The Inheritance Test, page 13
Easier to maintain her distance.
Which was non-existent at the moment.
She was wrapped up in his arms, one of his legs thrown over hers. This position was vying for her favorite Declan position (although he’d certainly shown her a few new favorites last night) as her face was pressed against his chest. His heart beat beneath her cheek, solid and steady. And just in case she hadn’t paid enough attention to his chest last night, she brushed a few bonus kisses over the smooth, sun-bronzed skin. She might have licked him. Just once. Okay, twice.
The real problem was that she wanted to do it all again. And then again and again. He held her as if she were precious and he was completely bare. The blanket slipped off one hard, muscled shoulder and of course she couldn’t help looking at him. He was something so unfamiliar, someone she liked—loved, her traitorous heart whispered. This isn’t a simple case of the likes. And maybe, just maybe, he had the same kind of curiosity about her and they could see where this went. She was turning that thought over in her head when the banging sound started up again.
That was bad.
Or good? Had they been found already? Declan cursed, tightening his arms around her and shifting her off and onto the couch. He tugged a blanket around her even as he got up.
“We’ve got company,” he said, cursing some more. “The rescue party’s here.”
While she hadn’t expected to wake up to the first day of forever with Declan, she also hadn’t imagined that they’d be rousted by a large search party. Somehow, when she’d imagined a rescue, she’d imagined a much smaller—and less curious—number of people.
Declan tugged on his cargo shorts and strode over to the door. Despite their drenching in the ocean and rough swim to shore, he looked amazing. She drank in the muscled perfection of his chest, the strong line of his back as he turned, and the tousled mane of hair. And oh, God, if he was wearing just a pair of shorts, she was naked.
He yanked the door open, blocking the doorway with his body. She had a bad feeling that it was too little, too late. After a brief consultation with whoever was out there, he shifted his attention to her.
“We’ve been rescued. Brace yourself.” Then he turned back around to what sounded like a hundred people and said, “Charlotte needs a moment.”
He shut the door and crossed the floor toward her, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“This is totally your fault,” she said. “I’m not the one who got me naked.”
He gathered her clothes from where he’d laid them out to dry and she pulled her leggings and T-shirt on under the cover of the blanket, blessing the quick-dry fabric for living up to it marketing promises. The noise level outside grew. While she donned what armor she could, Declan swiped his T-shirt from the chairback where he’d left it.
“Am I decent?”
“Yeah.” He gave her a quick check. “Charlotte—”
“Because,” she interrupted, “I’ve learned enough about social media to know that I do not want to go out there with my butt hanging out.”
He put a finger on her lips. “I’ll take care of this.”
“Hey,” she said. “We’re partners.”
“Not a dictatorship,” he agreed. “Partners. And as the expert partner on scandals, I’m warning you that things are going to get a little rough out there, but I’m not going anywhere. Got it?”
“O-okay.” It took her two tries to get the word out.
He nodded and then gently pulled her outside and onto the porch. Jeez. She tried to smooth her hair back, to pretend that nothing had happened when everything had changed. People in various uniforms milled around the house and there were even more members of the press. She tipped her head back and, yep—that was a helicopter circling overhead. People greeted Declan by name, offering coffee and jackets, EMTs and assistance. Ryan popped up, moving fast, and the two of them were halfway to him when she spotted the Cupcake washed up on the beach below them.
Oh. My. God.
Their poor Cupcake was in pieces. She lay on her side in the surf, the mast snapped off and the sails dragging in the water. Panic squeezed her chest, the truth hitting her. The race was lost and she wasn’t going to win the money that Martha’s Kids needed to stay afloat itself. All she would be able to do was say “I’m sorry” a billion times.
Declan squeezed her fingers. “I’ll be right back.”
She scanned the crowd while he walked away to exchange a few low, terse words with Ryan. There was no one she really knew, although she could put a few names to some faces as it wasn’t a huge island. The search and rescue team went down to the beach to salvage the boat or whatever it was that people did with shipwrecks. Was there AAA for the boating world? She was still trying to figure it out when Declan handed her a cup of coffee, slipped a pair of shoes he’d magicked up onto her bare feet and shepherded her toward the helicopter that had landed some distance away on an open, grassy expanse.
The press, which had been pushed back down the driveway, started yelling out questions again, asking what had happened.
He barely paused, keeping her tucked into his side. “Bad luck and the storm. You can’t win them all.”
“How do you feel about losing the race when you were was so far out ahead?”
“What do you want to say about the rumors circulating that you’re dead? And that the Academy is planning a tribute?”
“Charlotte! Can you describe Declan’s heroism for us? Did he save your life last night? What was it like being stranded with Declan overnight?”
Everyone turned to stare at her. Why hadn’t someone invented an invisibility cloak? Cameras clicked as she scrambled into the helicopter. She’d never ridden in one before, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
“For God’s sake,” Declan muttered. “Next they’re going to ask if we’ve sold the movie rights.”
