Naked Hope (28 page)

Jill didn’t have to be told twice. She stripped out of her clothes. Warmth from the robe eased into her tight shoulders as she spun one of the carousels reading the names of nail polish out loud. “
Sterling Silver Rose, Love Me Red, Smokin’ in Havana, Kissable, Midnight Secret, Try Me

”

“Oooh,
Try Me
—that’s luscious,” Terri said indicating one of the reclining chairs. “Many of my clients just love that one. You have a wonderful aura—perfect for that color.”

Jill giggled. She couldn’t help herself. There was just no way she could imagine herself with
Try Me
nails. “I’m sure, but I’ll just go with a French manicure.”

Terri looked at Gage. “How about you? You up for one of those?”

“Either
Kissable
or
Love Me Red
.”

Jill slipped off to some wonderful place beyond oblivion when Terri clucked, “Your hands have been neglected. They show signs of too much tension. That kind of tension circulates through the body. While you’re here, why don’t you have a massage? I have someone special in mind for you. Very spiritual. He’ll know exactly how to make you feel like a new woman.”

Although Jill had often recommended massage to others, she’d never actually had one herself. The idea of allowing a stranger such familiar contact with her body was just a little too touchy-feely. “No massage, but there is something I’d like to have done.”

Terri’s eyes widened. “What’s that?”

Jill flushed as she fought back the anticipation of Gavin’s reaction to her next request. “I’d like to—do you do waxings?”

“Sure. Brows, upper lip, those stubborn little chin hairs, underarms, bikini.”

“Bikini.”

Gage craned her neck and stared at Jill. “You’re getting a bikini wax?”

Still flushing, Jill nodded, aware of just how out of character she was. “And I’ve changed my mind about that massage.”

Gage flexed her fingers, examining Merri’s handiwork and smiled. “I’ll have what she’s having.”

Terri topped off their champagne. “Follow us, ladies. What kind of waxing are you interested in?”

Confused, Jill asked, “I don’t understand.”

Terri led Jill into a private room and pointed to a diagram on the wall. “Well, if you look at our diagram, you’ll see various options.”

Jill drained her glass, eying the diagram. “Oh, just take it all.” She giggled. “Make a clean sweep.”

Half an hour later, lying stark naked, except for the little strip of cloth across her sacral region which was now
sans
anything-but-skin, Jill luxuriated under the long, slow strokes being administered by the gloriously bronzed Hans. He placed a warmed stone at the nape of her neck, more stones at her shoulders, and a trail of stones along her spine. He planted one in the palm of each hand, on the rise of her calves, and in the arches of her feet.

Steeped in warmth, she relaxed as he worked the stones, gently pressing them into her skin, and coaxing her muscles until they loosened. When the stones cooled, he removed them and massaged warm oil into her shoulders. The oil smelled faintly sweet, and she liked it.

“What is that?” In her tranquil state, she could hardly get out the words.

Hans’ smile warmed his words. “The blend is one of my own. Your body is telling me it needs attention. Too much stress. Not enough joy. What you smell is a mixture of Ylang Ylang and chamomile. This blend helps combat stress and mental fatigue, and opens you up to new possibilities—things you might not have seen clearly before.”

The last of her resistance to massage evaporated under the care of Hans whose hands were strong, yet gentle. He used his fingertips, the palms of his hands, his thumbs, and at times, his knuckles to strip away the tension, layer by layer. By the time Hans finished, Jill thought they’d have to roll her off the table.

“Wine,” Gage decreed after they’d showered.

Over a bowl of
tagliatelle
with cream of walnuts, olives and
prosciutto di parma,
Jill asked, “How difficult is obtaining an accident report?”

“A current report?”

As she fingered the stem of her wine glass, Jill hedged. “Define current.”

Gage smoothed her napkin across her lap. “Open. Is the case still open? Oh, you’re talking about the accident that killed Vivienne Fairfield.”

“Yes.”

“If you want the report, I can get it. But why? What will that accomplish for either of you?”

Jill twirled her wine. “I’m stuck on the fact Vivienne was diagnosed as a somatic narcissist.”

Gage drew back and her eyebrows shot up. “She was? Then there’s no way she would have committed suicide, you can bet on that.”

