When she stopped, Bella surprised Fiona even further when she explained to Jason, “I was so impressed with your Mum’s playing, when I went home I took lessons.” Her face and tone grew wistful when she said, “I haven’t played in years. I forgot how much I like doing it.” Then she gained control and grinned at Jason. “But it makes your fingers hurt.”
Jason grinned back.
Bella handed Jason Fiona’s guitar and finished, her face soft, “That’s what your Mum gave to me, my love of the guitar. And a lot of happy memories filled with laughter. Those things are what I carry in my heart, gifts from Fiona.”
Jason’s grin died and he gulped again.
Fiona gulped too but she didn’t succeed in holding back her tears like her son did.
Quickly, Bella moved past the moment and with great patience, she gave Jason a few pointers. After awhile, his discordant plucking became something else altogether. Finally, she sent him off to bed with the guitar.
Then she went to her rooms. She opened the nightstand and pulled out a new journal. Opening it to the first page and picking up her expensive pen, she wrote about Fiona’s children while Fiona hovered over her and her book, unashamedly reading while Bella wrote.
And Fiona knew those words were some of very few good ones in any of those books.
It was then Fiona decided Sally and Jason were meant to exist in part to heal Bella.
And, as crazy as it sounded, Fiona was proud to have had a hand in that.
When Bella finished, she left her rooms to shut down the house.
All except the light outside, the light in the vestibule and a lamp in the great room.
Then she paced while Fiona trailed behind her. The longer she paced; the more cross she became.
And the more hilarious Fiona found it.
Fiona felt Prentice’s presence first.
She dashed in front of Bella so she could watch her face when she realized he was home.
Bella heard the 4x4; she stopped pacing and glared at the door.
Fiona couldn’t wait to see what happened next.
The door opened.
Bella tensed.
Fiona popped back into her tent by the ever-blossoming apple tree.
“Bloody hell!” she shouted at its silk walls.
* * * * *
Isabella
Isabella didn’t think she’d ever been that angry.
He’d taken her suitcases. And her passport.
It had to be him. Who else could it be? They hadn’t disappeared into thin air!
And why? Why had he taken them?
It was mad. Utterly insane.
She had to go, for his own good, even for the children’s!
Especially after last night.
No, she couldn’t think about last night. She just couldn’t let last night happen again.
Ever.
She just had to get… out… of… there!
Not for herself, but for him.
Her father, who was a jerk, who both she and Prentice knew would always be doing jerky things that would drive Prentice up the wall.
And Jason and Sally would witness it. Heck, they already had! They could even be caught up in it (her father didn’t hesitate with his venom, no matter what your age, that Isabella knew all too well). And this was something which didn’t bear thinking about.
And the photographers, who were annoying, who both she and Prentice knew would always be hounding her and now him and the children. And Prentice would hate that then begin to hate her for bringing that in their lives.
And she was…
She was…
Weak.
Not like Fiona, who was good and talented and funny and loving and strong and confident enough to use bold colors while decorating her house.
Isabella was weak.
And, whatever was in his mind now (and something was definitely in his mind, Isabella just didn’t understand it), Prentice would begin to hate that too.
She had to get out of there. For his own good.
Didn’t he see that? Why couldn’t he see? Why was he keeping her there? Why was he doing this? Why wouldn’t he just let her go?
It was exceedingly exasperating.
She heard the SUV and her eyes turned to the door.
She was going to let him have it the moment he walked in.
She’d practiced her whole speech. Heaven knew, she had enough time waiting for him. And her speech was perfect.
The door opened, Prentice entered and every practiced word flew from her mind.
He walked into his home casually, because he did it every day (so of course it would be casually).
But there was something about watching him coming home after work that hit Isabella in a strange way. It wasn’t unpleasant, not in the slightest.
And he looked good.
Wearing a tan-colored, all-weather canvas jacket that was worn in enough to look good and fit him well, but not worn out, a deep blue button-up shirt, a pair of jeans that were also worn enough to fit (too well) but not worn out and boots.
He was the kind of man who made any clothing look good (too good) and Isabella noted this fact with inappropriate fascination at that juncture, since she should have been giving him what for.
She also noted that his hair was slightly disheveled, probably from the wind outside.
That looked good on him too (too good).
She watched mutely as he secured the door and turned out the lights.
Then she noticed as he walked through the vestibule and into the great room that his eyes were on her.
Her mind kicked into gear.
“Prentice, we have to talk,” she announced as he got close.
Too close.
Toe-to-toe with her, right in her space.
She decided to hold her ground so as not to appear weak.
This was the wrong decision.
Ignoring her announcement, his head started to come toward hers, his eyes on her mouth.
She contradicted her earlier decision and decided it was time to retreat. She leaned away and started to take a step back but, quick as a flash, he had a hand at her hip and his other was cupping the back of her head. He held her steady while his mouth descended to hers and he kissed her.
