Kiss Me Kate (The English Brothers Book 6) (9 page)

Étienne nodded curtly.

Tony turned back into the hallway, but Kate didn’t face Étienne as she closed the door quietly. Étienne couldn’t totally explain the surge of jealousy he felt from meeting Tony, but it was mixed with something else—an odd feeling…something that felt like a puzzle to figure out, and the entire effect was extremely unsettling. He was feeling emotional and after promising Kate that he’d be professional, he didn’t trust himself to honor that promise anymore. It was time to leave.

As he gathered his files together, he said, “I assume you two are headed to the A Better Way ball on Saturday?”

“Uh, yes,” said Kate, finally turning to face him, but making no move to return to the table or keep him from leaving. “Will you be there?”

“Of course.” And then, because he was jealous and frustrated and stupid for her, he added, “with Constance Atwell.”

Her eyes flew open and her lips parted in surprise. “Connie
Atwell
! I didn’t realize—”

“You didn’t realize what?” he asked innocently, perversely pleased by her shocked and disapproving reaction to Connie’s name. Amy’s jealousy had always felt lethal to Étienne, but Kate’s felt more like salvation.

“You said you weren’t dating anyone,” she said indignantly, eyes flashing at him.

Étienne smirked, then looked away from her, snapping his briefcase closed and taking his cane in his other hand. He took several steps toward the door but Kate stood motionless, her eyes locked with his until Étienne was directly in front of her, his chest no more than a breath from hers. For just a second he indulged himself and stared down at her breasts, which heaved with her quickened breathing, pushing against the teasing, thin silk of her fitted blouse.

Finally tearing his gaze away from her chest with regret, he met her stormy eyes.

“Oh Kate,” he purred, purposely thickening his accent, “Con and I aren’t…dating.”

His meaning unmistakable, he enjoyed the play of emotions on Kate’s face before stepping to the side and sailing out the door. He was positive she hadn’t meant to give away so much in her expression, but Étienne smiled all the way back to the office because her reaction had told him one very important thing:

Étienne wasn’t the only one in that room who vividly remembered the last time they’d fucked the other person in it.

Étienne flicked his glance up from the canvas to look at Kate again. He had her face memorized by now, of course, but he couldn’t keep himself from watching the way the sun bathed her skin in warmth, the way a passing cloud would darken her eyes just a touch, the way her little pink tongue kept slipping between her lips to wet them.

After they’d found Weston at the Ambler’s place and walked him back to Haverford Park, they’d tacitly decided to spend the rest of the day together, mostly hiding out in the gardens of Westerly, the Winslow’s unoccupied mansion. When he shared with her that one of his favorite hobbies was painting, Kate insisted he run home to get his paints and a canvas so that he could paint her, and surprisingly—because art was something sacred to him that he usually enjoyed in solitude—he’d immediately complied.

Grinning back at her before turning his attention to the canvas, he wondered what it was about Kate English that had him so captivated. She was pretty—her skin even and pink and her hair long and thick. The way it caught the light made it look golden, shiny, and clean and he had to keep himself from touching it. He’d already reached out once, to tuck a strand behind her ear, and a bolt of heat had shot straight to his groin, making his dick twitch.

He didn’t know for sure, but he got the feeling that Kate didn’t have a lot of experience—the way her cheeks colored when he cursed, the way she averted her eyes when he stared at her for too long. She seemed a lot more innocent than the Story sisters or the other girls he’d been with, but he’d quickly learned that she was very sharp as they spent the morning talking. Beautiful, smart, and inexperienced. Who knew that combination was his Kryptonite?

“Kate,” he asked, spending some time on her lips, dabbing the brush into some lighter pink then blending the color with peach. He glanced up quickly, then looked back down, trying to capture their bowed shape on the canvas. “Have you ever been in a play?”

Before the break, St. Michael’s had put on a production of
Romeo and Juliet
with St. Bernadette’s, the local girls’ school. Étienne, who was perceived as brooding, had won the part of tortured, troubled Mercutio, which he had enjoyed playing. But the reality was that he lingered in the backstage shadows during every love scene between Romeo and Juliet, memorizing their lines, uncomfortably drawn to the passionate words of love they shared with one another.

