“No,” she replied distractedly and he turned from his task to see her taking the bowl in which she’d mixed the batter to the sink.
It was empty.
“Isabella, have this one,” he offered.
She slowly turned and stared, aghast, at his plate. Then she carefully arranged her features, shook her head and turned again to the sink.
“No, thank you. I’ll have some toast.”
His annoyance returned.
He walked to her and demanded, “Isabella, take it.”
She didn’t look at him, busy rinsing dishes. “I’m fine, Prentice.”
His annoyance flared to anger.
“Christ, just eat it.”
She twisted her head to look at him and said in a flat, calm voice, “I said I’m fine.”
“Aye,” he returned, “as am I. I don’t need a second one. You can have it.”
Something lit in her eyes swiftly and, Prentice thought, intoxicatingly, as it also lit her entire face.
Then she snapped (but softly), “For someone who knows the English language you don’t seem to comprehend it very well. I said, I’m fine.”
Prentice felt an odd sense of satisfaction at her irate response no matter if it was quietly irate and his anger fled instantly.
He smiled at her and replied casually, “All right. I’ll eat it.”
Her eyes fastened on his mouth, her face seeming dazed for a moment before they lifted to his and she gave him a look that indicated she thought he was mental.
He nearly laughed.
And he thought perhaps this time, considering he knew the rules and the score, her game might be fun.
She busied herself tidying the kitchen and making herself toast.
Prentice ate and watched her knowing this irritated her and enjoying that knowledge.
“You’re good with the kids,” he remarked and she didn’t reply.
She was back to ignoring him.
He instinctively knew somehow, this morning he’d gained some advantage in their game.
Therefore, he pressed, “Why didn’t you have any?”
Her body stilled, her hands fisted then he could have sworn she actually forced herself to relax before she answered.
“I can’t.”
“Sorry?” he queried.
The toast popped up, she snatched it, put it on a plate and walked to the counter. “I can’t have children.”
Prentice stared at her back.
She had millions of pounds. Millions of her own; inherited from her mother and to be inherited from her father when the bastard thankfully left this earth, and millions in the divorce settlement given to her by her bastard ex-husband.
She could easily afford to pay top notch fertility specialists, the best in the world.
Regardless of the fact that it was absolutely none of his business, he asked, “Have you seen a specialist?”
He watched her head move, slowly, gracefully, her ear dipping down toward her shoulder then her neck twisting to the side.
There was something poignant about this movement, poignant and distressing.
Prentice braced.
She turned to him, lifted her eyes and locked them with his.
“Ten,” she said shortly.
“Ten?” he replied, stunned by her earlier movement and therefore not comprehending her answer.
“Ten specialists in four different countries. Five years of tests. Five years of fertility medication and two rounds of IVF. All of which failed.” Prentice watched her talk, her expression carved from stone, a weight settled in his gut and this one was unpleasant. “I can’t conceive,” she finished.
And, obviously, she’d tried.
Everything she could.
Christ.
“Isabella,” Prentice murmured, getting the distinct feeling he’d not only lost his advantage but he’d been an incredible ass.
Before he could say more, she snatched up her plate of toast, sauntered to her cold cup of coffee, hooked it with a finger and started to walk out of the room, saying softly, “I need a shower. I’ll see you at Fergus’s.”
Then she rounded the corner and she was gone.
He watched the entrance to a hall for a good, long while.
Then he muttered out loud to himself, “Fucking hell.”
* * * * *
Isabella
Isabella sat on the couch in the great room facing Sally, one of her legs bent and pulled up on the seat, Sally’s hand flat on her thigh. As she had been during the whole polishing portion of the shaping, buffing, varnishing manicure, Sally was calm and docile while Isabella put the last coat of clear varnish over the hot pink she’d already brushed on the girl’s final fingernail.
“All right, Sally honey, you’re done but you’ve got to sit there for a good ten minutes to give it time to dry.”
Sally surveyed her fingernails with a rapt expression on her face as Isabella caught movement out of the side of her eye and saw Prentice exit his study.
He stopped and leveled his gaze on them.
“They’ve never looked this pretty,” Sally breathed as if Isabella didn’t give her a manicure but instead painted her portrait displaying more talent than Gainsborough.
Isabella hesitated, fighting an urge that was nearly overwhelming because Prentice was standing right there.
Then she thought, Screw it.
Sally was just too danged cute.
Again, Prentice would just have to deal.
And anyway, it was all his and Fiona’s fault for having an endearing daughter.
She leaned forward, kissed the top of Sally’s head then got up, repeating, “Ten minutes, sweetheart.”
“Ten minutes!” Sally chirped and then sat statue-still in the couch.
Grinning to herself, Isabella went to the mudroom to get the laundry, walking by Prentice without looking at him but feeling his eyes on her as she went.
The tumble dryer had buzzed five minutes ago and she hustled in to fold the clothes before they became wrinkled.
She had no earthy clue why she woke up with Prentice’s family’s laundry on her mind but she did. That was her first thought, as if someone had shouted at her in her sleep to get up and do the laundry.
