The Art of Inheriting Secrets(73)

“Maybe in America.”

The smell of his skin was making me dizzy, and I worked my fingers under the neckline of his shirt to feel the bare skin. “I might want you naked again,” I said and pressed into him, then bent to kiss him.

“I like that idea.”

Somewhere in the middle of the night, I awakened to moonlight pouring in through a window and Samir all around me, arms draped lightly over my waist, his chest against my back. I shifted, very, very slowly, so that I could look at him. The moonlight touched the crown of his head, the sweep of a cheekbone, his bare shoulder.

It seemed both impossible and fated that he was lying here next to me, and the feeling that rose in me was as vast and deep as anything I’d ever felt. Not a crush. Not something that would be easy to overcome if something came between us.

And yet what could I do?

Quietly, I slipped out of bed and padded down the hall to the bathroom. Moonlight poured in through the back windows of a small second bedroom, one I hadn’t paid attention to because it had been dark. Now the light showed a desk and more bookcases and unruly sheaves of loose paper on a window seat. A laptop sat closed on the desk, and next to it was a sheaf of paper in a tidy stack.

A manuscript of some kind, I would swear.

For a moment, I only stood there, desperately curious, deeply tempted to tiptoe into the room and take a peek.

But no. If he was to trust me, he had to reveal things in his own time.

I took care of business in the tiny bathroom and washed my face and hands, looking into my eyes in the mirror. Alongside my eyes, my grandmother’s eyes, were the faint beginnings of crow’s-feet. My lips were full and swollen with all the kissing, and there was a mark on my shoulder, a little bite mark that made me smile. I backed up a little to look at my breasts, and they looked prettier than they ever had, and my chubby thighs were shaky with so much sex.

I didn’t know what gods might be listening or who might be in charge of all this, but I let go of a whisper. “Thank you.”

When I awoke, Samir had already showered. He sat on the edge of the bed, wearing only dark-blue boxer briefs, and his hand was in my hair. His expression was unbearably tender, and I pressed my cheek into his palm.

“I am so glad you’re here,” he said, and his low voice rumbled into my ear.

“Me too.”

“But now real life arrives—I’m afraid I have to go to work this morning. The rain has stopped.”

“All right.” I stirred, stretched, and he made a sound, pulling the sheet off my chest and pressing a kiss to my throat, my breasts.

“I don’t want to go,” he said.

“Me either.” I swung my legs off the bed. “But I have a million things to do today too. I’m meeting Pavi to touch base on layout for the picnic, and I need to figure out what to do with Violet’s things.”

“That room should be cleared now that the window is broken.”

“I’m going to call Jocasta. She’ll send someone.” I tugged on my underwear, then my tank top and sweater. “I guess I need to take a look at the paintings we took to my flat as well.”

“I cannot wait to see them.” He stood. “I’m sorry to have to rush. I’ll drop you at your flat if you like. I’ve got to be in Woolhope by eight.”

“You have to eat!”

He grinned. “Oh, yes. I will.” He climbed into his jeans, buttoned his shirt. “You too.”

“Maybe I can cook for you tonight.”

His eyes shimmered. “Yes, please.”

In the car, he said, “Are we going to keep this to ourselves for now?”

“Us?”

“Yeah. I think it would be better.”

I wrapped my hand around his forearm, very lightly. “But what if I’m . . .” It was hard to think of the right way to say it—proud, pleased? “Chuffed? Maybe I want everyone to be a little envious.”

“Thank you for that.” He had to shift gears. “We just don’t want the gossips to go mad just yet.”

A little of the sheen fell away from my mood. “Not even Pavi? I might feel bad about that.”

“She’ll know the minute she sees us.”

I shrugged. “All right. If it makes you more comfortable.”

“It isn’t for me. But thank you.” He pulled up in front of the fish-and-chips shop and looked back at the street. No one was around, and he smiled, then bent in and kissed me, lingering and deep and sincere. “I’ll text you.”





Chapter Seventeen

I let myself into the flat, startled by how much space the paintings took up. Another big job, but it would have to wait. I started a pot of coffee brewing and climbed in the shower.

And there, my body remembered. Everything. I touched my throat and arms and belly, remembering a kiss, a cry, a moment of laughter, his hands on my body, his low laughter in my ear. Happiness.

Adrift in my postsex delirium, I wandered back into the kitchen, trying to find my phone, which I’d not touched since sometime yesterday. It was buried at the bottom of my purse, and when I swiped the screen to bring it to life, there were a dozen missed calls and a handful of voice messages. As I poured a cup of coffee, pleased at the heady scent of it, I listened to the first one, from Jocasta. “Give me a call, love,” she said. “I’ve found something.”