The Art of Inheriting Secrets(70)

“Rather liking it?” He grinned and swept hair out of my eyes. “Any moment you’ll break out in full British.”

“Well, my mother did raise me.”

He moved just a little inside of me, causing a rippling echo of orgasm. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

“Me either.”

He shifted, then reached for the duvet to pull it up over us in the cool room. With gestures as old as time, we moved into a newly woven shape, my head in the hollow of his shoulder, his hands draped around me.

I said, “But if I spoke British, what class would it be?”

“American.”

“Not if it’s full Brit.”

“Never happen. You’ll always sound American.”

“That’s disappointing.”

He laughed. “I’m quite fond of a certain American.”

“Hmm.” My body felt boneless. “I never want to get up. Like, ever.”

His fingers moved in my hair, and I drifted a little, happy. As will happen, a sudden thought bolted through my mind. “Wait!” I said and shifted to look up at him. “We didn’t read that book until ten years ago.”

“What are you talking about? Who?”

“My mom. We had a book club, just the two of us, and the reason I thought to look behind the painting of the pasha was because my mother and I read a book about India, and there was a paragraph I loved reading aloud, all this alliteration, about a young prince and a white Persian cat and curled shoes.”

He tucked one arm behind his head, and I was momentarily distracted by the angle of his biceps, the black hair in his armpit, the—

I shook my head. “She’s been here, in England, in the house since then. Like, she set this all up recently.”

“You knew she’d left you a treasure hunt, so it makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“But when did she come here? I didn’t know she left the country. I would have noticed—I mean, I saw her a couple of times a week.”

“Surely you traveled, for work, for holidays.”

I closed my eyes. “Right. She could talk on the phone anywhere, of course.”

“What bothers you about this?”

“I don’t know.” I shook my head, feeling that rise of powerful emotion again. “Maybe I wish she would have just told me. That we could have talked about all of it so I would know what to do now.”

He held me closer to his body. Skin to skin, his cheek against my hair. “She must have had a reason.”

“I guess.” The movements of his naked thigh moving over mine kindled new awareness, and my flesh began to rustle again. I ran my hand over his belly, lower, down his thigh, over his belly button. “Maybe I don’t care right now. Maybe I’m tired of thinking about it.”

His fingers traced the curve of my breast. Naked fingertips, bare skin coming alive. “I’m happy to help you forget about it.”

He convinced me that it didn’t matter right then.

And after a time, we tumbled into sleep, tangled together in a way I had never before liked, his arms around me; his damp, spent penis nestled against my buttocks; his strong, solid body a bulwark against the world.

We stirred as the sun was beginning to drop into the earth. My stomach was growling, and as his hand was over that spot, he laughed into my shoulder. “I’m famished as well. Shall we find some food?”

“Yes.” I turned. “But only here. I don’t want to leave this house.”

“No.” He leaned on one elbow. “Nor do I.” He touched my chin, the side of my neck. “This is not casual for me, Olivia. I hope you know that.”

“Not me either,” I said. “In case you couldn’t tell by the tears.” I rolled my eyes. “It’s a wonder you didn’t run far, far way.”

“I only took that to mean you could not believe your good fortune to be with such a man among men.”

“Well, there was that.”

“I knew it. Come on.” He slid out of bed, absolutely unselfconscious, and I followed his movements as he picked up our clothes. “Do you want something to wear?”

“A robe or something would be nice.”

“Hmm. None of that, but how about—” He tossed me an oversize T-shirt that smelled of laundry. It said, “Saint John of the Woods Lacrosse.” It tumbled down my thighs, and the sleeves reached my elbows, but it was plain that the reason he chose it was for the deep V-neck, which showed off a considerable amount of cleavage. I gave him a wry grin and posed. “Good?”

He winked, pulling on a pair of sweatpants. “Quite.”

I found my socks on the floor. “Not sexy, I know, but it’s kind of cold in here.”

“I’ll light the fire.”

The cat was spread over the back of the couch as we entered, and he yawned. “Hey, Billi,” I said and scratched his head. He grinned, allowing it, and followed us into the kitchen.

“I make a very spicy masala chai. Secret recipe,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows. “Would you like to try it?”

“Absolutely.” It was a tiny room, and I perched on a stool at the counter.

He settled a pot on the stove and poured water in, then slid a tray of spices over and opened them one at a time, counting out peppercorns and cardamom, star anise and something I didn’t quite see. With exaggerated care, he hid the tray when he was finished, mugging at me over his shoulder. “Pavi would kill for my blend.”