Which she did and it needed to get done.
Even though it felt strange and intimate handling Prentice’s clothes, there was a mountain of laundry. She’d done four loads now and there were at least two more to go (probably three). So much, she’d even run down between doing her makeup and hair to switch out the washer and dryer.
She’d just finished folding and was setting aside the pieces that needed to be ironed when Jason rounded the corner into the room.
“Dad says he’s ready to go,” Jason announced and Isabella thought that was a strange way to voice such an announcement, considering they were driving separate vehicles and they could go when they wanted.
She’d phoned Annie and let her know she’d be a little late as it was a moral imperative to give Sally a manicure. Annie had laughed and agreed that manicures for six year old motherless girls were, indeed, a moral imperative.
One example of millions as to why Isabella loved Annie.
“Could you do me a big favor?” Isabella asked, shaking out one of Prentice’s shirts and throwing it on a pile of other shirts to be ironed. “When you have a minute, can you take these latest piles upstairs?”
Jason had been delivering the stacks of folded clothes to their respective rooms all morning. Isabella had arranged it at breakfast, pre-Prentice showing up and her mind moved to Prentice and that morning.
He had shown up bare-chested, barefoot, hair tousled, looking unfairly, even, one could say, criminally attractive…
Oh, and when he’d offered his pancake to her, on his plate. The very thought of her doing something as intimate as eating off his plate was not to be borne…
Oh, and when he’d smiled at her, the first smile he’d sent her way since she’d been back, well, she thought fo
r a second that she was going to pass out, literally fall in a dead faint on the floor.
“I’ll do it now,” Jason mumbled, picking up a pile of Prentice’s clothes and fortunately taking Isabella away from her thoughts.
“Thanks,” Isabella whispered, wanting to touch him, tousle his hair, anything to show the boy a little affection after what she heard last night.
But she didn’t.
She had four more days with this family, an unwelcome guest and when she was gone, she would be gone.
What she had to give was pancakes, laundress service and manicures.
And that was what she was going to give.
She wasn’t going to be able to wring miracles, take the tightness away from Prentice’s mouth (no way in hell) or cure Jason of his nightmares.
But she could sure as heck make pancakes.
And good ones.
She’d taken the clothes from the washer, put them in the dryer and was shoving another load in the washer when Prentice’s tall frame filled the door.
She twisted her head and visions of him in only pajama bottoms filled her brain.
She’d seen him shirtless twenty years ago, of course, and memories of his body, the defined muscles, the hair that matted his chest (not too much, just enough) had been fodder for many a fantasy when they were apart and the twenty ensuing years besides.
Now, the defined muscle had more bulk, more power. Even the way he held himself which, back in the day, was confident to the point of almost swaggering, was now more confident but without the swagger.
He knew who he was, had settled into his physique and the result was enthralling.
Still, he could have absented himself that morning and put on a shirt. It was the polite thing to do. She knew it was his house and she was a guest he’d rather not have but, really. To wander around the kitchen half-naked, standing close to her (probably so he could keep an eye on her and wrestle her out of the room if she did anything too friendly with his children), it was too much!
“Yes?” she prompted when he seemed fascinated with watching her measure soap into the load.
Prentice’s gaze cut to her face and took in her hair then her body before coming back to her eyes.
“We’re leaving.”
“I’ll see you there,” she turned away, dropping the lid on the washer, turning the dial and hitting the button.
He was still standing in the door when she made to leave the room.
“You’re coming with us.”
Isabella halted. Then she stared at him.
“I’ll drive myself,” she said.
“That’s unnecessary considering we’re both going to the same place.”
“I’d prefer to drive myself.”
“Why?”
Why, indeed.
Her hands clenched into fists.
Because being with you is killing me especially since you obviously hate me and I’ve never fallen out of love with you.
Because realizing there are more reasons why it was for your own good that I broke your heart hurts like hell. No Sally, no Jason, even with Fiona dead you had more in those years from her than you’d ever get from me.
Because I need a moment away from all that is you and your beautiful children to get my head together so I can deal with the day.
All of this Isabella thought but did not say.
“I just would,” she said instead.
“You’re coming with us,” he repeated.
“Prentice –”
“Sally wants you with us.”
Isabella snapped her mouth shut.
Well then, who could argue with that?
“I’ll get my purse,” she muttered and to her dismay, he barely shifted to the side so she had to squeeze by him, sucking in her belly and breath to get around him and her breasts still brushed his chest when she went by.
A heady thrill jolted through her body at that slight touch. A thrill he’d given her before, many a time. A thrill that she remembered like the last one she’d had was only yesterday.
Her fists tightened, her nails bit into her palms and she hurried to her room.
* * * * *
Fiona
Fiona floated with her family (and Isabella) to the front door.
Prentice was furious. Jason seemed confused. Sally was simply tired.
Isabella was wearing a brave face but the hideousness of the day had taken its toll. She was pale and there was a tightness about her eyes that was heartbreaking.
