Kiss Me Forever/Love Me Forever. Rosemary Laurey

chin. “Or else? What?”

      “You may have to get an honest job.”

      James paused in the doorway. “Don’t worry, Uncle. It won’t happen. Who’d hire me?”

      Sebastian frowned at the empty grate. Hadn’t James understood anything? They couldn’t risk those papers falling into anyone else’s hands. Too many reputations were at stake and too much money. If only the wretched woman had stayed on the other side of the Atlantic. She could have had a comfortable three-quarters of a million. He would have settled some old scores, and been set up for life. Now—who knew?

      She had to be gotten rid of. No, a better idea. Woo her? Why not? Court her a little. Break her heart and she’d go running back home.

      A knock on the door woke Dixie. She stared at the unfamiliar pitched ceiling, and remembered. The door opened; she’d noticed earlier there wasn’t a lock, only a wrought iron latch.

      A pleasantly plump face smiled around the door. “Sorry to disturb you. I’m Emily Reade. I’m about to put the kettle on. Would you like to come down in a minute and have a cup and I can explain things?”

      Miss Reade liked to chat. She also wanted to be called Emily, took three sugars in her tea, and worked in a bank in Leatherhead. “Such a lovely house you have, beautiful. Worth a small fortune at today’s prices. Of course, whoever buys it will have to spend a pretty penny on it.”

      Why did everyone assume she was selling? “Where exactly is it? I haven’t seen it yet.”

      Emily’s pudgy eyes widened. “Orchard House? It’s just across the Green.”

      Why hadn’t Mr. Caughleigh pointed it out? They must have passed it driving here. She’d look for it later.

      Her arrangement with Emily involved bed and breakfast and unlimited cups of tea. Other meals Dixie fended for herself. She planned on exploring neighboring villages and the “Leatherhead” everyone referred to as the local metropolis, but tonight she’d content herself with the Barley Mow.

      She’d walk. She needed the exercise. She’d barely moved her muscles the past twenty-four hours, except to sit or sleep. The evening was colder than she expected so she doubled back to the house and slipped upstairs.

      Pulling a sweatshirt over her head, she heard a voice from the bedroom next door, “…. Out to get dinner…. I don’t know…. An hour or so I expect…. No, of course I didn’t…. I’m leaving all that to you…. When can I see you?…. Alright.” Uncomfortable at overhearing a private conversation, she tiptoed downstairs and closed the door quietly behind her.

      The Barley Mow packed a fair crowd in the evenings. Alf had a helper, a young man with a Mohawk and a large ring in one ear.

      “Evening, Miss LePage. Guinness wasn’t it?”

      “A small one.”

      “Half pint it is then.” Alf called to his helper, “Vernon, half of Guinness and watch the head. Anything else?” he asked Dixie.

      “I need dinner. Do you have a menu?”

      “Up there.” Alf nodded towards a chalkboard on the wall.

      Dixie scanned the scratchy writing: shepherd’s pie, lamb curry, Cornish pasty, steak and kidney, scampi, bangers and mash, Dover sole and an assortment of salads. “I don’t eat meat. What do you recommend?”

      “Vegetarian, eh? If you eat fish, I’d go for the sole or the scampi.”

      “Scampi then, Alf.” In the spirit of adventure she added a jacket potato. Whatever that was.

      Dixie settled in an empty table near the window, took out a paperback mystery, and settled into reading as she sipped her Guinness.

      “Why, hello there!”

      Dixie glanced up from Stephanie Plum to meet James Chadwick’s pale blue eyes. His smile implied she was just so lucky he’d found her. “Hi,” she said and purposely went on reading.

      He pulled out the opposite chair. “Ever so glad to bump into you again.”

      She wouldn’t return his smile at any price. No way was she encouraging him. She didn’t need to. He set his glass on the table. The nerve of the man! Three times in one day was beyond chance. Dixie debated emptying her glass into his lap. It would get rid of him, but it seemed a dreadful waste of good Guinness.

      Kit Marlowe braced himself for the scent of human blood that waited on the other side of the closed door. He seldom came to the Barley Mow, but it was the best place for local gossip. He grasped the knob, remembering to hold it gently—no point in mangling doorknobs and getting unwanted attention. He stepped into the crowded bar, every nerve and sense alert and watchful. He froze. She was in here. He knew it. Nonsense! His senses hadn’t developed that well. He might sense a known quarry when he hunted, but not this unknown Miss LePage. Besides, he wasn’t hunting her. His only interest in her was an invitation into her house. The village telegraph claimed she’d arrived but the house was as deserted as ever.

      Why did he sense her so keenly? Was she one of them? A member of another colony? Maybe. If Justin was to be believed, Vlad Tepes had half-populated the States with his offspring, but only mortals filled the crowded bar. He’d have scented one of his own kind immediately. He glanced around, nodding at familiar faces, noting the visitors, and found her almost at once.

      Why? He just knew her the minute he saw her, sitting alone with a book. Auburn curls fell across her face as she read. He had a glimpse of smooth skin and a creamy hollow at the base of her neck. He sensed, scented the richness of her and forced himself to concentrate on the task in hand. He couldn’t afford distractions. No matter how desirable.

      A man walked across the bar to her table. Eyes green as church window glass looked up from beneath silky lashes. Angry eyes in a calm, cold face. Given the man standing over her, he didn’t blame her. Caughleigh’s nephew! She had brains equal to her looks if she already disliked Chadwick. She wrinkled her nose as if assailed by an unsavory smell. Kit smiled to himself, noted the glass she clutched like a weapon, and crossed to Vernon at the bar.

      Close up, her skin had the bloom of early roses. The pulse at the base of her neck beat in perfect rhythm beneath flawless skin. She smelled of night air, lavender soap, and human blood. She never even noticed him. Her attention was focused on Chadwick. Her irritation was focused on Chadwick. The quiet thud of heavy glass on wood broke the tension as Kit put a new Guinness in front of her.

      “Here you are, sorry it took so long.”

      She looked up. “River emeralds” was a better description for her eyes. Such sensuality didn’t belong in any church window. She gaped when he put the second glass on the table. He let her gape and turned his will on Chadwick. He wasn’t hard to bend.

      “Marlowe? You’re with her? I…I never…I didn’t…didn’t realize.” His pale eyes popped like a demented Pekingese.

      “Really?” One word. That was all it took.

      “Didn’t know you were with Dixie. See you later.” James grabbed his tankard and disappeared into the crush.

      Kit took the empty seat. “May I join you?”

      She looked straight at him, chin up, her brows creased, studying him like a specimen. She met him eye to eye without faltering, a flicker of amusement twitching the corner of her mouth. Was she mere mortal? With a presence like this? With her ancestry, who knew?

      “Suppose I say no?”

      “Suppose I retire and give Chadwick another chance?”

      “Too late, he just left.”

      “I’m desolate.”

      “I’ll bet you are! You chased him off deliberately. What if you’ve destroyed a great romance?”

      He liked her sense of humor. “I didn’t.”