Future Perfect (3 page)

“I don’t bite,” he said, then smiled that lazy, infuriating smile of his. “At least not too hard. What
is
your name?” His movements were stiff as he got to his feet.

Suddenly the room seemed much too small. Sweet heavens, the man was tall. “Miss Anderson,” Juliana replied. Her soft grey skirt swept behind her as she moved swiftly to the door. “I’ll show you your suite.”

“You’ve gotta have a first name,” he said, following her out onto the second floor landing. “Everyone’s got a first name. What do your parents call you?”

She turned to look at him, her face calm, serene. “I do have a first name,” she said, her voice level and emotionless. “But I prefer the guests to call me Miss Anderson.”

Web felt a flash of annoyance. God almighty, if she didn’t tell him her name, he was going to have to go snooping around that little office he’d seen downstairs. Or spend the next few weeks, not writing as he’d planned, but guessing and imagining her name. Damn, it could be anything. Agnes. Maryanne. Penelope. It could be Jane, for all he knew.

Miss Mystery Name Anderson stopped before an ornate wooden door, pausing to look back at him before she turned the knob.

“I’ll give you a key to the room,” she said. “You can keep it locked if you want. Most guests don’t. But most
guests also don’t bring their computers on vacation with them.”

“I’m not on vacation, Miss Anderson,” Web said. She looked away from him as he stressed the formality of her name a little too much. “I’m here to write.”

“Yes, that’s right,” she said, opening the door. “Miss Dupree told me that you were a writer.” He followed her into the room, wishing he could get close enough to her again to breathe in her sweet natural perfume.

What was wrong with him? He wasn’t going to get anywhere with this woman by following her around like a lost puppy. And he
was
going to get somewhere with her, he vowed, even if it took all six weeks of his stay.

His eyes fell on the huge bed with the heavy, carved wood headboard and footboard.
That
was exactly where he wanted to end up. In that big bed. With her.

For a moment he could picture her, golden-red curls loose around her face, her body sleek and naked, unfettered by the heavy, restrictive clothing she wore, her lips parted, eager for his kisses. He’d kiss her slowly, drinking her in, taking his time. He’d trail his lips across her face, her neck, her jawline, and he’d pause at her ear, taking the delicate lobe into his mouth. His breath hot against her, he’d whisper her name—Miss Anderson.

Web laughed out loud, the splendor of his fantasy broken by the sad truth of reality. He really was going to have to find out her first name, he thought, pulling his eyes away from the promise of that big, beautiful bed.

She was looking at him expectantly, waiting for something, her big greenish eyes watching him carefully.

“What sort of things do you write, Mr. Donovan?” she said, obviously repeating the question.

Terrific. Now she thought he was an imbecile.

“I’m trying to write another
New York Times
best seller,” he said, “and to live up to the expectations of the critics.”

But he still hadn’t answered her question.

“Fiction,” he finally said. “Is there anything else? No, don’t answer that. Dumb thing to say, particularly for a guy who used to be a journalist.”

A journalist. Juliana felt a flash of uncertainty. There was supposed to be a reviewer from the
Boston Globe
coming out to review 31 Farmer’s Hill Road, and his review would be included in a book about New England bed and breakfasts. A good review was worth big money. If Webster Donovan was the reviewer, they’d already gotten off to a shaky start.

But what kind of reviewer would come and stay for six weeks? No, it couldn’t be Webster Donovan. Besides, he was obviously prejudiced toward writing fiction.

“I’ve laid towels out in the bathroom,” Juliana said, feeling the silence in the room drag on a bit too long as she stood there examining him from the tips of his scuffed boots to the top of his curly mop of dark hair. “Let me know if you need extras.”

She crossed to one of two closed doors and opened it. “Bathroom’s here,” she said. She opened the other door. “Here’s your sitting room.”

The second room was as large as the bedroom, but the wallpaper was a green print. Even the ceiling was papered with a matching design. The curtains were cream lace, and they let in the bright October sun. There was a table in front of the bay windows, just the right size for his computer.

Yeah, he was going to like working here.

