The Kincaids: New Money: Behind Boardroom Doors. Jennifer Lewis
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like a different person than when they left. For the first time since his father’s death he appeared truly relaxed, his face crinkling into smile lines rather than the frown he’d worn so much lately. His broad shoulders looked at ease, not tight with tension.
She felt different, too. Their night of passion had awakened something inside her. She was no virgin but she’d certainly never experienced pleasure like that before. This morning she’d grown into a more deeply sensual person than she was yesterday. Colors were brighter and smells sweeter and even the air tasted bright and crisp as champagne.
By Monday they’d both be different people, one way or another. Her fantasy of a relationship with RJ was coming true and happiness seemed right within her grasp.
Though if it didn’t work out, if this weekend was all they had, she’d have the agony of knowing just what she was missing—for the rest of her life.
Five
A lazy morning of casting flies from a grassy riverbank, followed by their luxurious picnic, led to a relaxed walk in the woods. RJ was easy to talk to. Which was hardly a surprise given that she’d known him for years. It was odd, and wonderful, how quickly and totally their relationship had altered from being purely professional to … utterly unprofessional.
They carried a thick foam camping pad out onto the broad balcony of the cottage, and now lay on it, naked, covered only by a thin sheet swiped from the linen closet. Warm spring air caressed their skin, still damp from the exertions of a heated afternoon lovemaking session. RJ traced patterns on her belly with a lazy finger, stirring little rivers of sensation that made her want to giggle.
His hair, tousled at some point by her fingers, hung down to his eyes, which shone, dark with arousal. “Maybe we shouldn’t ever go back.”
Brooke’s stomach contracted slightly under his fingers. “Tempting as that sounds …”
“Come on. Would they really miss us?” Humor deepened his dimples. “That unpleasant Jack Sinclair can take over running the company and you and I can just live in the woods on trout.”
“We didn’t catch any trout.” The idea held marvelous appeal. No more early morning commutes. No more taking minutes in meetings. But at heart she was a practical girl. “We didn’t even see any trout.”
RJ’s grin was infectious. “Berries, then.”
“Okay, berries. Supplemented with orders from your favorite restaurant.” She played with the lock of dark hair on his forehead.
RJ planted a kiss on her stomach. “I’ve never contemplated any other life than the one I was born to. Lately, though, with all this madness surrounding the family and the company, I can’t help thinking that there are other possibilities out there.” His expression darkened somewhat. “And that in making his will my dad was giving me permission to explore them.”
Was he serious? She couldn’t imagine The Kincaid Group without RJ, or RJ without the company that seemed to be his lifeblood.
But she wanted to be supportive. “What would you like to do, if you could do anything?”
RJ traced the line of her thigh with his broad thumb. “I think I’m doing it.” His mischievous expression teased her. “And maybe I could branch out into this.” He lowered his head and licked her nipple, tightening it to a hard peak. “And this.” He raised his mouth to hers and kissed her with exquisite tenderness.
Brooke’s heart swelled inside a chest already very full with the wonder and excitement of their new relationship. RJ spoke as if he’d just discovered the love of his life—her.
Don’t get carried away! Up here in the clouds it was easy to forget all about the real world, but sooner or later they’d have to go back to it.
After another delicious dinner from the bounty in the fridge they watched a classic Hitchcock movie together. RJ held her tight during the scary bits and Brooke loved enjoying such a normal, everyday couple activity with the man who’d once seemed wholly unobtainable. After the movie they shared a dish of caramel ice cream, then kissed with cold tongues and warm hearts.
Sunday was a lazy day. They didn’t even rise from bed until nearly noon, and only then because RJ decided it was time to confront the manila envelope of memories his father had left him.
RJ brought a new sense of calm back into the study with him. He’d closed the door on Friday night determined to enjoy his weekend with Brooke. By Sunday, however, a sliver of guilt was intruding on their shared paradise. Sunday dinner was a Kincaid tradition. They all gathered in the big family home and shared a traditional roast or some other delicacy their mom had conjured up. Now she was in jail, the family tradition was temporarily suspended. How could they face each other across the table with neither the matriarch nor the patriarch of the family present?
Their dad would never sit there again. They’d stubbornly kept the tradition going at their mom’s insistence in the weeks and months since his death. It was no doubt his responsibility as the eldest to gather the clan in their mom’s absence, but he didn’t have the heart.
He’d spent two enjoyable days here on the outskirts of his life, with the lovely Brooke for company. But he had decisions to make and avoiding them didn’t sit well with him.
Brooke had cooked pancakes from a packet mix while he made coffee, and after they’d eaten she tactfully excused herself, saying she needed time to make a couple of phone calls. She went out on the terrace, where the reception was strongest, and he headed back into his father’s inner sanctum with a heavy heart.
The envelope lay there in the drawer where he’d left it. He wondered if his dad had prepared it all at once in a typical flourish of brusque efficiency, or if its contents were the product of hours of thought, packing and unpacking.
Probably the former. With a swift inhale he pulled the packet from the drawer and emptied its contents on the desk in a rude clatter and rustle. Amongst the yellowed papers was a crisp, new sheet, folded in two. RJ snatched it off the desk and pulled it open. His scalp pricked with discomfort as he saw the handwritten lines. Another letter. The letter he’d opened and read so hastily after the funeral had cut a dark scar in his heart and he suspected this would only reopen and deepen the wound.
While you bear my name, you are in truth not my firstborn son.
He’d seen Angela and her sons at his father’s funeral, but refused to believe the gossip about who they were. When he opened the letter, that one brief line had knocked away the foundation of his life. So swift and brutal was the blow that he’d been hard-pressed to act like himself for the rest of the day. He no longer was himself. Since birth he’d been Reginald Kincaid, Jr., chip off the old block. All he’d wanted was to be just like his dad, a proud family man, successful in business and in everything else he turned his hand to, from fighting foreign wars to scoring birdies on the club golf course.
In that letter his father had revealed he was not the man they’d all assumed him to be. Fathering a child before his marriage was one thing—and as he’d posthumously explained, he didn’t know about his son Jack until years after his birth—but resuming his relationship with his son’s mother and maintaining them as a second family went beyond the common accusation of adultery and into the realm of almost criminal deception.
Steeling himself, he focused on the handwritten script that covered most of two pages.
Dear Reginald,
We all make choices in life and, as you are by now well aware, I made choices that many would disapprove of. You may well be angry with me, and knowing your proud and honest spirit, I bet you are. You’ve had some time to think about how all this affects you, and above all I want to make you aware that you have choices, too.
RJ growled. Did his father think he was some beardless sixteen-year-old looking for a pep talk? He’d been a man himself now for a decade and a half.
My parents took away my choices when they forbid me to marry Angela,