Into His Private Domain Read online

  Gareth extended an arm behind her along the back of the seat. “I’m glad,” he said simply. “I thought we’d take in one more stop and then get you back to the hotel to rest.”

  “I’m not an invalid.”

  His expression was stubborn. “We’re not having a repeat of last night. Jacob can’t be here, and I take my medical responsibilities very seriously.”

  “If it makes you feel better. But I’m okay, I swear.” Drumming up her courage, she spoke quietly, looking straight ahead, not at him. “May I ask you something?”

  She was close enough to feel the tension that gripped his body. “If you must.”

  The half-joking tone was probably more truthful than he wanted her to realize. “Will you tell me about your charity?”

  The silent pause that lingered between them could have spanned the length of the grassy mall. “What do you want to know?”

  “Did you start it on your own? What does it do? Why didn’t you talk about it directly last night?”

  “Are you sure you’re not a reporter?”

  Again, the quasi-humor didn’t quite ring true. “I’m curious about you,” she said. “I’ll admit it.” Perhaps she shouldn’t have pushed, but she really did want to know.

  He exhaled, rolling his shoulders and grimacing. “It’s called W.O.L.F.”

  “An acronym?”

  He nodded. “Working Out Loss and Fear. It’s a foundation that provides counseling opportunities for children who have lost a parent in violent or tragic circumstances—war, cancer, automobile accidents…”

  “Kidnapping? Murder?”

  She saw him flinch. The terrible words seemed out of place on such a beautiful day.

  “That, too,” he said, the words tight. “I started it when I turned eighteen. On that birthday, I inherited a bequest from my maternal grandmother. It had been held in trust for me, and there was also an amount from my mother, as well. With the help of the family lawyers, I fleshed out what I wanted and they made the legalities work.”

  “And you run it?”

  He shook his head. “Not anymore. I have an excellent board who oversees the process of reviewing applicants and dispersing funds.”

  “Couldn’t you have collected even more money last night if you had given a sales pitch for the charity?”

  “Probably. But I swore when I started W.O.L.F. that I would never exploit my mother’s death, even for good. I don’t want her to be remembered for the way she died. In life she was happy and upbeat and incredibly giving. That’s the image I try to carry in my head.”

  But clearly, such intent was not always successful. Gareth held within him a remnant of the young boy who had stared in horror at grisly crime scene photos he should never have witnessed.

  She allowed the conversation to lapse. Gareth’s willingness to answer her questions truthfully marked a milestone.

  They tossed their trash and walked across the grass to the National Gallery of Art. Gareth took her arm as they climbed the broad, wide steps. “You clearly know something about the art world,” he said, “since your father owns a gallery. So I thought this might shake something loose.”

  She stopped dead, halting his progress as well. “Can’t we just have fun?” she pleaded. “Please don’t look for miracles at this point. I can’t take the pressure of you always wondering if I’m getting better. It makes me crazy.”

  He raked a hand through his hair, remorse flickering in his eyes. “Sorry. Of course we can. Once we go through that door, I’ll follow your lead. I want this to be a day you’ll always remember.”

  “Is that a joke?”

  He actually reddened, his foot-in-mouth comment hanging in the air between them. “No,” he muttered. “And I’m not saying another word.”

  The museum fascinated Gracie. She wandered from gallery to gallery, Gareth trailing in her wake. He kept his vow, remaining silent as she absorbed the centuries of artistic genius housed within the massive walls.

  When they came to the impressionists, Gracie halted, struck by a yearning that caught her off guard. She knew these works…knew them well. One in particular caught her eye…Girl With a Watering Can. She moved closer, studying the brush strokes, the smears of color that added up to a masterpiece.

  Suddenly a dam inside her brain breached, letting in a rush of certainty. “I’ve been here,” she whispered. “I know it.”

  Gareth didn’t comment. But he stood at her shoulder, bolstering her confidence with his quiet presence. She wanted to run her hand over the canvas, but the uniformed guard stationed in the doorway of the room was a deterrent.