“Both of the fireplaces work,” she said. “If it gets
cold enough, I’ll light a fire in the evening, if you plan to be in.”

There were two easy chairs in front of the green tiled fireplace, a huge, ornately framed mirror above it. The rug, the antique furniture, the wallpaper, everything about the room was right out of the late nineteenth century. It was perfect.

“You did a good job decorating,” he said, looking back into the bedroom. That big bed had caught his attention so totally, he hadn’t even noticed the color of the walls until now. It wasn’t quite pink, but it was close. Dusty rose, he guessed it would be called. The spread on the bed matched the wallpaper, and the wall was papered in the tripartite style—divided into three sections with three different patterns of the same colors. The bedroom ceiling, too, was papered, in a different, lighter print. The woodwork in the room had been painted white.

A quick glance back at the sitting room, his office, he already thought of it, revealed natural colored woodworking, polished to a high shine. “This house is a real gem.”

“You should’ve seen it when I first bought it.” Her smile transformed her face, making her even more beautiful.

She stopped smiling almost immediately, as if she were afraid of giving too much of herself away.

“If you wouldn’t mind coming downstairs, Mr. Donovan,” she said, “I have some forms for you to fill out.”

Again, he followed her, this time back down the glistening oak staircase. “The guest rooms are all on the second floor,” she said in a voice like a tour guide’s. “You’ve found the library—”

“And the kitchen,” he said. “This is a terrific house. Is it Anabel?”

“What?” The non sequitur caught her off guard.

He was smiling at her. “Or maybe Briana. That fits your hair.” He reached out to brush a rebellious curl off her face.

Juliana took a step backward, impatience on her face. “Please respect the other guests’ privacy. As I said before, many of them don’t bother locking their doors when they go out.”

His grin widened, revealing straight, white teeth. “Yeah,” he said. “No problem. Let’s see,
A
 … 
B
 … 
C
 … Cassandra?”

“All of the guest rooms are on the second floor.” She tried to ignore him. “Here on the first floor, I’d appreciate it if you’d restrict yourself to using only the front parlor, the living and dining rooms, and the kitchen. Oh, there is a small water closet down here, too.”

“What’s on the third floor?” he asked.

“My apartment,” she said, turning away from him to sweep into the small office.

Web glanced back toward the staircase. Her apartment. “Oh,” he said.

“It’s off limits to the guests,” she said, sitting behind a delicate antique writing desk.
And
I’m
off limits
,
too
,
bub
, she thought darkly,
so stop looking at me as if you’re so certain we’re going to end up in bed together. Because we’re not
. “Miss Dupree has a room on the first floor. That’s off limits, too. Now, how do you intend to pay for your room?” she asked, her voice pleasant.

He sat down on the other side of the desk. “Credit card. How about Deanna?”

She blinked.

“What are you doing tonight?” he asked. “Emily?”

“I’m serving dinner to four guests,” she said tartly. “Five, if you’re interested in joining them.”

“Do you eat with the guests like you did at breakfast?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Then I’m interested,” he said. “Very interested.”

Juliana met his warm gaze evenly. “Mr. Donovan, do you always come on too strong?”

“Miss Anderson,” he said, and his husky voice managed to make the formal name sound like an endearment. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

Juliana looked at herself critically, in the full-length mirror. Her hair was in a traditional Victorian style, swept up into a pile on top of her head, the front puffed out. She’d managed to get it just right tonight, and her hair, along with her evening gown, made her look as if she’d stepped directly from the pages of a history book.

The gown was a copy of a dress that had been made in 1885. It was a deep, rich shade of blue with a low neckline, large puff sleeves and a tight, well-tailored bodice.

She had put on very little makeup, just enough to accent her eyes and put some color in her cheeks and lips. Just enough to make her feel costumed and ready for the performance.

Because, really, that’s what it was. A show.

She’d always loved acting and theater, and she often regretted that she’d never had the chance to perform back in high school.

Juliana made a face at herself in the mirror. She’d made an awful lot of mistakes back then, back before she met Alicia. But since that time, she’d learned to forgive herself for all those transgressions. After all, the past wasn’t something that could be changed by fretting. Or by regretting, she told herself sternly.

