A Year and a Day (Harlequin Super Romance) Read online

  “Hello, Jonathan. Audrey.” Ross shook Jonathan’s hand, then reached down to brush his lips across Audrey’s cheek. His gaze caught hers, but he quickly looked away, avoiding her eyes while Jonathan greeted Sylvia.

  Sylvia laughed at something Jonathan had whispered in her ear, then turned to Audrey. “Let’s get you something to drink, and I’ll tell you all about the fabulous new designer I found. I think his stuff would look great on you.”

  “I’ll watch for you,” Jonathan called out, his voice low and even.

  Audrey followed the other woman through the foyer. Red poinsettias lined the stairway. Garlands of magnolia leaves hung from the banister, draping the entrance to the ballroom. Bottles of Dom Perignon and crystal glasses caught the light from the chandeliers suspended overhead. A tuxedo-clad singer crooned a Sinatra tune, an orchestra set up behind him.

  “Love the coat,” Sylvia said, rubbing a hand across the sleeve of Audrey’s mink.

  “Thanks.” Audrey handed it to a hovering butler. She despised it. Despised herself more for wearing it when the thought of killing an animal for its fur had always repulsed her. But she mostly hated the coat because it had been one of Jonathan’s extravagant apologies. One of many.

  Sylvia passed her a glass of champagne. “Missed you at the League fashion show yesterday. Some of the cruisewear was simply to die for.”

  Audrey took a sip, not meeting the other woman’s eyes. “Really?”

  Sylvia made a sound of disapproval. “I wish I could afford to be as unconcerned as you. But then you could put on a sack and look great in it.”

  Audrey wondered what Sylvia would have said if she told her what she saw when she looked in the mirror. “Did you find anything for your trip to St. Barts?” she asked, forcing herself to make an effort at polite conversation.

  Sylvia brightened. “A few things, but I’m really excited about the Martin Hospice show on the second. You’re still planning to go, right?”

  Actually, she’d forgotten about it. Jonathan had brought home the invitation, suggested she go with Sylvia. It was good to be seen at such events. She would have preferred to make an anonymous donation, but that would have been wasting an opportunity for public credit. “I—yes,” she said.

  “Of course, it’s a charity show, but I understand Neiman’s has held back some of their spring items to donate.”

  “How nice,” Audrey said.

  Sylvia went on to tell her about the Dolce & Gabbana swimsuit Carol Estings had all but ripped from her hand last week at Saks.

  Audrey made the appropriate sounds of interest, all the while wishing she could fast-forward the next few hours. Get past the night’s inevitable conclusion. Even if she stood in a corner by herself, there was always a trigger. A passing waiter who smiled her way. A married man asking directions to the bathroom.

  It didn’t have to make sense. It rarely did. The conclusion was inevitable.

  CHAPTER TWO

  NICHOLAS STOOD on the fringe of the Websters’ party, reminding himself he needed to mingle. As the most recently hired partner at Webster & Associates, working the crowd for future clients was the reason he’d been invited here tonight.

  But he was out of his element. And then some.

  Surrounding him were the elite of Atlanta society. CEOs lamenting the Dow-Jones. A lawyer bragging about the workhorse of a paralegal he’d just hired. A local actress touting her most recent chemical peel.

  He’d left the surprise party at the office and driven home to change. He glanced down at his newly purchased tuxedo, wondered if it looked as wrong on him as it felt. He’d never been a tuxedo kind of guy, but then he’d never imagined himself going to work for one of the biggest corporate law firms in the city either.

  Things changed.

  People changed.

  He let his gaze wander the room, noticing two women who, like him, stood at the edge of the crowd, talking. On the left, Sylvia Webster. They’d met a few days ago in Ross’s office. Nice enough, if a little eager to please where her husband was concerned.

  The woman beside her looked familiar, but he couldn’t place where he’d seen her. Beautiful. But there was something else in her face that made him look closer. The impression that like him, she might be tolerating the party rather than enjoying it.

