How To Host a Seduction, page 16
“I’ll bet she named the garden and sky suites, too.”
Ellen nodded, sending a lock of sable hair onto her cheek before sweeping it back behind her ear. “Even more important, she wasn’t afraid to indulge herself.”
“What gives you that idea?”
“The fact that she didn’t take one of the suites her brother offered her. She commandeered his whole house, instead.”
“Makes sense,” Christopher said. “And reinforces that the captain indulged her. I don’t know what that means to us.”
“Maybe we will if we can find that diary.”
Pleased to see Ellen enjoying herself, Christopher helped her search the sunrise bedroom, a decidedly feminine room decorated in pastel shades of pink and gold, with cypress furnishings and rush-bottom chairs from the period.
Ellen dug through a dresser, armoire and desk, while he went through the closet and the sea chest at the foot of the bed. Though they turned up nothing significant there, or in the nearby pearl and forest rooms, Christopher couldn’t be more pleased.
Today Ellen seemed to have taken a huge step forward in allowing herself to be swept up in the fantasy of the game, taking charge of their investigation and dragging him from room to room in their search. Christopher let her take the lead, enjoying a glimpse of a very focused Ellen who was clearly comfortable in charge. An Ellen who seemed to be opening up to share her thoughts and discuss her theories more readily than she had the previous day.
He guessed this new closeness between them was a result of their lovemaking of the previous night. They’d overcome the hurdle of sleeping together, and the press hadn’t arrived to plaster news of the event in the papers to publicly humiliate her and her family.
Now if he could just keep the ground he’d gained until he put the next hurdle behind them…
He focused on seizing small opportunities to encourage her to talk. He liked that breathy quality to her voice when she came across something that peaked her interest, enjoyed watching her eyes light up when some revelation clicked in her brain.
While he searched through an antique rosewood buffet in the vineyard room—a room featuring delicate hand-painted vines on the green walls—Lennon’s comment about the Talbot family’s reaction to Ellen’s career choice caught in his brain and wouldn’t let go.
Personally, I don’t think a one of them has a clue why she chose that career, but it was what Ellen wanted, so they rallied behind her.
The point wasn’t that her family had supported her, but that Ellen had felt strongly enough about her career to buck the Talbot family’s preference for law and politics. This was a significant piece of the puzzle—much more of an advance in solving the mystery of Ellen than solving the mystery of the diary’s whereabouts.
“I’m beginning to think we may be off base,” he admitted.
Ellen sat back and exhaled hard, blowing wisps of hair from her brow. “Where else would Mac and Harley hide the diary?”
“The bathroom?” he suggested, remembering the derisive comment they’d overheard Harley make in the garden yesterday.
Ellen shrugged. “What do we have to lose? But let’s go through the summer room and the parlor first. They’re the only two rooms left in this wing that we haven’t searched. We could split up to cover more ground.”
“I’d rather we search fast together.”
He didn’t want to split up and risk losing the easy camaraderie they’d spent the morning sharing. But his plan wasn’t meant to be. They hadn’t made it through the doorway of the summer bedroom before Ellen stopped short, causing him to bump into her. Peering over her head to see the trouble, he discovered a couple, also garbed in historical costumes, sitting on the floor in front of a sea chest, locked in a very passionate embrace.
Lennon and Josh.
They sprang apart at the intrusion. Lennon looked surprised, but Josh scowled.
“You again, Sinclair? What’s with you interrupting me and my wife lately?”
“Oops, sorry, guys.” Ellen glanced between them with a frown, clearly not understanding Josh’s reference, before she sidestepped him and left the room.
Lennon only laughed. “Bye, you two. Go have fun.”
Christopher retreated and caught up with Ellen in the hallway, immediately noticing the heightened color in her cheeks. Two thoughts struck him simultaneously. The first was the similarity to his and Ellen’s encounter in the library yesterday—an encounter she was surely remembering, given her blush.
The second was that neither Lennon nor Josh had been remotely embarrassed to be caught kissing. Public affection was clearly their right—not only by marriage, but because they held their love up for everyone to see.
That thought brought to mind Lennon’s warning of the previous night.
Ellen has to choose to let her guard down.
And though Christopher had managed not to dwell on that thought all morning, he knew Lennon was right. But he still had time to convince Ellen.
He linked his arm through hers and forced a smile. “I’d say there are definite advantages to marriage, don’t you think?”
She only lifted that cool hazel gaze. Color still rode in her cheeks, but her expression otherwise might have been sculpted from porcelain.
“I suppose so. Although I’m not sure even a wedding ring and vows can smooth over being caught in flagrante delicto.”
“They were kissing,” he scoffed, curbing his impulse to demonstrate the differences. First he’d wrap his arms around her…engage that sweet mouth in a hello kiss…then proceed to work his way down the tasty skin of her throat. The love seat in front of the window looked promising, although if he sat her on that table she’d be the perfect height to wrap her legs around his waist….
Damn if propriety wasn’t the better part of valor today.