Jill nodded. “Exactly. Which is why I’d like to see the report. Even if she was planning to kill herself the odds of her intentionally involving Olivia are even lower. Narcissists can’t bear to share the spotlight, even after they’re dead. Vivienne would have viewed Olivia as quite a scene stealer. So, I’d like to know why the police ruled it a suicide/attempted homicide.”

Gage bit her lip and leaned forward. “This might not be anything. I was pulled off the case before I got started, but from what I saw, the evidence pointed to someone forcing her off the road. That night was one of the worst thunder storms I can remember. Trees were down everywhere. I’ve never seen a crime scene get messed up so fast. Crews couldn’t come in and clear the wreck until the next day.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Well, Vivienne’s narcissistic tendencies aside, if a woman is planning to commit suicide, why would she pack up all her stuff? I’d be interested to learn if the police did an inventory of the car. If so, did they find any of Olivia’s clothes?”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” Jill’s eyes widened.

Gage took out her phone and made a few notes. “Okay, I’m on it. But how will this help Gavin?”

Jill pushed crumbs around on the white tablecloth. “I’m not sure yet. Maybe it won’t. The idea he should have known what Vivienne was about to do is killing him. He thinks he could have—strike that,
should
have—prevented the tragedy. He can’t forgive himself and so he can’t give up until his daughter is a musician again.” Jill flattened her hands against the table. “I’m hoping to convince him once and for all that the accident was the tragic outcome of a random event. There’s no way to protect the ones we love from random events.”

Chapter Twenty-One

No matter how many times she searched her closet, Jill couldn’t find anything appropriate for a Thanksgiving dinner with the Fairfields. But after a quick trip next door, she returned with a cashmere dress. Navy blue for his parents, soft and comfortable for Olivia, and a just-this-side-of-daring neckline with a cut that skimmed her body like a wetsuit for Gavin.

Jill kept turning in the mirror, trying to make up her mind. A little too tight, maybe? She caught one last glance on her way to answer the door and relaxed. She looked hot, yet respectable. Through the foyer window, she spotted the Bentley. A tremor of disappointment ran through her. She’d expected Gavin, not Baines. But to her surprise, when she opened the door, she found Olivia impatiently tapping her foot.

“Hurry,” the little autocrat commanded. “We have to get back fast or Master Steven will start without me.”

Jill barely managed to collect her coat and purse before Olivia seized her hand and dragged her to the Bentley. She yanked open the door and gave Jill a shove, then hopped in beside her. “Scoot down closer to Daddy so I can get the door closed.” She slammed the door. “Okay Baines, let’s go. I can’t be late.”

Gavin grinned. “I see she didn’t give you a chance to put on your coat. Would you like me to help you with that, or are you warm enough in here without it?”

Every word he spoke unleashed his sheer sensuality.

Olivia popped ear buds into her ears and turned on her iPod.

Gavin grazed his lips against her ear. “If you get cold, just lean into me.”

Jill smiled, considered brushing her lips lightly across his, glanced briefly at Olivia, and leaned forward. “Happy Thanksgiving, Baines.”

Baines caught her gaze in the rear view mirror. “Always a pleasure to see you, Dr. Cole.”

Gavin squeezed Jill’s hand.

She caught her breath at the intensity of his touch and glanced at Olivia.

With his other hand, he brushed the hair from her neck and whispered. “Don’t worry about Liv. She’s cool.”

“Cool about what?” she asked, wondering what he’d done, now.

He nuzzled her hair. “She knows Thanksgiving’s a time for family, and that you’re a part of ours. Any objections?”

Was there no managing this man?
Jill’s eyes widened.
Would she ever get used to his over-zealous leaps? Was he so entirely unaware of the possible consequences if Olivia’s reaction to their relationship was negative?

Olivia yanked out one of her ear buds. “Daddy, are you sure Master Steven hasn’t started without me?”

“Who is Master Steven, and what would he have started without her?” Jill asked.

“You’ll see.” Gavin winked and squeezed her hand. “What do you normally do for Thanksgiving?”

His question unlocked a torrent of emotion. Before she could stop herself, Jill crumpled against his shoulder, her eyes burning with tears.

He rocked her until she quieted. “I’m sorry, Jillian, I’d forgotten that only four months have elapsed since your sister passed.”

Earbuds forgotten, Olivia’s hand snaked to Jill’s.

Grateful for the child’s touch, Olivia whispered in a voice far beyond her years, “It’s hard to lose someone we love.”