Hard, thorough, deep but not long.
He lifted his head and looked in her eyes.
The kiss was nice. Too nice.
“Did you save me some sponge?” he asked softly.
Her mind was adrift, still reeling from his kiss.
Sponge? What was he talking about?
“Wh… what?” she stammered, her focus on getting her heart to stop beating so fast and uncurling her toes.
“Sponge. Did you save me some?”
“In the kitchen,” she answered in a breathy voice.
His hands dropped and he moved away. Shrugging off his jacket, he threw it on an armchair and headed to the kitchen.
Stupidly, Isabella watched him.
Then her eyes moved to his jacket.
Really, she should ignore his jacket. It wasn’t harming anything, lying there on the armchair. There were other, more important things to do.
But she couldn’t ignore it. It wasn’t where it was supposed to be.
She hurried forward, grabbed his jacket and took it into the vestibule. She hung it on the hooks with the other jackets and then used all of her willpower not to run to the kitchen.
She had to be cool, calm, and collected.
She had to concentrate.
She had to get this done.
Now.
Prentice was pressing buttons on the microwave when she arrived in the kitchen.
“Pren –” she started.
“Just a minute,” he cut her off. Turning, he walked with long strides to the stairs and up them.
Isabella stood in the kitchen, listening to the microwave whirring, staring blankly at the stairs.
She did this for awhile. She did it until Prentice walked back down at t
he exact same time the microwave dinged.
He went directly to the refrigerator.
“Pren –” she began again.
He interrupted her by asking the inside of the refrigerator, “I see the kids are asleep. Were they okay tonight?”
“Yes,” Isabella answered quickly. “Now –”
His head came out of the fridge and she saw he had the bowl of leftover custard in his hand.
“Sally?” he enquired.
“Fine,” Isabella replied and, because she knew he’d want to know, went on to explain, “She tires out easily but she had a nap this afternoon before we went to get Jason and I put her to bed earlier than normal. She was wiped out. Even so, it was like the accident never happened. She’s adjusting to the cast unbelievably well.”
Prentice nodded while he walked to the microwave.
She took a deep breath and launched in, “Prentice, we need to talk about –”
She stopped speaking when she saw him take what was the remainder of the sponge out of the microwave (and it was huge) and he poured the remainder of the custard over it (and there was a lot).
She gaped as the custard covered the piece of sponge.
Completely.
And she continued to gape as Prentice grabbed a spoon and commenced eating.
“That’s…” Isabella began in a strangled voice, her eyes on the mammoth portion in his bowl, she paused then continued, “Prentice, that’s enough to feed a professional wrestler.”
Or two. Or, probably, three.
“Aye,” he replied. “Missed dinner.”
Her gaze flew to his face. “You… missed dinner?”
His eyes on Isabella, he swallowed a mouthful.
Then he repeated, “Aye.”
That would not do.
She started to move away, mumbling, “I’ll fix you something. A sandwich.”
She didn’t get very far.
His arm curled around her waist and he shuffled her so she was against the counter and he closed in, standing in front of her, imprisoning her.
He took his arm from her waist and calmly continued eating.
She blinked up at him.
Then she informed him, “You can’t eat sponge for dinner.”
His mouth twitched before he asked, “Why not?”
Was he mad?
“Because it’s sponge,” she explained unnecessarily.
His twitching mouth spread into a handsome smile. She blinked again as his smile hit her, affecting various parts of her body.
Specific parts.
And the effect was staggering.
“Aye. It’s sponge,” he said, thankfully taking her mind off the specific parts of her body that were, at that moment, tingling. “It’s good sponge. And it’s your sponge.”
After telling her this, he went back to eating.
Isabella watched him. She found this fascinating too.
She endeavored to concentrate on the matter at hand.
“You need something substantial,” she declared.
“This is pretty substantial,” he returned.
He wasn’t wrong about that. Steamed sponge was very substantial, dense, rich, heavy.
It was just…
Well…
Sponge!
“You won’t let Sally have cake for breakfast. You can’t have dessert for dinner,” she told him severely.
He was still smiling when he replied, “Sally’s six. I’m forty-five. Sally does what I let her do. I do what the fuck I want.”
Isabella couldn’t argue with that. And why were they talking about this at all?
“Prentice –”
But he’d finished his sponge and moved away from her. Having grabbed the empty custard bowl, he walked to the sink.
Isabella squared her shoulders.
“Where are my suitcases?” she asked his back as he put the bowls in the sink and ran water in them. “And where’s my passport?”
“They’re at my office,” he answered immediately.
Her mouth dropped open.
She didn’t know what response she’d get to those questions considering it was insane that he’d stolen her passport and suitcases in the first place. But she hadn’t expected that or his immediate honesty nor did she know what to do with it.
