said she wanted to be alone, that was what
she meant.

Shit.

Well, he was hungry, so he went into the kitchen
hoping, but not expecting, to find Vanessa there eating. She
wasn’t. Vachel sullenly moved over to allow Eric a chair that was
convenient. Soon Eric was laughing and joking with the kitchen
staff, though with some reserve because he couldn’t get the look on
Vanessa’s face out of his mind.

Vachel finally stood, grabbed a couple of
five-gallon pails, filled one with ice, and walked out the door
into the night without a word.

“Where’s he going?” Eric asked.

“Check his crawdad traps.”

“Reeeeally.” He looked at a clock and was surprised
to see it was eleven. He waited until the kitchen staff was gone
then caught Knox in the middle of closing-down-for-the-night
procedures, Mercy fast asleep in a bed of blankets. Knox only spoke
to tell Eric what needed to be done next, and Eric did whatever he
said without a word.

“Night,” Knox finally said. He gathered his daughter
up in his arms and headed for the elevator.

“Night.”

Eric, left alone in a silent and deserted Whittaker
House, looked around him in the dim light of the three reading
lamps that were left on for insomniac guests. He went to the wall
of books and found the Little House series, figured out which one
to read first, and plopped down on a sofa to begin reading.

“Eric.”

He knew that voice. He knew where he was. He knew
that yet another night had passed without spending it burying
himself inside Vanessa.

“What time is it?” he croaked without opening his
eyes.

“Five-thirty.”

He licked his lips and smacked his tongue, trying to
get rid of the cotton in his mouth. He opened his eyes slowly to
see her in jeans, her beautiful brunette-and-blonde hair up in a
ponytail. Her bright turquoise eyes had a trace of . . . something
. . . in them he didn’t understand.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked warily.

“Not mad,” she murmured. “I’m sorry about last
night.”

“No, I’m sorry. I can see how that must have
looked.”

She gulped. “You worked hard yesterday. Why don’t
you go to bed?”

“Will you come with me?”

“No. I have an appointment with one of my vendors
this morning.”

He sighed. “Vanessa, if my being here is going to be
a problem for you—”

“It’s not!” she gasped, those fabulous eyes wide.
“It’s just— I’m— I’m having to think about— About some things I’d
rather not think about.
Please
don’t go.”

He sat up then and patted the sofa beside him. She
sat stiffly. “Vanessa, is every single day like yesterday?”

“Pretty much. Thank you for your help and for the
new bartender.”

“Two new bartenders. One full time, one part
time.”

At least this time he could read her surprise, but
he didn’t know if it was good or bad. “How much did you pay
them?”

He told her, expecting her to be annoyed if not
downright angry, but she only nodded. “That’s not quite as much as
I would’ve paid them, but if they work out, I’ll give them raises.”
She paused. “What were you looking at last night?”

“Applications for a concierge. I told you I’d find
you a new one, and I will. Most of the résumés were old or useless.
I’m going to find a headhunter today.”

She said nothing and he looked at her, still trying
to decipher her thoughts. Finally, she said, “I’ll make a list of
the benefits I offer.”

“All right,” he said slowly. “Other than what’s on
your to-do lists, what do you need done?”

Vanessa smiled slightly. “The staff will let you
know. You apparently impressed everyone yesterday with your
willingness to work and ability to manage crises.”

He shrugged. “Management’s management.”

Her smile was tight when she finally got up and
strode away.

Eric dropped his head in his hands and wondered what
he’d done to make her so upset. He thought perhaps he should have
gone home last night after all. Being in court with half-assed
preparation halfway through a case had to be better than a week of
Vanessa being upset with him.

Now he didn’t care about making love to her.

He just wanted to make her smile at him—once—before
he left.

* * * * *

29: Seed Wheat

“Vanessa, we’re heading home.”

Vanessa looked up from a table full of headless and
skinless skunks to see Knox standing in the door of the butchery,
snuggling a very tired toddler. “Okay.”

“If we leave now, we can get home in time for
dinner, and Eric seems to have everything under control.”

“Thanks for everything, Knox.”

“You’re welcome. Vanessa—” She waited for whatever
he was going to say, but he only pressed his lips together, shook
his head, then sighed. “Never mind. Have a good week. I love
you.”

“I love you, too.”

Vanessa breathed a sigh of relief once he was gone
and waited until the SUV rolled past the butchery door before
letting herself cry. She shouldn’t cry when wielding
two-thousand-dollar scalpel-sharp Japanese knives, but—

Last night, when she’d walked into her office to see
Eric lounging at her desk, obviously engaged in Whittaker House
business, it had shocked her beyond belief. Oh, not that he had
taken it upon himself to do so or that he’d made free with her
files (she had nothing to hide), but because he looked so
right
doing it.

At that massive desk, in a halfway-unbuttoned dress
shirt with no tie, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and in suit
pants, working. To Whittaker House born.

Attorney general. Then governor. Then the White
House.

She was a fool to think she could have a
relationship with Eric Cipriani.

Vanessa picked up an animal and considered it
carefully, focusing on the lines of the muscle. Once she’d decided
on her approach, she placed it on the table and sliced.