“Rule number three of the Talbot family code of conduct: Public displays of affection invite public comment and speculation.” Ellen shook her head, sending her hair swaying around those rosy cheeks. “Nasty business.”
“Don’t you think that a married couple so obviously in love sets a good example?”
She frowned. “I suppose.”
“You suppose? I thought tax breaks for married couples was part of your mother’s platform.” He forged on. “Isn’t marriage also a part of the Talbot family code of conduct?”
“After a reasonable engagement.”
“A decent romance hero should be able to sweep you off your feet without worrying about reasonable terms of engagement.”
“Ooh, you weren’t kidding when you said you’ve been boning up on heroes.”
Lifting her chin with his finger, he tipped her pretty face up. “I never kid when it comes to my feelings for you.”
“This is real life, Christopher. Not one of my authors’ stories.” She took a step back and broke contact.
Curtailing another impulse to pull her against him and wipe away that disdainful look with a kiss, Christopher simply said, “Come on. Let’s go search the parlor.”
They didn’t wind up in the parlor, but back in the vineyard bedroom.
“It should be that room.” Christopher glanced down at the map.
Ellen sighed. “Turn the map around, hero. See, it’s here, across the hall.”
Christopher rolled the map up, instead. He’d take her word. But they hadn’t crossed the hall before Ellen came to a standstill and peered up at the wall.
He followed her gaze. “Like it?”
“It’s a Pinabel.”
Augustin Pinabel was a French artist who’d made a career of accepting commissions to paint the South’s great plantations in the early part of the eighteen hundreds. Christopher and Ellen had first come across the artist while visiting Miss Q’s erotic art gallery here in New Orleans. While Christopher had enjoyed the display, Ellen had been charmed by the watercolors depicting long-ago life in the Deep South.
When an exhibition of Pinabel’s work had come to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Christopher had finagled tickets from a client to opening night.
“I believe you’re right.”
“I know I’m right. Look, here’s his signature.” She was studying the piece intently. “This looks like Bayou Doré, don’t you think, Christopher? He must have painted Félicie Allée on a sunny afternoon.” She frowned. “But what’s this gorgeous watercolor doing hidden away up here on the second floor?”
“It brings the outdoors where there aren’t any windows.”
“What a lovely idea. I’ll bet you’re right.” Ellen’s smile lit up the dim corridor even more than did the sunny Pinabel, and by the time they made it into the parlor, Christopher was suffering the effects of that smile big-time.
The parlor was actually a double parlor—a huge room with dramatic windows bordered by floor-to-ceiling draperies. Christopher didn’t see many places to hide a diary, despite the room’s size, and they checked out a buffet and several small tables rather quickly before Ellen stepped outside to see if the door to the summer bedroom had opened yet.
She’d no sooner left the room than her phone rang.
Christopher debated ignoring it, but given Ellen’s obligation to those in possession of her private number, he didn’t think she’d appreciate missing a call. He reached for her purse and picked up on the fourth ring.
“Hello.” He recognized the 212 area code on the display—not Ellen’s work number—and waited for the Talbot on the other end to identify him or herself.
“Who’s this?” a male voice asked.
Ellen’s dad. “Christopher Sinclair, Mr. Talbot. How are you, sir?”
There was a beat of silence on the other end. “Fine, Christopher. Thank you. I always enjoy the lull after an election. How about you? I didn’t realize you were participating in the training session. Ellen didn’t mention it.”
He supposed that shouldn’t come as a surprise. “Southern Charm Mysteries is run by mutual friends.”
Glancing at the door, he hoped to see Ellen walking back through it before her father got around to asking the question that was hanging between them.
What are you doing with my daughter?
She was nowhere to be seen.
“Ellen stepped out of the room for a minute, sir, but I expect her to be right back,” Christopher said, deciding a hasty retreat was his best bet. “Would you like to wait, or shall I have her return your call?”
“Just give her a message, Christopher. I’ll call back with the details. Tell her the committee voted unanimously and the award is a go. If there’s a problem getting a commercial flight out of New Orleans tomorrow, I’ll make private arrangements.”
“Got it.”
“Now tell me how work’s going. How did that deal you were working on the last time we spoke wind up? What was it—a vacation resort on the Black Sea?”
“Yes, sir. We acquired the property on our terms shortly after you killed me during the last golf game we played.”
Mr. Talbot chuckled. “It’s nice talking to you again, Christopher. Take care.”
“You as well, sir.” The pleasantry popped out on autopilot, leaving him free to absorb that one more day wasn’t nearly enough time to convince Ellen to take a chance on him.
“LENNON AND JOSH are still in there,” Ellen said upon her return to the parlor. She was not going to speculate on what they were doing in the summer bedroom. She only hoped the diary wasn’t in there and that her newlywed friends remembered to lock the door this time.
One glimpse of Christopher’s face warned her that something wasn’t right, and her gaze slipped to the phone he held.
Her phone.
“Your dad called.”
His voice sounded uncharacteristically devoid of emotion, and she knew instantly what her dad had called to say.
“Mom’s getting the award?”