  Fascinated…scared…hopeful, she examined the painting. “I think I have a copy of this in my bedroom…over my dresser.”

  “What else?” he prompted.

  She bit her lip, concentrating so hard, her head ached. “The dresser is oak. And the drawer pulls are antique glass.”

  His arms went around her from behind. “Take your time. Don’t force it.”

  She closed her eyes, the better to concentrate on a fuzzy image that threatened to dissolve like smoke in the wind. “I have a picture of my mother on my dresser. I don’t think she’s alive. There’s no sense of immediacy in my memory of her.”

  Gareth’s big frame surrounded hers, protective…supportive. “It will come, Gracie. Even if you have to go back to Savannah to complete the picture, it will come.”

  Long moments passed in silence as she reached for what could not be touched. “That’s all,” she said, frustrated, but no longer despairing. The clarity of this most recent memory convinced her that it was only a matter of time until she had everything back that she had lost.

  Disheartened, but philosophical, she turned in his arms to face him, her hands at his waist. “I want you to know,” she said slowly, “that I’m sorry. Sorry to have invaded your privacy. Sorry to have arrived on your mountain with some agenda of my father’s in hand. It pains me to know that he convinced me to do it. Even if I don’t know what ‘it’ is.”

  He kissed her softly, unconcerned with the groups of people milling around them. “I wouldn’t have missed the chance to know you, Gracie Darlington. So I say to hell with your apologies. We’ll deal with the truth, whatever it is.”

  “What if I’m more like my father than we know? What if I’m manipulative and nosy and self-serving?”

  “You’re not. Don’t be ridiculous.” He tugged her hand and led her out into the enormous rotunda. “Let’s go back to the hotel. You don’t realize what a toll these bits and pieces of memory take on you. This is supposed to be a fun day. Not stressful. Let it go for now.”

  She allowed herself to be persuaded, though the instinct to prowl through the museum again was strong.

  In the limo, Gareth leaned back, his gaze focused outside the window. Gracie wanted to know what he was thinking, but she was afraid to ask. The unknown hung between them, an impenetrable curtain that might or might not mask an unpalatable truth.

  His profile had become as familiar to her as the image of her own features in the mirror. She sensed a restlessness in him and wondered if he was missing his mountain.

  In their suite, he confronted her, stone-faced, hands stuffed in his pockets. “I have some calls to make,” he said abruptly. “I thought you might want to shower and freshen up. Later, I’d like to take you out for the evening if you feel up to it.”

  She waved a hand impatiently. “Of course I do. What’s wrong, Gareth? You’ve been brooding ever since we left the museum. Did you think I’d remember more than I did? I tried. Honestly I did.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Then what?”

  He shrugged, dark eyes turbulent with emotion. “I don’t have a good feeling about taking you home to Savannah. I’m hardly in a position to throw stones when it comes to sensitivity, but your father appears to be an ass. I’m not at all sure he’ll give you the support you need until you have your memory in place.”

  “We don’t really have a choice,�
� she said, the tight knot of dread and regret in her stomach something she couldn’t control. “I have to go home. Familiar territory will bring it all back. I have to believe that, and I have to pick up the pieces of my life. You know it’s the only way.”

  She wanted him to fight for her. To say he couldn’t bear for her to leave.

  But Gareth was not the kind of man to spill his emotions in a messy declaration. “I don’t have to like it,” he muttered. Without warning, he slid a hand beneath the hair at her nape and dragged her toward him. His lips settled over hers in a rough, seeking kiss.

  “Gareth…” She felt the violence in him, the mixture of frustration and sexual hunger. Though he held her gently as he ravaged her mouth, his body thrummed with tension.

  Finally he broke free and pushed her away. “Seven o’clock. Be ready.”

  She stepped into her lavish shower stall, wishing she had the guts to invite Gareth to share it. Instead she washed quickly and got out, her skin tingling, her blood pumping, her breath choppy and shallow.

