After the gardener and the landscaping crew left, he took out her gardening tools and clipped a few blooms from each bush. Trailing him to the kitchen, she watched as he made up several vases. He placed one by her tub for her to enjoy during her bath. Then he did the same in her library and her upper bedroom. After that, he called a florist and ordered up special bouquets for the upcoming dinner. He also placed a standing order for weekly bouquets to be delivered every Monday, everything from wildflower groupings to more formal, elegant arrangements. He was bringing her house back to life.
When he went back to her garden box and put away her cleaned clippers, he picked up her gloves, held them in his hands. A faint smile crossed his face as he straightened one out on his knee and compared the size of their hands. Then he closed his hand over the glove, brought it to his nose.
She was back at the window by that time. She put her hand on the glass as if she were touching his shoulder, unable to stop herself while he did such an intimate thing. Swallowing, she let the curtain fall back in place. Perhaps her home wasn't the only thing he was reviving. The thought made her throat ache with emotions she couldn't afford to have.
The next night when she rose, she told herself she needed to go to her library and do some paperwork. She managed a half hour before she slipped into the kitchen and studied him as he laid out several selections of plates and compared them to the food choices they'd made for artistic presentation. After he chose some colors she didn't expect but found she liked, he placed them on the sideboard for the caterers to set the table. Cinderella was in fact making sure everything was in place so he could go play with her on Friday. She told herself the "wicked stepmother" comment didn't amuse her, even as her lips twitched at the recollection.
She admitted she was impressed by how competently he did everything, his large hands comfortable handling such delicate things as flowers and china. At the same time, he could pick Bran up around the midsection and wrestle with him in the grass. Or repair the work shed, the muscles of his bare back sculpted beautifully with light perspiration as he sawed wood or hammered nails into it. She'd almost burned a line down her forearm trying to get close enough to the window to watch that before the sun fully set.
Later that same night, she found him in her study, where he'd apparently spent most of the afternoon checking her accounts and familiarizing himself with the transactions and business conducted in her Region.
She knew she was seeing the result of Thomas's rigorous training, but to create a perfect sculpture, the clay had to be right. Her monk had found her a Renaissance man, a jack-of-all-trades confident enough to teach himself whatever he needed to learn, or find someone to teach him by experience.
As engaging as he was to watch at work, the way he spent his leisure time intrigued her even more. When he chose to take a couple hours off, most of the time he read from the books in her library. The choices he made over the several days included a seafaring novel written in the seventeenth century, a Louis L'Amour western and the latest James Patterson novel. There was also a compilation of Leonardo da Vinci's notes on his inventions and a complete how-to on gardening. His absorption in those was a different angle in the same mirror of enthusiasm when he found an X-Men comic sandwiched between two books. She had no idea how it got there but resolved to pick up some more when she saw how he sat cross-legged and barefoot on the library carpet to read it, his back a tempting naked curve, each vertebra coaxing the touch of her fingertips.
When he checked out her cable channels, he made expressions of horror when he found she had nothing but basic service, but he seemed mollified by her DVD player.
So on this fourth night, she reclined near the ceiling, stretched out on top of the custom crafted bookshelves in her office and watched him go through manuals at her desk. As he looked over the maintenance list for her indoor pool system, she wondered if the problem wasn't that he wasn't suitable, but that she didn't want him to be suitable. After all, being a precog would only enhance his strength to serve her, and perhaps balance some of his deficiencies.
Gods, she was giving herself a headache. A normal one, though that didn't abate her irritation.
A furrow creased over his brow. Pursing his lips, he closed the file and rose, headed out of the study toward the pool area. Of course, she followed him.
Most vampires did not like water, but her Fey father had been related to water sprites, so she supposed that explained why she'd always been attracted to the element. While she rarely ventured into it, she'd wanted the pool. It had a curving lotus shape surrounded by tropical vegetation and fountains activated by switches. Jacob played with them, checking the way the lighting worked, making sure no bulbs were out. When he figured out the different control settings on the fountains, he fetched his notebook and made some more notes. Intrigued, she watched as he sat down at the pool's edge and let his feet dangle in the water as he wrote, despite the fact he was immersing his jeans to just below his knees.