“Yes.”
Usually these calls of duty were only inconveniences that required scheduling gyrations and breathless flights here and there. Not today. Exhaling a huge sigh, she dropped into the closest chair and avoided Christopher’s gaze.
“Your dad said if there was trouble getting a commercial flight out tomorrow, he’d arrange private transportation. He said he’d call back later.”
That was it. Message delivered.
And Christopher didn’t have to say another word. His voice had been completely unreadable, any hint of emotion concealed beneath an oddly controlled tone for a man who usually wore his heart on his sleeve.
She had herself to thank for this particular change, knew he only dealt with her the way she was comfortable dealing with him. With distance. With no surplus emotion to confuse the exchange. No emotional honesty. He was playing the hero again by not burdening her with his reaction to this change in plans.
Then again, he didn’t have to. Ellen felt his disappointment as though it were rolling off him like a mist from the bayou. He knew she would leave tomorrow.
And he wasn’t going to try to change her mind.
He was going to let her go. Again.
The thought blindsided her, so staggering that she sucked in a deep breath to dispel the sensation, hoped Christopher didn’t notice. Some part of her, a deep-down part she hadn’t acknowledged before, wished he would convince her to stay, just like she’d wanted him to come after her three months ago.
I thought you didn’t believe romance heroes existed anywhere but in books, Lennon had said. Sounds like you’re looking for one.
Ellen wanted Christopher to say something, anything to give her a reason to shirk off her duty. She wanted him to rescue her like a bloody hero, like a pirate captain sailing in to save his heroine from the evil villain.
She wanted him to guilt her, or seduce her, something to bolster her courage to do the unthinkable—blow off the award ceremony. She didn’t want to leave Félicie Allée, or stop sleuthing out clues, or give up the only nights she had to sleep safely in Christopher’s bed.
But he didn’t say a word. He respected her enough to let her make her choices.
Even if it meant letting her board a plane tomorrow.
Even if it had meant letting her go three months ago.
Ellen came face-to-face with the terrible fact that only a coward would need to be pushed into staying. She didn’t get a chance to absorb this sudden insight before he dropped the cell phone back into her purse and pushed himself off the love seat.
“Not much more to search in here,” he said, not cool or distant, only matter-of-fact and businesslike.
And just like that, they were back to the mystery again.
He went to glance at the mantel of a fireplace, perusing the ornamental miscellany as though the entire world hadn’t shifted since she’d left the room.
What had ever made her think this man had no control over his emotions, that he was an emotional powder keg subject to the whim of his impulses and daredevil desires?
She’d been so wrong. This man who contemplated the knickknacks was so distant, so remote that she knew without a doubt he was as in control of his emotions as she’d ever been. Which meant that his living life so openly and honestly, and, yes, adventurously wasn’t about succumbing to impulses and whims, but about choices he’d made.
“Look at this, Ellen.”
Forcing herself to stand, to move, she closed the space, each step providing a normalcy she clung to, a distraction.
She glanced at the miniature he held, a beautiful young woman with sleek dark hair and big eyes. “Brigitte?”
He flipped the portrait over, and Ellen scanned the name on the back, gazed up in surprise at Christopher.
“Felicity,” he said. “What’s her portrait doing here?”
She had no idea, though if she’d had enough of a grip on her faculties to play the what if game, she could have come up with numerous possibilities.
But Ellen couldn’t concentrate on games now. Not when her pulse jumped into action and her breath came in wispy bursts.
He’d called her Ellen, not love, an endearment she’d grown accustomed to hearing. An endearment she hadn’t even acknowledged she liked until now, when he had retreated behind the formality of her name.
12
The Study
CHRISTOPHER WOULD KEEP his mouth shut if it killed him. He wouldn’t try to convince Ellen to stay. He wouldn’t wrap his arms around her and tip that sweet mouth toward his and kiss her until she admitted she didn’t want to leave.
Ellen has to choose to let her guard down.
Ellen also had to choose how best to balance her obligations and where to fit him into the equation. Without a word, he handed her the miniature portrait, watched her turn it over to study the young girl’s image as though it could somehow answer the questions its appearance raised.
“This miniature suggests a personal connection that we hadn’t considered,” she said softly. “But to which Lafever—Julian or Brigitte?”
She didn’t meet his gaze, and her impending departure stood between them like a wall, no less an obstruction for its invisibility. The mystery provided her the perfect place to retreat from the emotion of the moment, from the un-asked questions.
“A personal connection might substantiate our revenge theory,” he said, letting her slip away, deciding that keeping his mouth shut just might kill him.
But on a gut level Christopher knew that now was not the time to push her. She was too tightly wound, as though she expected him to come at her in a full frontal assault. She’d promised him the whole session and was reneging on that promise.
But Christopher was nothing if not skilled in personal relations. Pushing her, or seducing her, or even heaping on the guilt would only give her something to react to, something to help her retreat even farther away.
“Most likely Brigitte had known Felicity since they were both young women about the same age,” he said, a change of direction. “How do we follow up on that assumption?”
