“Say you’ll forgive me for being such an ass and come have coffee with me.”
Sparing a quick glance at Alfred’s closed door, Paul replied, “A quick one, maybe.”
Together they made their way down the corridor, never noticing the shadow dancing triumphantly in the doorway.
13
“AREyou going out tonight, sir?”
A clean getaway came to a screeching halt at Bernard’s sudden appearance in the hallway. Either he didn’t know the house had been short one occupant the previous night, or his finely honed discretionary skills prevented him from saying so. Alex bet on the latter. Not much happened in the house that the ever-attentive butler didn’t know about. His sudden arrival made an inconspicuous departure impossible.
Alex decided, in order to keep his promise and leave Paul unmolested, it might be better if he stayed in his hotel until his uncle returned home to act as chaperone. He fully intended to be a man of his word. Only, he’d never before faced a temptation as powerful as Paul Sinclair. It wouldn’t do to push the issue at this juncture, so near to the breaking point. If he suddenly attacked the man across his uncle’s desktop, it’d surely traumatize the servants, not to mention Paul’s reaction—likely to be violent.
“You are staying for dinner, aren’t you?” Bernard asked, as though standing in the midst of hastily packed suitcases making casual conversation happened every day. Alfredhadmentioned recent strange behavior.
“Dinner?” Alex choked, nearly laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation. Here he was, sneaking out of the house like a rebellious teenager, and Bernard wanted to serve him dinner. Anyway, where was William? Wasn’t Bernard supposed to be retiring? William wouldn’t have stopped him. More than likely, he’d have offered to pull the car around or help pack. He’d also have done it without asking a single question. Actually, he’d have done it without saying a word, period. Alex sighed.
As inconvenient as the interruption was, Alex preferred dealing with Bernard over William. There was something to be said for employees bold enough to intervene if they thought it necessary.
“Martha gave Theresa the day off,” Bernard explained. “She made manicotti, remembering your fondness for her Italian cooking.” His voice dropped, as though fearful the nearly deaf woman might hear him. “You wouldn’t want to disappoint her after she’s gone to so much trouble, would you?” Piercing gray eyes peered over the top of Bernard’s bifocals, daring Alex to decline.
What could he say? Alex sighed and placed his bags on the floor. “No, I suppose not.” Besides, he remembered Martha’s ill temper if she “slaved all day over a hot stove” and the resident males didn’t worship her properly for her sacrifice. He didn’t envy Theresa having to fill Martha’s shoes.
Bernard’s beaming smile grew nearly frightening. “Very good, sir. I’ll take these bags back up to your room while you freshen up. You can join Mr. Sinclair in the dining room.”
The mention of Paul’s name nearly made Alex change his mind. He’d done Paul Sinclair a great disservice and owed him a tremendous apology, more than the feeble attempt at the hospital. How could he ever make amends for the harsh things he’d implied and said? At the very least, enjoying a nice Italian dinner and some light conversation before he left for his hotel wouldn’t hurt. The table was wide. If he remained on his side, everything should be fine.
“Leave the suitcases, Bernard. I’ll get them later,” he said, knowing words were useless. The bags wouldn’t be there after dinner. Bernard never allowed anything to remain out of place for more than the few minutes it took to tidy up. When Alex returned to his room later, every item would be in its rightful place and the suitcases banished to a closet, forcing him to repack—or not. He had little doubt that Bernard, now on alert, would bar any other attempts to leave. Time to admit defeat. “Fine, but get Isaac or William to help you.”
“Are you quite sure? I don’t mind.”
Alex employed the considerable Anderson charm, much as he’d observed his uncle do over the years, to persuade Bernard without belittling his abilities or pointing out that the man was getting far too old to carry heavy baggage up a flight of stairs. “It’s not like Uncle Alfred needs them both right now. Let the men earn their keep.”
Bernard barely hid a gleeful smirk. “Very good, sir.” He ambled off to the back of the house with a jaunty spring in his step. Was he whistling? Alex couldn’t help but laugh, shaking his head in disbelief at having been so easily manipulated.
Returning to his room, he exchanged his club wear for comfortable slacks and a loose, lightweight sweater, then followed his nose to the dining room. The most glorious aroma rose from a large silver chafing dish on the table, and his stomach loudly grumbled its approval. Paul was already there, as he’d expected from Bernard’s comment, leaning against the unlit hearth with a glass of wine in hand, staring at the pictures above the mantle with a wistful expression. “Good evening, Paul,” Alex greeted him, determined to behave like a gentleman.
Paul jumped, eyes warily seeking the nearest exit. Alex sighed. Though they’d made remarkable progress recently, apparently he still had a long way to go to win Paul’s trust.
Recovering his composure, Paul pointed to a bottle resting on the end of the table. “Would you care for some wine before dinner?”
“That would be nice.” Damn, what a sight! Simply dressed in tight jeans and a black T-shirt, Paul wore a pair of worn loafers on his otherwise bare feet. His hair, still damp from a recent shower and sleeked back in a thick mass, had darkened to a soft black. The shirt clung to Paul’s well-defined chest, and Alex fought the urge to run his hands beneath the thin material.
“Martha outdid herself tonight,” Paul boasted. “I’ve always loved her Italian cooking, and I think you’ll find the wine goes quite well with the meal.” He poured another glass from the nearly full bottle and crossed the dining room to hand the goblet to Alex.
Paul hid his awkwardness admirably, and if Alex hadn’t known what to look for, he might have missed the signs himself. Over the past few weeks, Alex had noticed Paul worrying his lower lip with his teeth when nervous, like now, and whereas Alex once would have taken advantage, he no longer wanted to make the man uncomfortable, especially not here in what was to be their shared home.
“Thanks.” Alex accepted the glass and sniffed appreciatively before taking a tentative sip of the lightly tinged beverage, the semisweet wine rolling slowly over his tongue. “This is extraordinary,” he exclaimed. “Your choice?”
Paul nodded. “It’s my favorite domestic.”
“A local winery?”
“Nah, Rhode Island, believe it or not. A friend of mine sent a case for my birthday, and I’ve been ordering from them ever since.”
The garden-variety boy next door knew wines, did he? Byron had been renowned for his discerning palate when it came to fine vintages, despite a humble upbringing. Maybe he’d passed some knowledge to his nephew. “Well, you have excellent taste,” Alex admitted, once again giving credit where it was due. “What say we see how wellyour favorite domesticgoes with manicotti?”
Though Paul tensed and appeared ready to run, he gamely replied, “I thought you’d never ask. I’m starving.”