Edith greeted them in the foyer, the smell of roasted turkey clinging to her. “Jillian. I’m so glad you’re here. Come and help me with the plum sauce. I’m not doing something right.”

“You’re making plum sauce?” Jill’s eyes rimmed with tears again, and she blinked hard.

Edith’s hand flew to her mouth. “Isn’t that what you usually have, dear? I’m just sure that’s what Olivia read.”

“Now where would Liv read anything like that?” Gavin asked, his voice muffled from hanging up coats in the mudroom.

Edith eyed her son. “Where indeed?”

Jill swallowed against the lump in her throat. “Yes, that’s right. My mother made plum sauce every year until she died. After that, Anna and I kept the tradition going.”

Edith slid her arm through Jill’s. “Well, I’ve never made the dish before. Can you give me a hand? Maybe you can show me what I’m doing wrong.”

The kitchen exploded with the heady smell of cranberries, scalloped corn, sautéed onions with sage and garlic, and the unmistakable sweetness of a freshly baked apple pie.

“Did you run the plums through a food processor?” Jill asked. “I don’t use a recipe anymore but the ones I’ve seen never divulge that little trick. Makes a world of difference. And a touch of sweet sherry vinegar.”

“Wonderful, and now that you’re here,” Edith said, tying an apron around Jill’s waist, “you can give me a hand chopping the shallots. We always give Cook Thanksgiving off. She has a large family and I do love cooking at Thanksgiving.”

Baines appeared in the doorway. “My apologies for interrupting, madam.” He inclined his head. “Has the little miss been in here?”

Olivia burst into the kitchen behind Baines, shrieking, “He wasn’t supposed to start without me.”

Jill noted Olivi’s hot little face registered wounded indignation and tears trickled down her cheeks.

Baines made a decorous turn and held out his hand. “Perhaps you would allow me to stand in, just until Master Steven is finished with your father?”

Olivia wilted.

Baines picked her up and carried her out of the kitchen, the little girl’s head resting against the Baines’ massive shoulder.

Jill looked at Edith aware of how focused Olivia was on Master Steven. “Who is this mysterious Master Steven I’ve been hearing about?”

Edith leaned in and waved her hand over the plum sauce. “That smells wonderful, dear, and I can see the difference in consistency. I’m afraid I wouldn’t have gotten it right without you.” She untied Jill’s apron. “We’re just about done here. Why don’t you go and find Gavin—he’s in the music hall. He prefers to introduce you to Steven.”

Curiosity and dread warred within her, hen Edith called her back.

“Oh, by the way, dear.” The skin around the older woman’s eyes crinkled. “Did you know my son reads to Olivia from your children’s series every night? We’ve all enjoyed them so much.”

Jill didn’t know what to say. Tears pricked her eyes again. It was to be expected, she supposed. The first one since

” she forced herself to break off the thought.

Edith waved a hand. “Yes, in fact, he’s got quite a collection of all your publications. That’s how Olivia knew about your Thanksgiving plum sauce tradition. Mention is on the back of one of the jacket covers.” She untied her apron and shook it out. “You go on and find Gavin now. We’ll be eating soon.”

Although it was only moments, Jill felt as though it took her forever to walk from the kitchen to the music hall.

As she entered, she saw a thin, red-haired young man sat at the concert grand. Gavin leaned over him wearing a crisp light blue shirt with the cuffs folded up over his elbows, and dark gray trousers.

Head bent over the music, Gavin pointed. “Yes, I can see why you took that approach but it doesn't work. A good effort, though, Steven. I'm glad to see you taking risks.” He stabbed at his hair, smoothing the stray hair away from his temple. “Now, about this other piece,” he continued, flattening another sheet of music in front of the younger man. “What you’ve done is a start but I think you can take it further. The piece is a little—predictable.”

Gavin straightened, caught her eye and stepped forward, smoothing down his sleeves and buttoning his cuffs. He offered a sweeping smile. “Jillian, I'd like you to meet Steven Graywulf. Steven is here from Scotland, completing his internship with me. Over the years, I've tutored a number of graduate students but Steven here, is by far the most promising. Steven, this is Dr. Jillian Cole, the leading researcher in the field of traumatic brain injury.”

Steven slid off the piano bench. “It’s an honor to meet you, Dr. Cole.”