Lost in Love (7 page)

As if reading her mind, Martin said, “I didn’t have the manpower to ready this for auction myself. You have your job cut out for you.”

She touched her necklace. She really did. But she nodded, determined, and set her coat and purse down. “I suppose I should get started.”

Portia sat on a chest from the seventeenth century, her history piled up all around her.

She lifted a sheet from a painting propped against a stack of boxes next to her. It was Lady Margaret Summerhill, the daughter of the fifth Earl of Amberlin. In the painting, she was sixteen—on the verge of her debut. Portia knew the girl had died from a mysterious fever several weeks after the painting had been completed.

Feeling melancholy, Portia looked around the warehouse. So many boxes. So many sheet-wrapped bundles. It was going to take forever to find the tiara.

She couldn’t think that way. She needed to focus on the positive here. Finding the tiara, yes, but also doing this work. It’d be worth the time it was going to take to make sure that everything here ended up where it would be appreciated. She touched the frame on the painting. After all these years, Margaret deserved to be with someone who cherished her.

Kicking off her shoes, Portia picked a box and began to tackle the project.

It was slow going at first, but that was her fault. She got distracted by the sentiment of each piece she came across. But she found a groove, setting things in two piles: one for Meredith to see if she wanted to use for Suncrest and the other to curate for Martin’s auction.

She heard the door to the warehouse open and close, followed by masculine footsteps toward her. Excited to share with Martin, she held up the book in her hand. “Look. This is a first edition Mary Shelley, autographed and dedicated to Anne Summerhill, the fifth Countess of Amberlin.”

“Nice,” said a voice that was much more masculine and Texan than Martin’s.

She glanced up to find Jackson Waite leaning against a large wardrobe. His hat was pulled low, and his jeans fit like a second skin in all the right places.

His gaze rolled over her like a languid touch, interested and consuming. “Hey there,” he drawled.

“Hello.” Her heart hammered. Lowering the books, she tried not to stare at him, but it was hard not to. He looked so virile next to the frivolously carved furniture. He wore a leather jacket, a sweater with a T-shirt underneath, well-worn jeans, and his boots, of course. On his head was a cowboy hat. She looked behind him to see if he was being followed by a steed.

“You look hard at work.” His gaze fell to her legs.

She followed his gaze, blushing to see her skirt had ridden up and that a strip of skin showed from where her stocking stopped and her hem started. She tried tugging her skirt down, but it was bunched under her and wouldn’t budge. “Tomorrow I’m wearing pants.”

“That’s a shame. I like the view.” He gave her a crooked smile. “How’s it going in here?”

“Good. I found a few things Mr. Grey will enjoy.” She looked around. “I may need someone to help me move some of the larger things.”

“That can be arranged.”

He didn’t sound like he meant it, but she figured she’d cross that bridge when she came to it.

“Why do you want this tiara so badly?” he asked out of nowhere.

She shook her head. “Does it matter?”

“It seems to. A lot.” He waved at her. “You’re sitting on a concrete floor with dust smudging your face.”

“Where?” She rubbed the side of her face before realizing her hands were so dirty they were just going to make it worse.

“You missed.” Chuckling, he walked up to her and lifted her by the elbows. Before she could say anything, he pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at her cheek.

He stood close, so close she could see all the colors that made up his brown eyes. Especially the gold, which shined like coveted treasure. She inhaled to clear her head, but the leathery male scent of him confused her more. She needed to step back and refocus.

She knew she wasn’t going anywhere.

“Well?” he murmured. “What’s driving you, duchess? You want the tiara to wear the next time you have tea with the queen?”

She should give him some excuse. She
should
tell him that what she did was none of his business. But she heard herself say, “I want a job at a museum.”

“A museum,” he repeated, his gaze drilling into hers. “What sort of museum?”

“The Museum of British Peerage.” She looked at him and decided to trust him. Her future was in his hands anyway. If he kicked her out, she wouldn’t have anything. Bea would say she had nothing to lose and everything to gain. “I don’t have formal education.”

“Education’s overrated. It’s how smart and driven you are.”

