Taming the Lone Wolff(37)

                Her painful naïveté found a cynical spot deep inside him and softened it, made him want to smile despite his physical distress. “Meet me downstairs in twenty minutes,” he said quietly, actually looking forward to this trip home. “I’ll have the driver come up for your bags.”

                Winnie shifted her weight from one leg to the other. And she was barefoot. Again. “I mean it,” she said, her pointed chin aimed at him in a stubborn tilt.

                “Mean what?”

                “You wouldn’t enjoy it.”

                “Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he said, taunting her gently, but realizing ruefully that she had him twisted in knots. “I’ve got plans for you, Winnie. So be forewarned.” Perhaps he was warning himself, as well, because the consequences of deviating from his personal code were impossible to anticipate and likely to bring chaos and turmoil.

                Even so, he had to have her.

                * * *

                Winnie brushed her teeth and threw her last-minute personal items into her bag. Her hands shook so badly that she dropped and broke a vial of expensive French perfume.

                The fragrance was exotic, alluring…everything she was not. It was a gift last Christmas from her contact at the social services agency. Winnie had thought to take it with her to Wolff Mountain. Now it was ruined. Avoiding the glass, she touched her fingertips in the pale liquid and dabbed behind her ears and between her breasts.

                The bit that remained in the bottle she put in a drawer. Perhaps it wouldn’t evaporate before she got back. The air around her was heavy with the evocative scent. Suddenly, she flashed to an image of Larkin taking her here in the bathroom, their bodies slick with sweat. Dear Lord.

                On shaky legs she walked back into the bedroom and retrieved her purse. She needed to say goodbye to Mrs. Cross and see if she had any last-minute questions. Leaving her door open so Larkin would know it was okay to get her bags, she walked downstairs.

                He came through the front door just as she reached the foyer. His eyes widened when he saw her shoes. She had purchased a pair of taupe “big-girl” pumps with three-inch heels. The added height made her feel reckless. Larkin’s eyes glazed over as he ran his gaze from her feet, up her legs, to her breasts.

                Hot color flooded her face and neck. “I’ll be in the kitchen,” she said, turning away from him so she could breathe.

                “The driver’s here.”

                “I won’t be long.”

                “What about your sub?”

                “My friend will arrive in a little while, but we don’t need to wait. She and Mrs. Cross have held down the fort for me before when I’ve had to be away.” She fled just as the uniformed chauffeur entered, the man following Larkin upstairs for the luggage.

                By the time she returned, Larkin stood impatiently at the front door. “Come on,” he said. “We don’t want to be late.”

                The limo was a deliberate choice. Larkin and Winnie wanted anyone watching to buy the story about Winnie heading to St. Barts. The driver had left the privacy window down. Larkin didn’t ask for it to be raised. Consequently, conversation was minimal as they headed toward the airport just outside of Nashville.

                It was just as well. Winnie couldn’t think of a single conversational topic that would be innocuous enough to blot out the memory of what had transpired in the kitchen that morning. Larkin sprawled in his corner, his expression inscrutable, his gaze trained on the passing scenery. When it became painfully apparent that he was ignoring her, she checked messages on her phone, sent Mrs. Cross one last text about next week’s grocery order and then mimicked Larkin’s posture.