Étienne mixed his brush with peach and white paints, catching sight of his hands, which were flecked with paint, and remembered his favorite lines:

If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.

Ever since meeting her last night, he’d longed to kiss Kate, only holding back for fear of scaring her. He’d only known her for a handful of hours, and she didn’t seem like the type that made out for sport. He glanced at her lips again as she answered his question.

“Trinity just did a production of
West Side Story
,” she answered.

“Huh. That’s a coincidence. We just did
Romeo and Juliet
.”

“Same story,” she said, offering him a small grin which made his heart leap.

“Were you in it?”

Her grin faded as she shook her head. “No. My parents thought it would distract me from my studies.”

“Oh—”

“No!” she said suddenly, her voice raised and indignant. “That’s just what I told everyone, but I want to tell you the truth.” She frowned, her forehead creasing as she looked down at her lap. “My mother thought it was too racy. There’s kissing in it…and implied sex.”

He shouldn’t have been distracted by the word “sex” in such an innocent context, but he was. He totally was. He could barely think about anything else and the word—
sexsexsexsexsex
—ricocheted around in his head as his blood rushed south, hot and fast, making him hard.

He shifted on his stool, loosening his shorts. “Did you at least get to see it?”

“No. I wasn’t allowed to go.”

“You
are
fifteen, right?”

“Right.” She sighed, still frowning.

“Do they think you don’t know about sex?”

She shrugged. “They know I know. We discussed it when I was twelve—very clinically. They just…want to keep me as their little girl. Protect me from ugliness, from growing up too fast. My mother never wanted to raise a child in New York City—she thought it was too risqué, too vulgar—but my Dad insisted he needed to live where he worked. They compromised by putting me in private school and having nannies and chaperones watch me all the time to ensure I remained…unspoiled.”

“So it’s safe to assume you’ve never had a boyfriend?”

“Ha!” she scoffed. “Holding hands with you would have gotten me grounded.”

“Wow. That’s… that’s kind of crazy, Kate.”

Kate took a deep breath, her breasts bobbing up as her lungs expanded. Damn, this girl had no idea how sexy she was just by breathing.

Her voice took on a defensive edge. “They’re just trying to protect me…” Then her voice brightened. “But when I’m at Libitz’s house—she’s my best friend—we watch R rated movies sometimes when her parents go to bed. I’ve seen things. I’m not a complete moron.”

“I’d never call you a moron.”
But you’re definitely inexperienced and your parents sound whack.

“Lib’s mother is way more liberal than mine.”

“I’m surprised your parents let you hang out with her,” he said, wishing he could keep the edge from his voice, but it didn’t sit well with him—how sheltered her parents tried to keep her.

“I’ve known Lib since Kindergarten, which means my parents have known the Schulers at least that long. And Mr. Schuler owns the biggest, most well-regarded modern art gallery in Manhattan. It would be”—she paused, then looked at Étienne and grinned—“socially inappropriate for them to interfere with my friendship with Lib.”

“And I gather that social appropriateness is second only to protecting you?”

Kate giggled. “Uh-huh.”

Growing up in an ex-pat family had exempted the Rousseaus from some of the common social norms of the American families with whom they socialized in Haverford. His parents weren’t concerned with local social niceties as long as their children didn’t embarrass them, and defaulted—almost without exception—to the social norms of their native France. Ergo, Étienne had been drinking wine at the table since he was a child, choosing his bedtime since he was twelve, and although he was aware that these—and other behaviors—seemed racy or indulgent to the parents of his American counterparts, Étienne didn’t greatly abuse or question the freedom. It was simply the way life was lived.

Kate’s life, on the other hand, sounded stifling.

“I guess Libitz is pretty important to you, then.”

Kate nodded somberly. “I don’t know what I’d do without her. I tell her everything. She keeps me sane.”

“Well, I think you’re lucky. I don’t really have a friend like that,” he said, leaning down to rinse his brush in a cup of cloudy water before blending some blue and white to paint her eyes.

“Stratton implied you were cool,” said Kate, looking up at him through lowered lashes, as if sheepish to admit she was asking about him.

