Nighttime Sweethearts. Cara Colter
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joining him. He was so disappointed that you couldn’t join us last night. He left early, but made me promise to drag you along to breakfast.”
Her mother stopped abruptly and studied her daughter. One eyebrow shot up and her lips pursed thoughtfully.
“What on earth have you been up to?”
“Excuse me? I just got out of bed.” Why did she feel guilty? As if she had been up to something? Was there a law against fantasizing about the man who had kissed you showing up at your door to ply you with roses, apologies and promises? Well, probably in her mother’s world. There were rules about everything in her mother’s world!
“That’s just it. It’s not like you to sleep late, and,” her mother’s eyes narrowed, “you have a look about you.”
“A look?” Cynthia asked with feigned innocence.
“You don’t have pajamas on. You aren’t naked under that housecoat, are you?”
“Mother!”
“Well, you look as if you’ve just been, er, tumbled.”
“Tumbled?” Cynthia repeated, nonplused. “Tumbled?”
Her mother looked her up and down and then asked softly, shocked, “Is there someone in there with you?”
She was twenty-six years old. Her mother knew as well as anyone else that there was never anyone with her. But instead of reassuring her mother, she wished she had the nerve to tell her it was none of her business. She wished she was the woman who had swum naked last night, because that woman would have men in her bedroom at dawn if she damn well pleased!
Instead, Cynthia found herself stepping back from the door, so her mother could see through the suite to the open bedroom door and her rumpled—and very empty—bed.
“Well, then, you look as if you wish you’d been, er, tumbled.” This was said as if wishing for it was just as great a crime as having done it.
“Tumbled,” Cynthia muttered. “What is that? Some seventeenth-century term you’ve been waiting for an opportunity to use?”
Still, she turned away before her mother could see the blush she could feel burning in her own cheeks. She looked at the clock and gave a theatrical little squeak.
“I have overslept, haven’t I?” she said, forcing a breezy note into her voice. “I’ll meet you for breakfast in fifteen. Save me a place beside the baron.”
If there was one way to distract her mother, it was to play her game.
It worked. Her mother cooed with startled pleasure. “You won’t be sorry. You’re going to love him, Cynthia.”
So love was okay, and probably tumbling, too, as long as the suitor was mommy-approved. Her own cynicism took her by surprise. As she got ready, she managed to salvage a tiny bit of the enthusiasm she had first felt this morning by entertaining a fantasy just as probable as red roses and apologies.
What if it was him? What if the baron was the mystery man who had kissed her last night? Her mother had said he’d left early. Had he wandered down to the beach?
Not that she had detected even a trace of an accent. But then wasn’t it possible that a wealthy, well-traveled, well-educated German might speak without an accent? Maybe the raspiness of that voice had been a disguise.
She remembered that voice with a shiver. A voice made of gravel and silk. Impossibly sexy, utterly masculine.
An hour later Cynthia wondered if her mother might have been right.
What was not to love about the singularly handsome and charming young baron? If she had met him twenty-four hours ago, would she have considered him?
He was blond. He had intense blue eyes and a perfect cut of feature. He was casually, but tastefully, dressed, tan and extremely athletic looking.
But he was most definitely not the man she had met last night. She had known before she had even heard him speak, known as soon as she had seen him sharing the table with her mother as she entered the restaurant.
She was not sure how she had been so certain, but she had felt the ache of deep disappointment, which she was willing to admit was a funny reaction given the fact that if it had been her mystery man, she fully intended to greet him by slapping him across the face!
“You’re as lovely as your mother promised,” the baron said, giving her the full wattage of his smile.
Cynthia was pretty sure the young woman at the next table nearly fainted when he bent over Cynthia’s hand and placed a kiss on it.
It was a gesture of such old-world courtliness that she really should have appreciated it. Instead, she snuck a quick look around the room. The man from last night could be anyone here! He could be watching her right now! She felt a tingle of excitement as she contemplated that possibility.
The baron pulled back her chair, and over the next hour proved himself to be attentive, witty and charming.
To Cynthia, despite his considerable charm, the baron did not seem quite real.
She was not sure how it was possible that a man who had emerged from the shadows and then melted back into them, who had been far more dream than reality, could seem so much more real than the handsome flesh-and-blood man vying so nobly and sweetly for her attention.
She found herself scanning the restaurant over and over again, hoping to see someone who would be familiar in some way. In what way she wasn’t quite sure. She had not even seen the face of the man who had claimed her lips last night.
But as he had walked away, leaving her lips still tingling from the sensuousness of his kiss, she had seen the dark silhouette of his powerful build, been captivated by his grace, had been left with the sensation she would know him anywhere.
Restless thoughts stirred within her. Was she ever going to see him again? How? It felt as if she had to see him again, as if she could be returned to the sleeping state she had been locked in for so many years if she did not see him again.
Suddenly the baron and her mother seemed like a trap, a trap that would return her to that state of not quite living that she had accepted for far too long.
“Excuse me,” she said abruptly. “I just thought of something I have to do.”
“Nonsense,” her mother said, blinking at her with sweet warning. “Everything you have to do is for me, and we have nothing so urgent that we can’t spend a few more minutes with our charming companion.”
Cynthia stared at her mother, but she was seeing something else.
A young girl—herself—leaning over the bed of her dying father.
“Promise me,” he whispered, his last words, “Cynthia, promise me.”
“What?” she asked desperately. “Anything.”
“I’ve brought her nothing but unhappiness,” he said sadly.
They both knew he meant her mother. It had been a marriage made in hell, the spell of her father’s great looks soon waning in the face of his desperate unsuitability for her mother’s blue-blooded world.
“Cynthia, always look after her. Make her happy.”
She had promised, and it was that simple. Had it been a hard promise to keep? Yes. But duty came before passion. Those were the rules in the real world, the rules of her mother’s world.
There had been a boy in high school who had tested that resolve, from the wrong side of the tracks, as surely as her father had been. She could still remember the way her arms had felt wrapped around the leather of his jacket as she rode the back of his motorcycle.
She could still remember his name.
Rick Barnett.
Her mother had found out about him and had ordered her to end it. And