  Though the bedroom was warm, she had gooseflesh as she dressed for her lover. Coffee-colored lingerie accented with pink rosettes. Thigh-high nylons in a lighter shade of mocha. And the dress. The one she’d not had the guts to wear the night before.

  Red satin. The kind of dress worn by a courtesan. A temptress. A dangerous woman.

  The mandarin collar was modest. But any propriety ended there. The sleeveless sheath fit her as if it had been sewn onto her where she stood. Wearing a bra was impossible. The sumptuous fabric clung to her body like a second skin. The unapologetic scarlet should have clashed horribly with her hair, but instead, it warmed her coloring and made her skin glow.

  With a shaky hand, she applied eyeliner and shadow, making her eyes mysterious and dark. A dab of perfume, wrist to wrist, earlobe to earlobe. Soon, she was ready. A ragged laugh escaped her as she realized there would be no limousine high jinks in this ensemble. She’d be lucky if she was able to sit down at all.

  In another time, she would have carried a black lacquer cigarette holder…or a painted fan. Perhaps if Gracie emulated those women of the past, the outrageous females who dared not to conform to society’s expectations, she might be able to enjoy the evening without heartbreak.

  Before leaving her room, she dialed her father’s number one more time and got the same message. Anger burned in her gut, along with hurt and suspicion. He was avoiding her. No question about it. But the day of reckoning was fast approaching, and if necessary, she would force him to apologize for whatever stupidity he had tried to perpetrate on the Wolff family in general and Gareth Wolff in particular.

  She didn’t wait to be summoned. A full twenty minutes early she stepped into the living room and scanned the space. Gareth wasn’t there. A bottle of Perrier gave her something to hold on to and at the same time soothed her nerves along with a dry throat.

  When Gareth appeared, she was prepared. “I’m ready,” she said, conscious of her double meaning and wondering if he heard her not-so-subtle invitation.

  This time she was able to look at him in his tux without swooning. He was every bit as handsome and charismatic as he had been the evening before, but she was not going to let him see how desperately she wanted him. At least not yet.

  “You look lovely, Gracie.” Something about the poleaxed expression on his face filled her with simultaneous satisfaction and amusement. With the right dress, a woman held the power to topple kingdoms.

  Chandra was present in the lobby, tracking their departure with a jaundiced eye. Gracie called out a cheery, deliberate greeting and tucked her hand through Gareth’s arm, proof that she was not above a little petty grandstanding.

  The limo driver held open the car door, his face a respectful, expressionless mask.

  Gareth looked down at Gracie, humor vying with sensual intent in his beautiful, dark brown, almost-black eyes. “Can you actually bend in that thing?”

  She went up on tiptoe and kissed his chin. “Guess we’ll see.”

  With as much grace as possible, she eased inside, settling onto the smooth leather seat and tucking her legs to one side. Gareth followed her in, his gaze not missing the way the skirt molded to her thighs and left little to the imagination.

  They politely ignored each other for several miles. Finally she caved. “Where are we going?”

  He stretched out his long legs, ankles crossed, and tucked his hands behind his head. “Dinner and dancing.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “Seriously?”

  “We didn’t get our shot at the ball last night. Seemed a shame. So I called around to find a hotel that has live music and a dance floor.”

  Her eyes misted. “That’s very sweet.”

  “Or very manipulative.”

  Her eyebrows lifted. “Meaning?”

  “Dancing is little more than a civilized man’s public foreplay.”

  “I might buy that if I were going out tonight with a civilized man.”

  “Touché.” His lips twitched, and she was ridiculously glad she’d managed to coax him out of his earlier somber mood.

  As they pulled up in front of an old, established hotel with a burgundy awning, Gareth slid out of the car and extended a hand to draw her to her feet. He paused for a moment to brush a soft kiss across her cheek. The innocent caress lit a fire deep inside her.

  Without speaking, he led her inside where the ambiance was old Washington. Lavish decor with the slightly faded appeal of a genteel lady past her prime.