What were Eric’s joys and pains? Besides karate and
golf, what did he enjoy doing? What music did he listen to? Did he
have any siblings? Did he have a faith? She knew his birth date:
May 3, 1977. She knew his middle name: Niccolò. She knew his mother
was Osage and his father an Italian immigrant who’d left soon after
Eric was born. She knew his alma mater. She knew his politics.

She knew he wanted her, but he didn’t love her. How
could he? He didn’t know her any better than she knew him. He
didn’t know her likes or dislikes, her music, her beliefs, her
philosophies. He didn’t know why the majority of her clothes were
pink.

Skunk medallions, perfectly pan-fried, served with a
side of caramelized turnips sliced paper thin and a
spinach-and-zucchini mousse garnished with fresh peppermint. The
success of the dish depended on how well she cut the medallions.
Every carcass was different, and one slip of the knife could make a
piece of meat unsuitable for anything but stew.

Giselle had given her the best sex education a girl
could’ve gotten, and Vanessa had done such a good job following her
advice that she’d thrown the possibility of love right out the
window, and went straight for the sex.

Like a man.

If you want to have sex, wait and be very careful
about who you choose. Do it sober, while you have your head on
straight.

Sebastian had given her a magical initiation into
sex, taking great care to please her and teach her, and her time
with him had made her just that much pickier. Nash had given her
pleasure and three years of comfortably distant, low-maintenance
companionship.

Skunk stew was delicious, though, the perfect
cold-weather dish, and one she could put together on
Vittles
easily enough.

As far as she could see, love just muddied up waters
that didn’t need muddying.

So when did she start thinking about wanting love to
go along with the sex?

Why did she feel so . . .
addicted
?

By dusk, the animals were in the freezer, the
butchery clean once again and her paper coveralls pitched. She
began to box up all those beautiful black-and-white pelts for the
morning’s shipment.

“Aunt Vanessa?”

She turned at the sound of Vachel’s voice. She
looked him up and down: buckskins soaked with blood up to his
knees, a bow in his hand. “What’s up, Vachel?”

“Is Eric going to come live here?”

“No.” It broke her heart to have to say that.
“Why?”

“He . . . works hard,” Vachel said slowly. “He’s
nice. He doesn’t bitch. I— I respect him.” She blinked. Studied
him. He looked at the ground and then off into the distance.
Fidgeted. “Maybe he . . . Um, maybe he could come here?”

Tears welled in her eyes again. “Vachel, he— I—” She
sniffled. Wiped her nose with the back of her hand and wiped it on
her paper coverall. Sniffled again. “I want him to, Vachel. I do.
But . . . he has his life mapped out and it doesn’t include me. Us.
Whittaker House.”

Vachel’s mouth tightened.

“And we’re not leaving to go with him, even if he
asked us to, which he has no reason to.”

Vachel gulped. Nodded. “Yeah.” He walked away and
she heard the opening of a garage door. The next thing she heard
was the roar of an ATV being started, revved, and then driven out
and down the orchard, away from the main property west to fetch
whatever animal Vachel had just dressed.

The sun had set by the time Vanessa headed for the
kitchen to grab a plate and take it to her office. Fortunately,
Eric was not there, but she knew he was around and working because
she’d spent almost an entire day in the butchery without one crisis
to tend to.

She looked for and found one of her to-do lists and
dug in to the tasks she’d neglected, but were no less important
than anything else. She sorted, sifted, and filed for hours, and
could do so, she realized, because of what Eric had
accomplished.

It was one o’clock in the morning by the time she
went back to her cottage, which was pitch black, as usual. She
still hadn’t seen Eric and it wouldn’t surprise her if he ended up
on the couch in the grand parlor again, reading
Farmer Boy
.
She daren’t go check because this morning, he’d looked so
wonderful, so . . .

Seventeen. What he should’ve looked like when he was
seventeen.

She closed her eyes and, halfway up the stairs to
her bedroom, she leaned against the chimney.

Seventeen: Standing in a courtroom in shackles, a
much, much younger Knox Hilliard out for his blood.

Seventeen: Straight black hair halfway down his
back, his olive skin tanned darker, his square face carved in high
cheekbone and Roman nose and his height—his Osage heritage
completely overwhelming the Italian as he got darker in the
sun.

Seventeen: Bad attitude, swagger, cigarettes,
alcohol, drugs, leather jacket, tight ripped jeans, a dagger
earring dangling from one ear, black cowboy boots with silver toe
detail that the girls at school whispered (with fear and
excitement) was actually a retractable knife.

Seventeen: Only too easy to believe he could rape a
thirteen-year-old girl if her sister didn’t know the truth and was
willing to tell it.

No, she didn’t want to go find him there again,
looking like the
GQ
version of seventeen-year-old Eric
Cipriani.

Vanessa stepped out of her clothes and climbed into
bed. She didn’t even know she’d been holding her breath or wishing
anything at all until she felt Eric’s arms wrap around her—the
thirty-three-year-old Eric Cipriani, the fledgling politician, the
karate teacher, the born manager-entrepreneur with a good education
and a soft spot for vintage cars, designer suits, and nice
girls.

His hand gently pressed her cheek to his chest, and
she drew in a deep breath to catch his scent: soap, her brand, and
a remnant of his cologne. She sighed and entwined her legs with
his. He ran his fingers through her hair, petting her, stroking her
until she went to sleep, feeling loved.