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“Aunt Helen” was Helen Novack, a contemporary of Wayne’s, someone he’d known since childhood, and who’d never warmed up to Juliet. So Marlys was right, she had been dodging Helen’s calls and ignoring others. The “old friends” had been Wayne’s old friends and not hers. Without him, would they have anything to talk about? And if they got together, wouldn’t the “without him” be just that much more painful?
But the grief counselor had told her she’d have to push herself to be sociable. And while she might not yet be ready for Helen and that circle, she could look at the dinner tomorrow night as practice.
The sense of purpose lifted her mood a little. A dinner party. Tomorrow night. She turned toward her cookbooks.
Marlys’s box sat in the way. She slanted the brunette a look. “What is this?”
“Showed up at home and addressed to you,” Marlys said. “From the publishing house.”
“The books.” Juliet’s mood bobbed higher. “It must be the books.”
Ignoring Marlys’s blasé shrug, Juliet armed herself with a knife and sliced through the packing tape, anticipation making her breath come faster. Beneath the flaps and a wad of crumpled paper were two stacks of hardback books, their covers gleaming. General Matters: My Military Life & More, by General Wayne L. Weston. Juliet stared. Here it was, Wayne’s dream.
Here it was, Juliet’s hope. Her hope that whatever tarnish their marriage had brought to his reputation would be polished away by his life story in his very own words.
Despite her casual attitude, Marlys crowded in for a look. It was she who reached in to take hold of the top copy to survey the front cover with eager eyes. It was a dark silhouette of a man, the red, white, and blue of the American flag rippling behind him.
Slowly, Juliet reached inside to retrieve her own book. Her palm slid across the sleek front, and then she turned it over. Wayne.
It was a wonderful photo of him, black-and-white, which played up his silver hair and dark, watchful eyes to their best advantage. With her forefinger, she traced the edges of his military brush cut and then let it fall to find the curve of his black eyebrows and then the line of his firm lips.
Oh, Wayne.
Was it really natural? she wondered to herself. Was it really natural or forgivable, that though her gaze drank in her beloved’s face, the rest of her was still humming in reaction to the warm, sexy resilience of another man and the pulse-jittering thrill of his kiss?
Noah gave Marlys plenty of time to clear the premises before heading back across the pool. The general’s daughter didn’t take rejection well, even though he’d been as tactful as he could in rebuffing the feelers she’d sent out when they’d first met.
She was beautiful in a petite, devilish sort of way, but Noah hadn’t been moved by either her lures or her ensuing vitriol when he’d turned his back on her. Marlys was a powder keg and he was careful to keep any sparks away from her.
Even the sparks that had been generated by Juliet’s body against his. By his mouth to hers.
The memory caused his pace to quicken as he skirted the pool. That kiss wasn’t something he could ignore. He was going to confront Juliet…and then follow her lead. Through the kitchen windows, he could see her figure, back turned toward him, and his hands curled inside his pockets.
God knows, it was going to be hard to let her direct their what-came-next discussion. He’d gone back to the guesthouse with her high-class scent on his hands and the taste of her hot mouth in his. Hell, she’d sucked on his tongue! The memory of that was enough to have him going hard again as his libido geared up for a second round.
But blowing out a breath, he forced himself to slow his stride and rein in his sex drive. Yeah, he was a man trained for action, but Juliet deserved more from him than his thuggish sexual impulses. She’d seemed to enjoy herself—hell, he thought all over again, she’d sucked on his tongue!—but she was still the officer’s wife, the officer’s widow, and he was still the enlisted guy she’d hired to live across the pool.
He shouldn’t presume that anything more would come of this—but he couldn’t ignore it either. He had to find out what she was thinking about their kiss.
So he rapped on the French door, then opened it, pausing at the threshold to take in the sight of the sleek fall of fine hair draped against her elegant back. It was a straight swathe the color of the caramel used to cover autumn apples. Today she was in a matching caramel shirt and plain jeans.
“Juliet?” he said softly, even as his inner gangster itched to take what he wanted. His hands would close over her shoulders and spin her to face him so that he could plunder her mouth all over again. From there he’d touch, he’d kiss, he’d taste everything. He could see it all in his head, but he didn’t stir a muscle to make it happen.
