Page 2 of One Last Night

Sean sighs. “All right. We won’t read them then. But you will.”

“Yes. But not now. I… I have to pack. I have to leave early in the morning.”

Sean sighs once more, then smiles at me. I love the sympathy in his eyes, but oh God, do I hate it as well. “All right, love,” he says. “If you can make it downstairs in time for dinner, there might be some wine left.”

“Therewillbe some wine left because you’re only allowing yourself a single glass per evening, remember?”

“How could I forget with this mosquito buzzing in my ear all day?” I glare at him, and he grins. “And what a lovely mosquito it is.”

The corners of my lips turn up. “You’re talking as though you want to sleep on the couch, Mr. O’Connell.”

“I’ll sleep anywhere as long as your arms are wrapped around me.” He winks. “Your legs as well.”

I gasp and slap him. He catches my wrist and pulls me close so he can kiss me.

I am grateful for that kiss. It helps me forget.

***

I wake before dawn the next day. I have a three-and-a-half-hour drive to Martha’s vineyard, but if I’m caught in the Boston rush hour, that will become a five-hour drive.

Sean is already out of bed. When I come downstairs, dressed and ready to leave, he meets me at the foot of the stairs. “Luggage is all ready to go. It’s in the boot for you.”

I blink. “The boot?”

He rolls his eyes. “The trunk.”

“Oh.” I blush. “Right. Thank you, my love.”

“You’re sure you’re British?”

“After forty-two years in America, I’m as British as you are American,” I tell him. Then I kiss his cheek. “Thank you for last night.”

“It’s my pleasure.” He grins. “My very great—”

I roll my eyes and push him away. “I meant the dinner and the cuddle by the fire, Sean.”

“That’s not all you meant.”

I don't respond with words, but I'm sure the heat in my cheeks gets the point across. "Well, I'm going to leave now so I don't risk getting caught in traffic after all of my best efforts not to. I love you, for some reason, in spite of everything. I'll call you when I arrive."

“Perhaps I’ll come visit you,” he says. “We can have dinner and cuddle by the fire some more.”

“You willnotvisit me,” I counter. The last thing I need is my overly amorous fiancé arriving at my employer’s house while I’m in the middle of a lesson. “But,” I add, slipping my arms over his shoulders, “if you’reextremelylucky, I might make the drive back on my nights off.” I kiss him softly. “So we can ‘cuddle.’”

He swallows and says somewhat hoarsely. “I’d like that.”

“I’m sure it would please you greatly,” I tease.

I kiss him a final time, then head to my minivan and begin my journey south. I hold onto the image of Sean’s face for as long as I can, but the image of my handwriting on those letters hovers over the back of my mind like a thundercloud waiting for the proper moment to burst into violence.

CHAPTER ONE

I have mixed emotions as I approach the island of Martha's Vineyard. A part of me is excited to spend the winter on the picturesque island. I've spent four-fifths of my life living in Boston but never so much as stepped on one of Massachusetts' most storied vacation destinations. A walk along the shores or through the grassy hills sounds invigorating. And, since my hosts have a vineyard on their property, I'll be able to taste some of the finest wines produced on the East Coast.

At the same time, I can't shake the feeling that I'm walking into a trap. I've learned from hard experience that the wealthy in this world often harbor secrets that trap people like flies in a spider's web. Sometimes, they are cobwebs, only the memories of past horrors—but then, I know that memory can be dangerous too.

But sometimes, the spiders still live, and as the flies flounder in their web of intrigue, they strike and suck the life out of them.

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