After a while he rose and hit the switch to roll back the cover shield on the glass ceiling, allowing the night sky to unfold above him.
Tipping his head back on his shoulders, he looked at the scattering of stars and slice of moon. He closed his eyes and rolled his shoulders, the first time she'd seen him let the demands of the past few days show.
Her concern with that was replaced by something entirely different when he stripped off his shirt. His jeans and underwear came off then, and he toed off his worn loafers. It brought her the scent of earth, for he'd apparently worn them out in the garden earlier and some of the aroma of the dirt had clung to the heels.
Telling herself she had things to do and needed to go, she stayed motionless among the foliage of the tropical plants. The moonlight played across his bare back, the curve of thigh and buttock. It also made the hair brushing just the top of his shoulders gleam. The ends were uneven, suggesting he cut it himself. She wondered if he was planning a haircut before the dinner. He probably would. He seemed to be anticipating everything else.
Apparently the only way she was going to win the pleasure of punishing him again was to poke a stick into those areas where she knew he'd slap back at her. Stirred by the thought, she wanted to reach out and stroke her hand down his back to the dip in his spine, venture to that firm buttock.
Turning his head, he held the pose a moment, apparently listening. For her? But she wasn't breathing, so only the echo of the pool lapping quietly at its edges and the gurgle of the pair of fountains he'd turned on broke the silence.
When he dove in, she watched the wavy line of his body stroking beneath the surface, his hair becoming copper-colored silk. She could imagine him as a merman, the sculpted upper body and a powerful tail gleaming in the moonlight as he lay on his back, tempting her to swim with him. To become something she could not be, losing herself in the pleasure of his company such that she could fool herself into thinking it was possible.
He did about fifty laps. By the time he'd finished, she'd sunk down on folded legs among the ferns, silently marking every stroke of his arms, the sinuous twists he did for the turns. When he came to a rest at her end of the pool, he folded his arms on the edge. Propping his chin on them, he gazed at one of the fountains, a Roman girl pouring water out of an urn onto her female lover's reclining nude body. "Would you care to join me for a swim, my lady?"
Tilting his head, he looked unerringly toward where she was. It surprised her enough she didn't think to move, to be gone before his glance could flicker that way. Was it a lucky guess, a sense he'd tested by speaking aloud? Or another example of that psychic ability?
She masked her reaction, rising to move out of her screened spot. "Vampires don't float, so we don't swim."
He stretched out an arm, flattening a wet palm on the concrete. "I'll hold you up, my lady. The water feels good."
"I'm not dressed for swimming."
Laughter rose in his eyes. "I suspect you're wearing the same type of suit under your clothes that I have on now."
She sighed, eyed him with a hint of exasperation. "I know Thomas didn't teach you impertinence."
No, he didn't. Thomas had admired her, cared for her, but Jacob wasn't sure if the monk had ever truly seen her as a woman. Jacob understood that, for his lady had an otherworldly presence that diminished illusions of human superiority. But at times like this, she was as female as any woman he'd known. He could tell she wanted to join him. He'd sensed her nearby most of the week, and it had nearly driven him mad at times. Smelling the slight hint of her perfume, knowing her silky skin might be within touching distance, her jeweled green eyes studying everything he did. Her moist lips close, parted to breathe air on his skin.
"Please, my lady."
When she came farther out of the screen of tropical plants, the desire he'd kept banked with difficulty sparked at finally seeing the body he'd been imagining all week. She shrugged out of the blouse she'd been wearing, unhooked her skirt and let it drop, leaving her in a pale pink lace bra and panties. The color was nearly transparent, blending with her flesh. He could see the shape of her nipples. When she came to the edge of the pool beside him, he held his position as she lowered herself to the edge and sat, dipping her feet into the water. Carefully at first, testing the temperature, then more confidently as she found it heated. It was far warmer than Jacob preferred, but he knew his lady disliked the cold. For the pleasure of her company, it could be boiling for all he cared. Her foot touched his side under the water, her toe whispering across his hip bone. An invitation.