“Can we just go home already?” she asked.
“On it,” he said. “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”
* * *
Charlotte’s usual life called for minivans or beat-up SUVs, so the helicopter was perhaps one new thing too many. Declan’s playful exchange with the reporters replayed in her head. Last night he’d said he saw them together, but he’d given no hint of that to the reporters. Since her options were limited, however, she let Declan settle a pair of headphones on her. Moments later the private pilot had them airborne, Martha’s Vineyard falling away from them. Lifestyles of the rich and famous, she thought hysterically.
After a brief flight, the pilot swung them back over the ocean and toward Edgartown. All too soon they were settling down on the concrete helipad behind the house. A late-model BMW was parked next to Declan’s sports car, along with at least a dozen other cars. The pilot killed the engine, and after the blades had stopped spinning, Declan came around to help her out.
“Hi,” he said, wrapping his hands around her waist and swinging her out. She grabbed his shoulders, suddenly off-balance. “We really need to talk.”
She slid her hands off his shoulders. “Right now?”
All she wanted was more coffee, a hot shower and a bed, because she was pretty sure she didn’t want to deal with messing up Martha’s Kids’ second chance yesterday. Plus, she looked about as bad as anyone would after nearly drowning, going without hot water for twenty-four hours and spending the better part of the night making love instead of sleeping.
“There’s a lot of interest in what happened yesterday. TV coverage, social media, that sort of thing. People want to talk to us, hear what happened. We’ve sort of come back from the dead. At least that’s how the headlines read.”
“Everyone thought we were dead?”
He nodded. “And now we’ve been resurrected.”
He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and started toward the house. There was a crowd of people pressed up against some kind of barricade at the end of his driveway. A roar went up when they spotted Declan.
A mound of flowers, stuffed animals and glass candles had been piled up against the barricade. She’d known that Declan was a star, but she hadn’t realized until now what that really meant. Lots and lots of other people thought they lo—liked—him, too.
“Is that what you wanted to talk about?”
“Not really.” He steered her toward the door and then stopped, bracing an arm by her head and leaning in. She rested her forehead on his chest, numb with exhaustion. “But there are lots of people in there. J.J.’s doing media.”
“What? Why?”
Declan’s mouth brushed hers. “Because he’s a Hollywood mogul and this is great exposure. Because he’s an ass. And probably also because he is my father and he thought I was dead.”
“So he’s giving interviews?”
“Some people like to talk.”
Great. She was going to meet J.J. wearing yesterday’s salt-soaked sailing kit. She was just grateful that she couldn’t see what her hair looked like. And yet somehow Declan managed to look rugged and handsome, like a victorious Viking seafarer home from conquest.
Paparazzi called their names, asking Declan how they were.
Declan didn’t slow. “Right now, I need to get the woman I love inside, warm and dry. That’s my only priority.”
She froze. Love?
He tugged her inside while the reporters yelled and cameras went off. Inside turned out to be equally chaotic. Doors were thrown wide, people with headsets rushing in and out and rattling off brief, incomprehensible details to each other. The living room had been turned into a temporary television studio.
A tall, broad-shouldered man in his late fifties strode toward them. His dark hair was streaked with silver, the waves ruthlessly tamed. He wore an open-necked white dress shirt tucked into tailored suit pants and a Rolex glinted on his wrist. He had the same aura of command as Declan, but with a harder, more predatory edge.
“Introduce us,” he said to Declan.
Declan just looked at him. “Charlotte, meet my father, J.J. Masterson.”
“Mr. Masterson.”
“Call me J.J., Charlotte.” J.J.’s hand engulfed hers in a firm, quick grip. “You’re even lovelier than your pictures. Tell me my son took good care of you last night.”
Not sure what to say, she stuck to the truth. “He did.”
J.J. nodded. “He knows the right thing to do on the water.”
Declan stared back at his father and they engaged in a silent conversation, exchanging tense looks.
“Not well enough,” J.J. said with a nod, as if he’d just had the last word in that silent conversation. He winked at her. “But we’ll fix that. There’s an entire team to take care of you. You’re a prize and Declan here knows that.”
Charlotte felt the breath catch in her throat. “Pretty sure I cost him the prize.”
J.J. looked at her. “Not yet, darling. Not yet.”
What?
Then he turned to Declan. “Good job, son.”
“Not now,” Declan growled. “We’re not getting into this right now.”
J.J. waved a hand and walked away with someone who wanted to run a media schedule by him. Charlotte thought she recognized an online reporter from a popular morning show, along with a woman she’d seen on prime time at night. She was too tired to sort it out.
“What you said out there,” she said. “Right before we came in?”
“That the only thing I need to do right now is take care of the woman I love?”
“Yeah, that,” she said faintly.
Declan just watched her.
“You love me?”
“Yes.” He brushed a kiss over her forehead.
She inhaled, legs quivery with exhaustion. “You love me.”