“I don’t know about that,” said Étienne, liking it that she was curious. “When we moved here, my English wasn’t good. No, that’s not true. It was…non-existent. So, I didn’t talk a lot. Even now, I’m mostly quiet, and I think people ascribe a personality to you if you don’t assert one. Anyway…I hang out with Dash. You know the Amblers?” Kate shook her head, and Étienne jabbed a thumb toward Blueberry Lane. “They live over there. The farmhouse. I’m friends with Dash…and with this other guy, Kurt. Kurt Martinson.” He flicked his eyes up to gauge her reaction when he said Kurt’s name, but there was none. “I guess they’re my best friends, but we don’t really, you know, talk, about real things.”

“Why not?”

Étienne took a deep breath, deciding whether or not to enlighten her as to the history between the Englishes and Martinsons. “Actually we talk a little, I guess. We talked when Kurt’s sister, Johanna, hurt herself earlier this year.”

“Hurt herself?” asked Kate, tilting her head to the side, her brows furrowed.

“Yeah. Um…she used to date your cousin, Alex, and, uh—”

“Ohhhh!” said Kate, nodding in understanding. “I overheard my parents talking about that poor girl. Johanna Martinson. When Alex broke up with her, she cut her wrists.”

Étienne flinched, his hand stilling as he looked up at Kate. “
Broke up
?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice soft but certain. “Alex broke things off and she went a little…crazy, I guess. But I heard she was troubled. Parents divorcing. Other things going on.”

“Johanna may have had her issues, but Alex
didn’t
break up with her,” Étienne blurted out defensively, remembering the conversations he’d had with Kurt, one during which Kurt had actually cried. “Alex
cheated
on her.”

“I’m sure he didn’t,” Kate said softly, but firmly.

“I’m sure he
did
. And I live here. I’m friends with her brother. Everyone knows Alex went to a party and macked on this other chick all night and when Johanna Martinson found out at school the next day, she went home and slit her wrists open. Kurt’s older brother found her, thank God.”

“That’s not possible,” insisted Kate. “Alex wouldn’t hurt someone like that.”

Was she really so naïve? She blindly accepted what her parents or cousins told her without questioning it? “You should review the facts before you act like you know what you’re talking about.”

Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. “I don’t like what you’re insinuating about my cousin.”

“Then I won’t insinuate. Alex is an asshole.”

She gasped, jumping up from the bench where she’d been sitting. “You have some nerve—”

“And you don’t know what you’re talking about!” he snapped back, plopping the brush into the cup of water, which sloshed onto his palette.

Kate’s face was red and with her hands planted angrily on her hips, Étienne suddenly realized that she looked so pissed, she might leave. She might turn her back on him and run back across the lawn to Haverford Park and he’d never see her again. And he realized how terrible that would be, because he liked her—aside from being wildly attracted to her, he really,
really
liked her—and there was no way he wanted her to run away.

He shook his head, reaching a hand out to her. “Sorry.”

She stared at the ground, saying nothing, and he dropped his hand, feeling helpless.

“Kate,” he said softly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that about Alex. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

She looked up and her face softened a little. “It’s possible my parents don’t have all of the information about what happened. You’re right. It’s not my business to be talking about it.”

“Hey…how about we don’t talk about your cousins anymore?” he asked, taking a step toward her and offering her a hopeful smile.

“Not even when one of them calls you ‘cool?’” she asked, sitting back down on the bench.

Étienne pivoted, picking up his brush as a rush of relief made his hands weak for a moment. When he looked back at her, her lips were turned up in a sweet grin.

“I don’t know if I’m cool,” he said, as he had a few minutes before. “I think ‘cool’ might just be a convenient euphemism for no one really knowing the real me.”

He painted a ring of sky blue around the black pupil of her eye then looked up to stare at the real thing. She stared back at him, her gaze strong and steady, and he could feel the sparks snap and crackle between them, like just being around each other somehow
created
electricity, somehow produced a charge.

“
I’m
getting to
know the real you,” she finally said softly.

His throbbing heart should have signaled danger, because falling can hurt and he wasn’t just falling, he was slipping, sliding, plunging, and tumbling. He was hurtling headlong toward Kate English with every breath he drew, with every sweet word she spoke.

“Yeah,” he said, wishing this week never, ever had to end. “You are.”