  He glanced at her left hand. A wedding ring gleamed in the light.

  “There you are, Nicholas.” Ross Webster wound his way around a few people, leaving space for the man who followed closely behind. “I want you to meet one of our most important clients. Jonathan Colby, this is Nicholas Wakefield, our newest partner at W&A.”

  Colby stuck out his hand, his grip firm, authoritative. An inch or two under six feet, he had the stature of a man clearly used to having other people’s attention. He reminded Nicholas of a stallion he’d seen with a group of mares on a trip out west when he was a boy. With a look, that stallion had made his position clear to any would-be encroachers. Dared them to challenge him.

  “Good to meet you, Nicholas,” he said, his voice smooth and welcoming.

  “Pleasure, Mr. Colby. I’m looking forward to working with you.”

  “Jonathan, please. I would say you’re in for a big change from high crimes and misdemeanors.”

  “I’m counting on it,” Nicholas said.

  “We’ll have plenty to keep you busy.” Colby held his gaze for a moment, then smiled and mentioned some of the things they had in the works, a pending lawsuit with a company out of Savannah and a couple other things that sounded tame enough. But then that was exactly what Nicholas had signed on for, wasn’t it?

  Tame.

  AUDREY STOOD at one end of the Websters’ massive living room, an upbeat Cole Porter tune plucking at her sensitized nerves.

  Sylvia had excused herself to check with the caterer on the champagne levels, and Audrey was glad to escape her questioning eyes.

  She glanced around for Jonathan.

  A few minutes ago, he’d been standing by the bar talking to Ross and a younger man she did not recognize.

  She caught sight of Jonathan at the foot of the curved marble staircase. He adjusted his bowtie, then took the stairs two at a time.

  Her lungs seized with the need for air. She weaved her way to the back of the house and pushed out the French doors into the night.

  LAURA WEBSTER STOOD in the middle of her childhood bedroom, halfway through her second glass of wine. Ridiculously enough, the room was still pink and white, her old toys neatly arranged on the shelves next to her bed.

  She glanced at her watch. He was late. They’d agreed to meet at ten-thirty. Nearly an hour ago.

  Patience had never been one of her strong suits.

  Laura hated to be kept waiting. As an only child, her life to date had been one of immediate gratification, and she wasn’t very adept at handling anything less. Both her parents generally fell over themselves making sure her every need was met.

  And she had a lot of needs. Most recently, a fondness for Prada, which she’d indulged during a weekend trip to Manhattan, maxing out her platinum Visa.

  Her dad obviously hadn’t gotten the bill yet. All of his blood vessels were still intact.

  But then giving her stuff made her parents happy. They were the ones who’d set it up that way. No, Laura, we can’t make it to your horse show this weekend, but if you do well, we’ll talk about that new pony.

  They’d taught her the payoff system early in life. And she had always been a good student.

  She moved to the dresser, picked up a sable powder brush and flicked it over nose and chin, studying herself in the mirror, liking what she saw. Small nose, full mouth, chin-length dark hair with subtle highlights courtesy of Madison Avenue’s Jean-Paul. When she walked by, men looked. A date tonight would have been a non-issue, and yet here she stood, waiting.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  Laura picked up her wineglass, and cleared her expression of everything but indifference. “Come in.”

&nb
sp; The door opened. She hadn’t turned on a lamp, and for a moment, Jonathan was illuminated by the light from the hallway. He stepped inside, closed the door behind him. “I’d given up on you.”

  “Sorry,” he said, but didn’t look it.

  She tamped down her irritation, refusing to let it show. She’d wanted him since she was sixteen years old. Had started flirting with him at her parents’ parties, a brush of the arm here, a lingering look there. Teasing him had been like tossing a match at the edge of a streak of gasoline, hoping it would strike and yet clueless as to how to put the fire out if it did.

  It had taken six years for her efforts to finally burst into full flame. Sometimes, she wasn’t sure if she could handle what she’d gotten herself into. But she did like trying.