“That’s what my sisters said.” She swallowed a lump of hope and fear. “All I’ve ever loved has been Summerhill history and what represents it. I’ve never had a real job, but I decided it was time to do something. I saw an ad for a curator at the museum, and it was the perfect position. I love old things, and I’m organized. But I have no experience.”

“But you do have a pedigree and a buttload of valuable crap at your disposal,” he finished for her.

She nodded. “The director of the museum said he’d hire me if I brought the tiara with me.”

“Bastard,” Jackson said with surprising vehemence.

She blinked. “He was just asking for what he wanted, the same way I was.”

Jackson didn’t look like he agreed. “What happens if you don’t find the tiara?”

She pursed her lips. “I guess I don’t get the job.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t allowed myself that option.” She studied him. “Do you think I won’t find it?”

His jaw tightened, but he touched her face in the softest, gentlest way that she would never have expected. “I think you could lasso the moon if you wanted it, duchess.”

His words bloomed warmth in her chest, and she smiled. “Thank you.”

His gaze went to her mouth, to her eyes, and back to her lips. “Aw hell,” he said, tipping her face up.

“Wha—”

His lips were on hers.

She gasped, which was strange since his mouth was in the way.

But then the relentless way he coaxed her stole her attention. She put her hands on his chest, bracing herself, as she got up on her tiptoes to get closer. His arm anchored her around her back, so she was pressed against the full length of him.

She liked it. She hummed in pleasure and wound her arms around his neck, liking the slow focused way he ate at her mouth. It was like she was a treat and he couldn’t get enough.

He lifted his head on a deep exhale. “Aren’t you full of surprises?”

“Am I?”

“Yeah, I’d say you are.”

She smiled. “I like that.”

Stepping back, he resettled his hat on his head. “I can see you’re going to be trouble, too.”

She liked that even more. She smiled wider, and then she laughed, feeling good for the first time in—

Well, a really long time.

Chapter Nine

The kiss wouldn’t stop chasing him. Days later, Jack could still taste her sweetness and feel the press of her lips against his.

He stared, unseeing, at the report in front of him. It was the preliminaries on the water clarifying system and a test case in New Mexico, and he’d been anxiously waiting to see if his hypotheses on the effectiveness of the water treatment were founded. Only he couldn’t get past the first page, because all he could think about was Lady Portia Summerhill’s seductive lips.

Ridiculous—or marvelous, depending on the time of day.

The assistant he’d been assigned buzzed through the intercom. “Mr. Waite, your father is on line one.”

He considered pretending not to know how to use the phone system, but it was only a matter of time before his dad would find a way to him, so he bit the bullet and picked up the line. “Dad, isn’t it in the middle of the night in Texas?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” his father muttered. “Damn vegetables your mama made me eat for dinner gave me indigestion.”

“So you thought you’d call and take out your foul temper on me?” Jack said with enough humor to rile his father up.

“I’m not in a damn foul temper,” Hiram bellowed over the line. “A man doesn’t need a reason to call his only son, especially when the son is in dire straits.”

“I didn’t realize I was that bad off.”

“Damn skippy, you are. In truth,
you’re
probably the reason my gut’s all tied up. It’s one of those psychic link things parents have with their children.”

Jack had never heard of any such phenomena, but he was willing to humor the old man. “What’s your sixth sense saying?”

“That you’re floundering over there in England.”

Not too far off the truth, though he knew his dad meant because of the resort project and not Portia Summerhill. “The project is getting back on track. I sent you an update. Meredith has a plan for completing the interior design, and Quinn has everyone trembling in fear of his wrath. It’s a bit delayed still, but it should come in closer to the original date of completion.”

“Something’s wrong,” Hiram insisted. “You don’t sound right.”

Because he had a severe case of lust for a prissy British woman who wore saloon-girl underwear.

“Does this have to do with that girl you hired?” his father asked.

Jack blinked. Maybe the old man
did
have a psychic connection. “What do you know about her?”

“That she’s working on organizing the crap they carted out of Suncrest Park.”

Jack didn’t need to ask who told him that. “What else did Quinn tell you?”

