Love, Come to Me(80)

“Remember when you told me it was crazy for a Southerner to try to run a Boston newspaper? You might have been—”

“I was wrong.”

“Oh?”

“Absolutely wrong.”

He eyed her skeptically. “I seem to have missed a step somewhere along the way. When did you decide that?”

“After I started reading the paper. I . . . I like your ideas. I like the way the newspaper is turning out, and other people will start to feel the same way. I know you’ll start making a profit when you lure in a few more advertisers.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled with the promise of a smile. “I appreciate your faith in me. Unfortunately the paper’s going to be finished off by a second civil war.”

“Then you’ll have to find some way to compromise. It didn’t seem as if you and Damon were having any serious disagreements before—”

“We were. And they’ve all stemmed from the fact that our political, social, and moral leanings are entirely different.”

“Surely you’re exaggerating—”

“You don’t know Damon as I do,” Heath said darkly. “And if you did, you’d agree that the conflict over this editorial is going to happen again, because it’s not really about what happened in Georgia yesterday. It’s about his beliefs as opposed to mine, and they’re never going to mesh—”

“You can find some common ground to meet on. Neither of you wants to try to fight the war over again, and you’ve got to remind him of that. You’re one of the most persuasive people I’ve ever met. I know you can talk him into taking a more moderate stand.”

“Now who’s being persuasive?” He pulled the plug and reached for a towel as the bathwater gurgled down the drain. Roughly he toweled his hair dry and stepped out of the tub, wrapping the towel around his hips. “What if I can’t talk him into changing the editorial? If I write it the way I want it, he’ll leave.”

“Then he leaves.”

“We might lose the paper without him.”

“Then it’s everyone’s loss. But the only one I’m concerned about is you. You’ve got to do whatever it takes to keep your pride and self-respect. You would never forgive yourself if you felt that you betrayed your beliefs and your people. It’s your paper. Run it the way you want, for as long as you have it.”

He caressed the side of her jaw with his fingertips, sending a light shiver down her spine. “I should warn you that if we lose the paper, we’ll have to sell the house.”

“That’s fine.”

“And the furniture.”

“I don’t care.”

“And—”

“We can pawn, sell, and trade off everything we own . . . but if you dare say one thing about my diamond, you’ll regret it for the rest of your married life. This ring is mine, and it’s not leaving my finger.”

He grinned at her vehemence. “I wasn’t going to say anything about your ring, honey.” Bending down to kiss her, he left wet handprints on the waist and bodice of her gown, but Lucy was too enthralled by his hearty kiss to protest.

“You taste like coffee,” she whispered when his lips left hers.

“I could do with more.”

“Coffee or kisses?”

“Always more kisses . . .” He dropped a light one on the corner of her mouth. “But I was referring to coffee. Have you had breakfast yet?”

“I was waiting for you.”

“Then why don’t you go downstairs while I get dressed? I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

“Don’t be long,” she said, and paused in the doorway to look up and down his scantily covered body in a way that caused his blood to stir. She quirked the side of her mouth suggestively. “The . . . muffins will get cold.”

As she left, Heath wondered bemusedly how she had learned to infuse such a simple statement with such a variety of innuendos. He also wondered how it was physically possible for him to want her so much again, when he had just spent the entire night satiating himself with her.

Just when Lucy reached the bottom of the stairs, someone knocked on the front door with a demanding staccato. The butler came into the front entranceway to greet the visitor; he looked so uncustomarily harried that Lucy knew he hadn’t yet finished his own breakfast.

“I’ll answer the door, Sowers,” she said.

“But, Mrs. Rayne—”

“I have an idea of who it might be. You may go back to the kitchen.” The grateful butler disappeared without hesitation, and Lucy went to the door, opening it in the middle of another flurry of knocking. As her intuition had led her to hope, the visitor was Damon Redmond. He was as immaculately groomed as always, but his eyes were bloodshot and there were tired lines on his face. He was leaning against the doorframe as if its support was necessary to keep him upright. “Good morning,” she said.

“We all have our own opinions about that, Mrs. Rayne.”

“Oh, dear,” she said, and smiled as she opened the door to let him in. “Please join us for some breakfast.”

“Thank you, but—”

“At least some coffee,” she coaxed, and he smiled wearily.

“Have you ever met anyone who could refuse you anything? I doubt it.” Damon surrendered his coat to her without another word and followed her to the breakfast room. Lucy thought compassionately that he must be just as perturbed as Heath about the editorial; he looked as though he hadn’t gotten more than an hour or two of sleep. Quickly she handed the coat to Bess with a murmur about needing another place setting, then allowed Damon to seat her at the table.