  Every employee bowed and scraped in Gareth’s wake. Soon he and Gracie were seated at a table near the crackling fire. Over salads and what she suspected was horribly expensive wine, he studied her face, his own unsmiling.

  Finally she protested. “What? Do I have crumbs on my chin?”

  He leaned his head on his hand, sober, speculative. “I can’t figure out how a woman so innocent-looking can turn a man inside out without even trying.”

  “Do I really do that to you?” she asked boldly. He was speaking of carnality when she craved something far different. But even still, she was gratified to know he could admit weakness in her presence.

  “That and more. Let’s dance.”

  Sixteen

  Gareth hovered on the cusp of a blinding revelation. His brain tried to make sense of what he felt for the slender, strong-willed woman in his arms, but it was all he could do to keep from dragging her into the nearest dark corner and pressing his aching erection into her until oblivion claimed them both.

  In her heels, she stood tall enough to rest her head against his shoulder. They swayed together, the music a faint counterpoint to the thudding of his heartbeat. His hands roved her back, tormented by the layer of slick fabric that separated him from her bare skin. Every man in the room stared at him with envy and at Gracie with barely concealed lust.

  He couldn’t blame them.

  She was a burning in his veins, a sweet torment he would gladly endure. It came to him in that moment that he could never let her go. No matter the reason she had to come to him in the beginning, she was his now…body and soul.

  Caution rang a warning bell in his subconscious. But with Gracie pressed against him, chest to chest, thigh to thigh, all he could think about was taking her. Claiming her. Proving to her that new memories were all she needed.

  One song ended, then another. Reluctantly he escorted her back to the table. The filet mignon and lobster tails he had ordered for both of them were no more than cardboard in his mouth. He watched her eat…saw the way her small white teeth bit delicately into a crust of bread, the gut-wrenching way her tongue ran across her bottom lip to catch a drip of clarified butter.

  They barely spoke. Words seemed unnecessary. Gracie glowed as if lit from within. Close. He came so close to saying the words that would make him vulnerable to her…promises that couldn’t be withdrawn. But something held him back.

  He had time. All the way to Savannah, in fact. Instead of taking the chopper, he would dri
ve her. Just the two of them…for hours. Making her laugh. Binding her to him in every way he knew how. So that whatever secrets she was hiding couldn’t tear them apart.

  The truth washed over him, making his eyes burn. He loved her. The walls he had built to protect his heart had fallen brick by brick. Gracie was warmth and light and happiness. He would tell her. Soon. When he’d had a chance to get used to the idea.

  Surely the words were superfluous tonight. Surely she could see what she did to him.

  Dinner dragged on with the agonizing gait of a snail. After key lime tarts and rich coffee, he dragged her out onto the dance floor one last time, his control fraying. With little compunction, he slid his hands over her ass, cupping those curves and dragging her as close as was humanly possible.

  Gracie came willingly it seemed, as unconcerned as he was with anything or anyone around them.

  They moved together in drugged silence, perfectly in sync until the band had the temerity to take a break.

  At last the waiter produced a check, signaling the end to Gareth’s time upon the rack of impossible desire. Barely concealing the shaking in his hands, he scrawled his name on the signature line, included a large tip, and scooted his chair from the table with unconcealed impatience.

  He tugged her hand, drawing her to her feet. “Time to go, Gracie.”

  In the car, he was unable to touch her. His fuse was so short as to be nonexistent. He drummed his fingers on his knees, his skin too tight, his collar strangling him.

  Getting from the car to their suite took an eternity.

  When at last the door closed behind them, sealing her with him in undisturbed intimacy, he stripped off his jacket, ripped away his tie and cummerbund and kicked off his shoes.

  Gracie watched him, big-eyed, her hands clenched around a silly little evening bag.

  He tugged it from her grasp and tossed it aside. “Tell me you want me,” he whispered, twining his hands in her curls and massaging her scalp.