Page 52 of Duke It Out
“Come on,” Jamie cajoles. “Have a glass of champagne, celebrate some beavers.”
I look at him like,seriously?and he grins. “Everyone’s got to cut loose once in a while. We’ve planted ten thousand trees since January, and we’re all knackered.”
“I was planning a quiet swim before I get back to work.” I tighten my grip on my towel.
Jamie makes a show of glancing around. “And yet here we are. Silence, serenity, scantily clad women… it’s like a luxury retreat.”
There’s another enormous splash as someone dive bombs into the pool.
“Okay, not so much of the silence and serenity.”
“And not so much of the retreat, unless it’s one run by a hedge fund manager having a mid-life crisis”
“Oh, harsh.” Jamie clutches his heart as if wounded. “If you insist on making an entrance, the least you can do is stay for a drink.”
I shouldn’t. I should turn around, go back to my room, and reclaim my evening. But I’ve spent all day hunched over that bloody desk trying to figure out the mysteries of the late duke, and the water looks so inviting.
So with an excruciatingly polite smile, I drop my towel, breathe in, and head for the pool. I’m almost at the water’s edge when Jamie grabs my hand and yanks me in.
I surface, spluttering, my hair in my eyes. There’s a roar of laughter from the side of the pool and a moment later someone passes us both a glass of champagne. Jamie tips his glass towards mine and we drink.
It’s a moment before I realise the door has opened again and the room darkens.
Still in his travel clothes – dark trousers, the habitual crisp white shirt, and an expensive dark coat – Rory stands in the doorway, his shoulders dominating the space, his jaw set like granite. His eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that sends a bolt of heat straight to my core. There’s something dangerous in that look, something that makes my skin tingle even with the cool water lapping around me. For a long moment he glares down at us, taking in the scene, noticing the champagne flute in my hand, his brother’s too-close proximity to me.
“Glad to see the research is going well,” he says, and the temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees.
Then he turns and walks away.
21
RORY
The whisky burnsbut it does nothing to clear my head. I sit in the leather armchair by the fire, looking out at the rays of low sunlight reaching between the trees, lighting up the path down to the loch. The reflection that looks back at me looks as knackered as I feel – jaw tense, tie abandoned, shirt unbuttoned at the neck. The weight of New York clings to me, but it’s not the three weeks of meetings. Not the jet lag. Not the pressure of holding it all together.
It’s her.
Edie. I put the glass down and press my palms into my eye sockets as if to obliterate the sight. It does nothing. The image of her – the creamy skin slicked with water, the soft dip of her throat as she swallowed in surprise, the champagne glass dangling from her fingers. And fucking Jamie sprawling like a playboy prince with his lazy charm turned up to eleven, telling me to strip off and join them.
I told myself that three weeks in the states would be enough to get my head back in the game. She might not haveput a foot wrong so far, but that’s no reason to let my guard down.
I let out a sharp exhale and slam the glass down on the table. It rattles but doesn’t break. I should be glad she’s settled in. Relieved she’s not working too hard. But I’m not glad, I’m fucking furious. I’ve spent the last three weeks trying not to think about her, and the second I walk in the door she’s the only thing I can see.
22
EDIE
I don’t even botherto wash the pool water out of my hair. I throw on a shirt and a pair of jeans, shoving my phone in my pocket and heading for the library. I’ve worked my arse off for the last three weeks. The last thing I want is Rory thinking I’ve been treating this like some sort of holiday resort.
I’ll show him. I brush the taste of champagne off my teeth and rinse my mouth out, then shove my phone in my back pocket to head downstairs.
I don’t notice him at first. The only sound in the library is the familiar hypnotic ticking of the huge grandfather clock and I slip into my chair, flipping open my laptop and picking up my pen.
“Finished celebrating?”
The words are soft. The silence afterwards is anything but.
Rory stands by the door to his father’s study, as still as one of the carved stone statues. His presence seems to take up all the air in the room and the silence stretches, thick andominous. His eyes narrow, and I can almost sense what he’s thinking.