But the future … now
that
was something she could control. And as soon as she stopped staring at herself in this mirror, she would go down all those flights of stairs to where her guests were surely waiting in the front parlor, and make sure her future didn’t start intersecting with Webster Donovan’s. Because she didn’t want that kind of future. She didn’t have room in her life for a man, especially not a man like Mr. Donovan. No way.

Right now the only future she wanted was the immediate one. She wanted to get through this evening. Tomorrow night she wouldn’t be serving dinner, so after breakfast she would have the entire day for herself. She’d take a ride over to the stable and go for a picnic with Captain. Thinking about it was enough to put a smile back on her face.

Locking her apartment door behind her, Juliana went down the stairs, her long skirt rustling as it trailed behind her.

Her voice was low and clear as she entered the front parlor. “Good evening.”

The fire she’d made earlier was blazing briskly in the fireplace, the flames sparking and popping as they consumed the dry wood behind the safety screen.

Two of her guests tonight were newlyweds, and they sat together on the couch, oblivious to everyone else in the room. Her other two guests, the elderly Mrs. Bowers and her slightly younger companion, Miss May, sat by the window, playing backgammon.

They both smiled congenially up at her.

“You look lovely tonight, dear,” Mrs. Bowers said.

“I’ll second that,” came a voice from behind her.

“Mr. Donovan,” Juliana said coolly, nodding her head
in greeting and in gracious acknowledgement of his compliment as she turned to look back at him.

She couldn’t keep her eyes from widening when she saw him.

Gone were the worn-out, greasy clothes, the ragged, reckless, windblown look.

Webster Donovan was wearing a tuxedo, looking every inch—and, sweet heavens, there were so
many
inches of him—the perfect, upperclass gentleman. His black jacket and pants had been tailored to his body like a second skin, and he wore them with such a familiarity that Juliana knew he was no stranger to formal clothes. He wore a black bow tie and cummerbund, and a crisp, white shirt. With his cheeks smooth, obviously freshly shaved, and his unruly hair slicked back from his handsome face, he looked sophisticated, debonair. So why was she reminded of a panther about to strike?

He was leaning against the door frame, one long, powerful leg crossed in front of the other at the ankle. His crystal-blue eyes continued to sweep her body and face appreciatively, lingering just a moment too long on her low neckline, on the tops of her breasts, before returning to meet her gaze.

Juliana felt her cheeks flush, and inwardly she cursed her pale complexion. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he rattled her. Taking a deep breath, she made quick introductions all around. “Shall we go into the dining room?” she then asked. “Mr. Donovan, if you would please escort Mrs. Bowers and Miss May?”

She smiled at him sweetly, knowing that the two older ladies would keep him occupied with their stories and
questions until well after the meal. Anderson one, Donovan zero.

But Webster merely inclined his head in acquiescence to her request, and with a slightly mocking smile aimed at Juliana, he offered the ladies his arms.

I’m not even going to
wonder
what his smile means
, Juliana told herself.
He only did it to make me wonder
.

But in the kitchen, there was no time to wonder about anything, except the best way to get the food out of the oven and onto the table.

The sumptuous meal passed quickly enough. And Webster Donovan behaved himself quite nicely, Juliana decided. She watched him as he entertained the entire table with his stories of being a reporter on the presidential campaign trail.

Unlike many people who could tell a good tale, Mr. Donovan was also a good listener. He paid close attention, with genuine interest in his eyes, as Mrs. Bowers talked about her life as a young bride during the Second World War. He even got Miss May to give him more than her normal monosyllabic answers as he gently asked about her beloved bird-watching trips.

The newlyweds were lost in each other, and Webster even knew enough to let them remain distant. Mr. Donovan, Juliana quickly corrected herself. She couldn’t start thinking of him as Webster. That was far too dangerous.

He glanced across the table at her, as if he knew she was thinking about him. Trapped for a moment, she stared back into his eyes—eyes that nearly pierced her with their determination, eyes that didn’t bother to hide his desire for her.