  She crossed the room, slipped her hand inside his white shirt.

  “I don’t have long,” he said, looking down at her with a flare of heat in his eyes.

  Laura liked that.

  She slid the strap of her dress off one shoulder, then the other. It fell to the floor. Beneath, she wore nothing.

  His mouth found the curve of her throat, teeth nipping just behind her ear.

  There were no lights on in the room, but the curtains were open, and noise drifted up from the party. He backed her closer to the window, kissing her so hard that she felt a bruise bloom on her mouth.

  Anyone who looked up could have clearly seen them.

  Laura liked that, too.

  NICHOLAS’S SOCIAL SKILLS could be classified as rusty at best, and, with another half hour to go before midnight, he headed out one of the doors at the back of the house, intent on a few minutes of solitude. A slate terrace took up much of the yard. Round white tables with matching chairs were scattered across the expanse of it, umbrellas planted in the center of each one. A set of wide stone steps led away from the lit-up house.

  Three-quarters of the way down, he saw her. Her hair was a pale blond, straight, parted in the middle. It grazed the curve of her shoulder. Diamond earrings matched the one on her left hand in size.

  Compared to the plunging necklines most of the women had worn here tonight, her dress rated conservative. Understated though it was, it failed to conceal the curves of her body. She had a quiet elegance that was undeniably appealing.

  He recognized her then. Recalled a newspaper photo of her at some fund-raiser.

  Colby. Audrey Colby.

  He should go back inside.

  Nicholas had always trusted his intuition. It was almost never wrong.

  But he ignored the voice of reason now. Something stronger pulled him across the terrace, as if he’d been drawn by some magnetic force field.

  She looked up and took a step back. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “I didn’t hear you,” she said, one hand at her throat.

  He slid one finger around the rim of his shirt collar. “It was getting a little stuffy in there. The air feels good.”

  “Yes, it does,” she agreed after a few seconds. She watched him for a moment, then said, “Excuse me,” before stepping past him toward the steps that led to the house.

  Again, that voice. Let her go. “You’re Jonathan Colby’s wife, aren’t you?”

  She stopped on the third step, her back to him, pausing before she half turned, silent.

  “I’m Nicholas Wakefield,” he added. “Ross just hired me. I’ll be working with your husband.”

  She stared at him for another long moment during which he saw something in her expression he couldn’t quite identify. Disapproval? A quick in-take of breath, and the look disappeared to be replaced with blankness. He thought he might prefer the disapproval, even though it made him curious as hell. He filed that alongside his initial impression of Colby. Interesting.

  “Congratulations, Mr. Wakefield.” She started up the steps. “I really have to go now.”

  Nicholas didn’t think there would have been much of anything left in the world that could bother him. For the past nine years, he’d had crazies traipsing through his office, calling him obscenities that would curl most people’s hair. Why then was he bothered by this woman’s tone? Maybe because there was judgment in it. And he wanted to know why. “Did I say something to offend you, Mrs. Colby?”

  His question stopped her again halfway up the stairs. She turned around, slowly retracing her steps. She glanced quickly over her shoulder at the house. “I don’t know what would make you think that.”

  “Why don’t we try this again?” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Nicholas Wakefield.”

  Reluctantly, she offered her own. “Audrey Colby.”

  Her voice was Southern-soft at the edges. Even in the shadowed light, her eyes ensnared him. Wounded eyes. As if they held scars that ran deep.

  She glanced again at the doorway, then stepped deeper into the darkness close to the rock wall behind them. “All those people…it gets a little close.”

  He couldn’t have said why, other than the fact that she was married to his new firm’s biggest client, but he was uneasy being here with her. It had been a long time since he’d felt awkward around a woman. “Yeah,” he said finally. “That crowd can get a little—” He broke off, deciding she wasn’t the person to whom he should reveal his real feelings about the party.

  “Presumptuous?” she finished, surprising him.

  He tilted his head to one side. “Your word.”

  “Yes. My word.”