“That the girl has long legs.”

He groaned. “I don’t have a weakness for long legs despite what you all think.”

“The hell you don’t, son. You take after me. One look at your mama’s legs and I was done for life.”

He put a hand over his eyes. “I don’t need to think about Mama’s legs.”

“Because you have enough on your mind with this new girl’s legs,” his father declared. Then he lowered his voice and said, “Does Meredith know?”

“Does Meredith know what?”

“About the Summerhill girl.”

“Of course Meredith knows about her. They’re working together.”

“And Meredith doesn’t care?”

“You know you sound like an old gossip.” Jack frowned. “Why would Meredith care?”

“She’s your fiancée.”

“Not anymore, and she’s the one who broke off the engagement.”

“Meredith is a sweet, delicate lady.”

Jack snorted. “Meredith is steely and cold in the center.”

“Sometimes, boy, you don’t have the sense of a mule.”

Jack threw his hands in the air. “What does that mean?”

“See?
That’s
what I’m talking about.” There was a rustling, and then his father’s voice fell into a whisper. “Gotta go. Your mama’s looking for me. I miss you, son.”

“Miss you, too, Dad,” Jack said, hanging up the phone as a knock sounded at his door. “Come in,” he yelled.

Quinn opened the door, swinging a large pair of ladies leopard-print briefs on his index finger. “Was there a party here last night I wasn’t aware of?”

The red underwear had disappeared, so he figured it’d been time to up the ante. Quinn was lucky he hadn’t bought edible underwear and hung it with a bite taken out. “She was a wild girl.”

“And abundant.” Quinn rehung the panties on the doorknob and closed the door. “Your panties are the topic of conversation around the water cooler, but I assured the staff you only wear them every other Sunday.”

“You’re a pal.” Then he frowned. “Actually, you’re not a pal. What are you doing telling my dad about Portia?”

Quinn’s face settled into the impassive mask he portrayed when he did business. He pulled up a chair and crossed his legs. “I report to Hiram about everything business related, and that includes when your personal life and the company intersect.”

“My personal life is nowhere near Portia.”

“Not yet, but you’d like it to be.” Quinn picked a bit of lint off his pant leg. “And knowing you, you’re headed in that direction already.”

Jack frowned. “What does that mean?”

“You always accomplish what you set out to do, and women find you irresistible.”

He crossed his arms as he leaned back and propped his boots on the desk. “At least you didn’t say I couldn’t resist her legs.”

“I figured it was redundant to state it.” Quinn straightened his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “The fact of the matter is that you don’t know what her motives are.”

“Yes, I do.” When she’d talked about the museum job and how the only way she’d get it was if she delivered that stupid tiara to the director, her heart was in her eyes. She wanted that job the same way he wanted to be free of Waite Hotel Group. He’d wanted to go have a talk with that museum director and tell him what an ass he was for not hiring her right off. Anyone who cared that much about a job was going to excel at it.

“What do you know?” Quinn asked, pulling him back into the moment. “You have no idea what this tiara is or how much it’s worth. What is she going to do with it? What if she’s conning us?”

“She’s not conning us, and if she were, she’d be conning me.” But he knew she wasn’t. “You have nothing to do with the deal.”

Quinn stared at him for a long silent moment. Then he stood. “I hope you’re right.”

“Funny how you don’t mention when
your
personal and business life intersect.” Jack grinned as his right-hand man stopped and gave him a warning look. “When do we get to have that conversation?”

“Never.” Quinn turned and left the office.

Leaving Jack feeling vindicated.

And he was right about Portia. It was Reginald Summerhill he had doubts about. The man had sold his birthright for money without any thought to it, its contents, or his family’s future. What if he’d sold the tiara separately? It wouldn’t have been surprising.

And then what would Portia do?

It wasn’t his problem.

But even as he had that thought, he knew he was lying to himself. It may not be his problem, but he wanted it to be.

He stood up, hesitated by the door, and then slapped on the cowboy hat. Grinning, he headed to the auction house’s storage facility. He’d ask his duchess to tea. The British loved tea, right?