“You don’t have to say anything right now.” He winced. “Or at all. But whenever you do want to say something, I want to listen. Right now, though, I want to get you somewhere you can lie down and be quiet. If that plan’s okay with you.”
“I love you, too,” she whispered.
Sixteen
“You think a free meal is worth all this effort?”
Charlotte jumped, pressing her palms against the windows lining the hotel ballroom. The glass was pleasantly cool despite the decidedly midsummer temperature outside. The sun had barely gone down, but it was dark enough to see the man reflected in the window behind her. Declan. Her tuxedo-wearing, smiling Prince Charming. Her heart did some much less startled, sexier jumping.
“Definitely not.” She tilted her head back, resting it against his shoulder. “But we’re pretending that we’re not sore losers, right?”
“Speak for yourself.” He caged her in his arms, pressing a kiss against the top of her head.
The man in the reflection was extraordinarily handsome in his designer tuxedo, the black jacket stretched across powerful shoulders. He belonged in this room of politicians and celebrities, wealthy Vineyard residents and donors, who had come together to celebrate the winners of the charity race. Surprisingly to her, the woman standing with him looked as if she fit, too.
Charlotte fit.
Almost, impossibly so, or at least with this one, wonderful man. His stylist had pulled a dark rose tuxedo jacket for her with a low-necked white bodysuit that scooped her breasts up and then up some more. The matching floor-length pencil skirt hugged her curves and set off a pair of Christian Louboutin sandals in a glossy red that echoed the cherry-colored lips the makeup artist had given her and the Edwardian rubies surrounded by clusters of old mine-cut diamonds that dangled from her ears. She looked good, she decided. Better than good. Despite everything, she looked—happy.
Or at least, happy enough.
She was trying to decide if Declan regretted their loss when he smiled down at her. Okay. So definitely probably almost certainly teasing. After their disastrous end to the race three days ago, Charlotte suspected that almost everyone would have excused them from tonight’s awards banquet. Most of the other racers had been forced to abandon the race, although none in quite such a spectacular fashion. In the end, the winner had been the last boat to start and had managed to wait until the worst of the sudden storm had blown through before leisurely sailing to the finish line entirely alone. It was the classic Tortoise and the Hare story. No one had expected a member of the local Coast Guard and an international dressage competitor to win. Declan had come in for more than his share of good-natured teasing.
And far too many people had spent the evening staring at her and Declan, speculating about what had happened in that beach house. She told herself that words were, well, just words. She’d ignore them and get on with her life. She’d almost managed to stay off the internet this morning and avoid reading the latest article on how Declan had bravely plunged overboard after her and brought her nearly lifeless body to shore.
Awkward.
But she’d congratulated the winners and tried to pretend that she was merely politely disappointed to have not landed the grand prize for Martha’s Kids. The orchestra hired for the night launched into a waltz.
“One last chance to play Cinderella,” she said.
He pulled her a little closer, giving his head a little shake. “You’ll always be my queen.”
She laughed. “Cheesy, much? Also I’m almost certain that you accused me of being a princess. Have I been promoted?”
He groaned. “You’re not going to let me live that down, are you?”
“No.” She grinned up at him.
“I was wrong.” He nipped her ear gently, smiling. “You’re far more than just a princess.”
“Ruler of the universe, that’s me.” She smiled back at him.
For a hopeful moment, she thought he’d be content to flirt or dance. Instead, he exhaled roughly and his smile turned rueful. “Charlotte?”
“Are you going to ask me questions I don’t want to answer?”
“Probably.”
But he didn’t ask, not right away. Instead he held her, letting her hide behind his broad chest from the billion people crowding the ballroom—all of whom were staring at them or talking about how heroic Declan was and what do you think really happened that night? She wondered what they would think and say if they knew about George’s sticky fingers. After a minute, she took a breath and stepped out of his hold to stand next to him.
He slanted a careful glance at her. “Answer me this. Are you okay?”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Charlotte,” he growled.
“You already said that,” she whispered. His presence beside her felt so good, forming a sort of human shield even though she knew that she could stand up for herself. But no matter how safe and protected and, oh man, so wonderful—white knight Declan was, this side-by-side thing was even better.
“I’m waiting,” he murmured. He took her hand casually, running his thumb over her knuckles.
“We lost.” She shrugged as if it were no big deal, as if she weren’t...overwhelmed by losing that one last chance. Overwhelmed with guilt and remorse, regrets and what-ifs.
“Spectacularly,” he agreed.
“So there’s no million-dollar donation for Martha’s Kids. We could have used that money.”
He nodded once. “For your summer camps. So Maggie can be a kid and Jay can eat himself full for once.”
She loved that he’d really listened to her, and she warned herself not to get any rash ideas about confessing. She needed to keep the truth to herself so she didn’t make things worse, because the district attorney hadn’t given her the green light to talk about the case and because maybe, if they found George fast enough, there would be some money left. It was about trying—and failing—to protect her summer kids, keeping them safe from the mistakes the adults in their lives made.