  “Good music, though.” Jill Scott floated out from the speakers at the back of the house, the band apparently taking a break.

  She glanced again in the direction of the door.

  He leaned a hip against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. “So. Made any resolutions for the New Year?”

  A stretch of silence and then she replied, “Only one.”

  When she failed to ask the same question of him, he volunteered the information anyway. “I made one or two, despite my cynicism. Think you’ll stick with yours?”

  She looked back out into the darkness, her face set, unsmiling. “Yes,” she said.

  A door opened behind them. Laughter flowed out from the party into the night. Audrey took a startled step farther into the shadows.

  A man crossed the terrace, stopped by one of the carriage lights and lit a cigarette.

  “Are you all right?” Nicholas asked.

  “Yes. Thank you. But I have to go,” she said.

  He couldn’t explain the disappointment he felt. There was nothing logical about the instant connection he had with this woman. He knew nothing about her, and yet, inexplicably, he wanted to know everything there was to know.

  She stepped around him and ran back up the stairs.

  He lifted a hand. “Wait!”

  But she kept going. And did not look back.

  THE RIDE HOME was silent.

  But in the back of the limousine, the air hung thick as a Georgia summer afternoon before a storm. Audrey kept her face averted, staring out the window at the passing night.

  How easy it would be just to open the door and throw herself onto the pavement. Coward’s way out, though. That would only be ending her own misery.

  And if it could have been as simple as that, she might have done so long ago.

  But there was Sammy.

  When the car glided to a stop at the front of the house, the driver opened the back door. Jonathan slid out and waited for Audrey to follow.

  “Good night, Thomas,” Jonathan said.

  “’Night, Mr. Colby. Mrs. Colby.”

  “Good night.” Audrey headed for the front door without waiting for Jonathan. He was right behind her. She tried to stick her key in the lock, but he jerked it from her hand, stabbing it inside the hole and opening the door with a brutal shove.

  Marsha Lynch, the sitter, appeared in the hallway, one hand to her throat. “Oh. Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Colby. I wasn’t sure that was you at first.”

  Audrey forced a smile. “Is everything all right, Mar
sha?”

  “Just fine. He’s been asleep for hours.”

  Jonathan pulled out his wallet, paid the girl, his abrupt “Good night,” a clear dismissal.

  “Call me anytime,” Marsha said, her face stiff with uncertainty. She left then, closing the heavy front door behind her.

  Jonathan dropped his keys on the entrance table with a clatter that shook Audrey’s nerves and rang out in the otherwise silent house.

  “Jonathan, please,” she said in a quiet voice. “Sammy’s—”

  “Sammy!” he exploded. “Can you think about anything besides Sammy?” He said the boy’s name with a sneer. He’d always insisted that she call him Samuel. It infuriated him when Audrey slipped and called her son by the name she preferred. Jonathan moved toward the living room, jerking his overcoat off and throwing it across the back of the leather couch.

  Audrey stood in the foyer for several seconds, her eyes closed, a knot in her stomach. She headed for the stairs then. This could still be avoided. If she just left him alone, maybe it would blow over. She repeated the same rationalizations she always did, even though these episodes were like a storm moving in from the sea. She could do nothing but wait out its arrival.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he said, his voice louder now. If she ran upstairs, he would follow, knock down the door, if necessary. And then Sammy would wake up…

  She stopped with one hand on the rail, then turned and made her way back to the living room, each step a force of will.

  She paused in the doorway. “Jonathan, let’s just go to bed. I’m tired, and—”

  “Was your little meeting on the terrace so exhausting?” He stood behind the wet bar, pouring scotch into a glass, his voice eerily calm.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He took a swallow of the liquor, added another shot from the decanter and crossed the room, the click of his shoes on the wood floor menacing. “I’m not in the mood for games, Audrey.”

  “I went out for some fresh air. That’s all.”

  “Fresh air,” he said, sarcasm tainting the words. “And Webster’s new partner just happened to be out there at the same time.”