“Why?” she enquired, her voice pitched higher.
He put the bowls and spoon in the dishwasher and closed the door.
Then he walked to her saying, “So you wouldn’t pack them, write some mad note and disappear halfway around the world.”
She opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t form a response. She couldn’t even think of one.
She’d practiced this. Why was she messing it up?
She had no time to figure it out, he’d taken her hand and was pulling her behind him as he walked to the light switch in the kitchen and flipped it off.
He was tugging her down the hallway toward the guest suite, her hand still firm in his when she declared, “You can’t steal my passport and luggage.”
“That’s funny, since I did,” he returned.
He was unbelievable!
What was going on in that head of his?
No, she didn’t want to know. She just wanted to go.
She tried to yank her hand from his. This endeavor failed.
Instead, Prentice suddenly halted, turned and yanked her hand. He was stronger and she flew to him. He dropped her hand but caught her hips and pushed her up against the wall.
His body got close, so close she could feel his warmth everywhere.
Her mind scrambled.
“Why do you want your things?” he asked softly.
She blinked up at him, finding her attention wandering considering his proximity and that soft, deep voice he was using.
Then she explained the obvious, “They’re mine.”
“Aye, but why do you want them?”
“Because they’re mine.”
In the darkened hall, she saw his white teeth flash in a smile.
Her heart skipped as her temper flared.
“We’ve established that,” he replied. “Now, why do you want them?”
“I just do,” she shot back.
His hand lifted, coming up to cup her jaw and he tipped her head further back as he got even closer.
“All right, you can have them back,” he murmured.
Suddenly, she didn’t want them back.
With effort, she remained focused.
“Thank you.” It was meant to come out condescendingly but it came out breathily.
“When I’m ready to give them back,” he finished, she opened her mouth to protest, which was a fool thing to do as his head had slanted and it was coming closer.
“Pren –” she got out before he kissed her.
This time it was hard, thorough, deep and long with the addition of being wet, hot and tasting deliciously of custard and sponge.
As she always did, always, always, always, she melted into him. Her hands glided into his soft hair and she held his head to hers as her body ignited.
He stopped kissing her but didn’t take his lips from hers.
“Let’s go to bed,” he whispered.
Lost and no longer thinking about her suitcases, her passport, getting away, saving him and his children from the misfortune that seemed to plague her or the fact that he had an enormous piece of sponge for dinner, she pressed into him and nodded.
* * * * *
Prentice
Elle spooned in front of him, the fingers of one of Prentice’s hands between her legs, the others curled around her breast, her sweet ass nestled in his groin, his cock still imbedded inside her, her sex rippling against it in the aftermath of her orgasm, Prentice buried his face in her fragrant hair and tried to even his breathing as he listened to Elle doing the same.
Christ, she was magnificent when he fucked her.
Testing this theory, he pressed his still-swollen cock deeper, his thumb and forefinger rolling her taut nipp
le, his other fingers putting pressure between her legs; she emitted a sexy, lusty sigh and nuzzled her ass into his lap.
Welcoming his attention.
Inviting it.
Getting off on it.
Yes, he was correct.
Magnificent.
He could enthusiastically say that night and the one before, Prentice had sampled a variety of items in the catalogue of things he wanted to do to Elle and he was not disappointed.
When he wasn’t close to her, touching her, kissing her, fucking her and she wasn’t around his children, she was hesitant and unsure, aloof and cool or unapproachable and distant.
When she was with his children and when he was close to her, touching her, kissing her, fucking her, she was not hesitant, not remote, not unapproachable.
She was completely his.
His Elle.
The one he’d fallen in love with twenty years ago.
He just had to work on the rest of the time.
During those times, when she was with his kids or he was close, he had her back. Not exactly the same, not with her rabid energy and joy of life but instinctively he knew that would happen.
Or, more to the point, he intended to make it happen.
And to do it, he had to keep her off-balance or stay close or be touching her, kissing her or fucking her.
He looked forward to this challenge.
And Prentice Cameron hadn’t looked forward to anything for a very long time.
Gently, he pulled his hand from between her legs and wrapped his arm around her middle as he cupped her breast and slid his cock out of her, craving their connection instantly after it was lost.
Her breathing had steadied and her body weight settled into his arms.
She’d slept late that morning but she’d been worn out. He wouldn’t be surprised, after what they’d done (and they’d sampled four positions in his catalogue, all of which they both enjoyed to the fullest), if she fell asleep.
His head came up and he shifted her hair off her neck with his chin before he asked softly in her ear, “You asleep, baby?”
He was surprised when she whispered, “No.”
He kissed her neck then absorbed her shiver, something which made him smile.
“Do you want to talk?” he asked her neck.
She was still whispering when she replied, “No.”
That was perfectly fine with him.