And her hands were clenched into permanent fists.
Fiona had been born in her village and she’d been proud of being a member of its community her whole life.
Until that day.
She knew, because she felt it herself, that everyone had felt duped by Isabella, not just Prentice. They all loved her, including Fiona. It got worse when she never returned even after the terrible accident that tore Annie and Dougal apart. That feeling had intensified further as she’d publicly moved on, living the high life of international fame and celebrity.
But, even if only for Annie’s sake, they could at least attempt to be polite.
Instead of vicious.
At Annie’s request, the minute Isabella hit Fergus’s house, she ran to the kitchen to start making dozens and dozens of Annie’s favorite cookies. The picnic was catered including a luncheon and then an American-style bonfire that night, roasting hot dogs on sticks and making s’mores which Fiona had never had but thought they looked delicious.
Isabella let Sally help but the making of cookies put Prentice in a bad mood which drove him to broody, something which Isabella ignored, in fact, she seemed to be doing her best to ignore Prentice as much as she could which, in turn (strangely, Fiona thought) was something Prentice seemed to be working at not allowing.
Fiona knew why the cookies made Prentice broody.
Isabella used to send him cookies from America, not to mention make them weekly for him when she was in Scotland. He’d told Fiona that when he told her about Isabella.
What Fiona didn’t understand was, if Prentice had “moved on” as he’d told Dougal he had, why the cookies would make him broody at all?
That day Isabella didn’t make them for Prentice, however. She made them for Annie and Dougal’s guests.
And the minute those guests (at least the villagers, Sally and Jason ate around a million of them and Prentice wasn’t far behind) found out she’d made them, they avoided them.
Pointedly.
Not only that, one villager, Hattie Fennick, actually made a point to take a bite then spit it out right when Isabella was watching her. Hattie had always been a cow, especially around Fiona who Hattie made no bones about not liking. Then again, she didn’t like pretty much everyone including Prentice, who Fiona had known for years Hattie had a raging crush on even after she hooked up with her husband Nigel but Prentice had never shown an interest or shown that he knew she existed at all unless he was vaguely irritated by something she’d done which made her act even more of a cow.
And that wasn’t all.
They made nasty comments, some of them loud, most of them when Isabella was in earshot.
They at least shielded Annie from it; she didn’t hear a word for which Fiona was grateful. They’d also been careful around Jason and Sally (Sally was oblivious, as usual; Jason had overheard a few things, which pissed Fiona off). The rest of the time they ignored her, cast her dirty looks or walked away when she approached.
Although they shielded Annie, they hadn’t any qualms about doing their worst in front of Fergus, Mikey, Dougal or Prentice.
Which made all four men livid even Dougal, probably on Annie’s behalf.
The picnic had started at two o’clock. It was now ten. Eight hours of torture for Isabella.
At first, Fiona had been shocked at how she coped. She acted for all the world as if she didn’t give one whit and spent her time talking with Fergus, Mikey, Annie, Sally and Old Lady Kilbride who wasn’t capable of hating an
yone and had always stuck up for Isabella, unpopularly saying, “We don’t know. There are always two sides to every story.”
Isabella even spent time with Jason which was surprising since Hattie also commented loudly within Isabella’s (and Prentice’s) earshot, “God, the nerve of the woman. Fiona’s children. Jason. Who’s been devastated. The absolute nerve.”
But as the hours slid by, it had begun to wear, her façade slipped, as anyone’s would, and Fergus, Mikey, Dougal, Jason and, most especially Prentice, noticed.
Fiona was back to not hating her. In fact, she felt sorry for her. She had no idea what she would do if she’d been alive at the picnic rather than dead and haunting it but she hoped she wouldn’t have done that.
Of course, she did realize that, as a ghost, she had access to information that the villagers couldn’t know, but still.
They hit the great room and Isabella turned immediately toward the hall.
“I’m going to call it a night,” she said softly, her hands still fists.
Prentice opened his mouth to speak but Sally got there before him.
“Will you read me a story?” Sally asked, her voice tired.
“Sally –” Prentice began but Isabella talked over him.
Without hesitation, she switched directions, unfisted a hand and held it out to Sally, saying, “Of course, honey.”
Sally took Isabella’s hand and they walked up the stairs. Prentice’s eyes followed them, his face tight.
“Dad –” Jason began when the two females disappeared.
Prentice looked at his son. “Not now, mate.”
Jason wasn’t to be denied. “I heard some things –”
“It’s late, go to bed,” Prentice ordered.
Jason stared at him, defiance written in every line of his body.
Fiona felt worry tear through her. How was Prentice going to handle this?
Her husband sighed and turned to his son. “All right Jace. As you know from last night, a long time ago, Mrs. Evangelista used to holiday here.”
“Aye,” Jason prompted when Prentice stopped speaking.
“She did a couple of things that angered a few people. They haven’t gotten over it.”
“What’d she do?”
“It doesn’t matter now.”
“What’d she do?”
“She hurt some people’s feelings.”