King of the Castle by Heather Graham

Author:Heather Graham [Graham, Heather]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781488026270
Publisher: MIRA
Published: 1987-08-31T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 7

Justin lay on the bed, his bronzed torso very dark against the crisp white of the sheets. His fingers were idly laced behind his head, and he was leaning comfortably against two plump pillows. His lashes fell over half-closed eyes that appeared lazy, but were in truth narrowed in speculation. He hardened himself against emotion as he watched Kit.

It had been a week since they had first come here to the cottage. A week in which they had spent nearly all their time together. Discreetly, of course, since she did have a young son. And they both had work that couldn’t be ignored. But not a day had passed in which they hadn’t seen one another, hadn’t given in to the strength of the feelings that lay between them.

It had been a week of discovery. By silent agreement, nothing ugly and nothing frightening—and certainly nothing painful—had been discussed. Even when he had shown Kit the bolts on the door and explained the window catches, neither of them had mentioned the reason why it was so important for her to keep everything locked. Nor did they do so when he showed her the instant-dial lines on the phone: one instantly rang his house, a second got Constable Liam O’Grady’s office, a third would reach Barney Canail, and as a last safeguard, a fourth contacted Jamie Jameson.

They hadn’t talked about the past, only the present. Kit had made no confessions, nor had she even intimated that she might need to confess, and that made Justin angry.

At times he felt wearily resigned, so he watched her, as he was doing now. It hadn’t been so long, he told himself. Not really. They’d seen each other daily, but only twice had they had a chance to throw caution and discretion to the winds and give in to their desire.

And now they had tonight.

Mike was away on a school field trip. It had been difficult for Kit to let him go, Justin knew, and he had felt a few twinges himself. But not only was Douglas Johnston in charge of the group, Molly had gone along with them, and so had Barney Canail, who had left his deputy in charge of his department.

So they were alone. Completely alone. And again, by tacit agreement, they had planned a quiet evening, a domestic evening, just like an old married couple. He’d brought flowers and wine, while Kit had prepared a wonderful beef Wellington with parslied potatoes and a green salad, and they’d eaten by candlelight. Dinner had been wonderfully romantic, their knees touching beneath the table, one of her stockinged feet occasionally brushing over his ankle, his fingers curling over hers where they lay on top of the tablecloth. She had laughed a lot, but nervously, filling him with desire. Vivaldi had played softly on the stereo, and they had discussed movies and plays and music, and been delighted by both their shared likes and the spirit of their disputes.

She’d worn silk, a floor-length gown in soft violet, trimmed at the bodice and hem and sleeves with blue.

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