Her tone reflected pure ice. “I don’t approve of gossip.”
White teeth flashed as he grinned. “Not gossip if it’s the truth. Something tells me you teach… English.”
She pursed her lips. “Poetry. I have to go.” She walked straight through the door and assumed he’d follow. Thank God he did. She locked the door and jingled her keys in her hand. “Let me know about the wall.”
“Sure. Have fun with the ladies.”
Julianna hated his correct assumption. So she lied. “I’ll have fun on my date.”
He cocked his head to the side. “Hmm. Mrs. Cutter said you always have lunch with the girls on Tuesday afternoon. 1:00pm. At The Black Pearl.”
Temper made her turn on her heel. She glared at him from behind tinted lenses. “Well, she’s wrong. What else did Mrs. Cutter tell you about me?”
He obviously enjoyed her annoyance. He took his time and uncapped the bottle of water. Removed his ball cap. Dumped the water over his head.
Julianna’s breath caught. Her body slammed into overdrive at the raw sexual scene before her. Water dripped from his thick blond hair and ran down his face. Over a carved jaw. Slid down to dampen perfectly cut lips.
His t-shirt soaked up the liquid and clung to his chest like a Women’s Night gone wild. Hunger hit hard and deep as she followed the trail down to his belt buckle, where droplets slid under the denim and hid beyond. Her pussy grew tight and uncomfortable. And as wet as that bottle of water. Her mouth fell open like a guppy’s. She snapped it shut and struggled to look unaffected.
His outright laugh called her an outright liar. He shook his hair like a dog in heat and slid the baseball cap back on his head.
“She said you haven’t been on a date in months. Said you like to go to lunch, attend the historical meetings, teach your classes, and stay boarded up in the Cliff House.” He paused and his gaze raked over her, probed under her clothes, and noted her body, which refused to be ignored. “A shame, really. Something tells me you play as hard as you work. If you’d give someone the chance, that is.”
Their gazes met and locked. Seconds ticked by and neither of them wanted to lose. Julianna told herself time was the only factor that made her finally turn away. “I don’t have time to play games, Mr. Wolfe. I’m sure you’re a man who’s a master, and you wouldn’t have much fun with an amateur.”
“Jack,” he said softly. “And you’re wrong.”
She ignored him and hurried down the pathway. Absolutely ridiculous. She was living a D.H. Lawrence novel and she’d always been an Austen sort of girl. Her frikkin gardener, for God’s sakes. It didn’t get any more cliché than that. And there was one thing she hated more than anything.
Being a cliché.
She smothered the thought and drove away.
Julianna paused at her keyboard, the mouse hovered above the Send button. Nausea hit her belly, but she knew there were no other options. This wasn’t nineteenth- century England and she didn’t belong in the ton. She had already used her father’s intricate network of social contacts to begin introductions to a number of eligible men, but no one seemed interested in a mousy woman with an old estate and nothing else. Many of the men she dated locally didn’t have enough funds to support a money-suck like the Cliff House. The ones who did were past seventy, which placed them out of the running. She didn’t have the money to travel and meet new prospects. Therefore, there was one social connection she needed to use to further her plan.
The unlimited world of the Internet. Social networking circles so tight-knit and secretive, it was more closely guarded than a sex ring. Many men needed to marry in order to secure companies, or meet a mate with certain specifications in order to claim their inheritances. Others needed an heir. The thought of a child made her heart ache with longing. And hope.
Her ad would be well received by the group and guarded in a private manner. Unfortunately, she had nothing to trade for. Except her name.
Her family came from a long line of aristocrats with royalty in the blood. Her people, among the first to settle in Rhode Island, came from the old English gentry. In early American days, Newport had been a playground for the rich and famous, from the Vanderbilts to the Astors, and her family had taken a prominent place among them.
Julianna knew some people coveted all that. She counted on finding a man who liked the idea of a spouse with a family straight from The Great Gatsby. Never mind that her family was now gone. The past, she'd learned, always survived.
The site catered to men and women who needed to marry for specific purposes. Julianna’s face burned as she compared herself to a prostitute offering her services. Perhaps the man would request breeding papers as evidence of her birthright. Bitterness leaked through yet again and tempted her to consider selling the Cliff House. Walk away with her pride intact and money in her pocket.
"Promise me...."
Her father's voice echoed in her mind. Her prison was also her haven. If she sold the house, she'd have nowhere to go. In the past, the lure of the unknown had excited and tempted her to explore the world and find who she really was.
Now, the thought made her quake with terror. Here, at least, she was safe. Her family memories burned bright within its walls, and if she left the house behind, she'd have nothing left of her past. Only a broken promise to her dying father.
The noose around her neck tightened.
Julianna uploaded her ad and the photo. A plain woman looked back at her, a forced smile on her lips. The specially created email address would receive any initial inquiries or questions before securing a meeting. She took a deep breath and clicked the mouse.
Her fate was sealed.
A knock sounded on the door.
She hesitated, knowing Jack was working outside and having no desire to meet up with him. She had been keeping her distance from the sexy gardener who tied her tongue in knots and made her want to do very bad things. Things she’d craved deep in her soul for so long that she wondered if she’d be satisfied with any man.
She peeked through the window and faced the object of her obsession. Shirtless. Dirty. Sweaty.
She flung open the door, annoyed at the interruption and determined to set him straight regarding their worker/employer relationship.
Then she saw the blood.
He held up his hand, wrapped in his white t-shirt and stained muddy brown. His face looked almost sheepish. “Sorry. I had an accident. May I use your bathroom?”
Julianna stepped aside and took hold of his hand. She pressed the t-shirt more firmly over the wound and led him down the hall. “What did you do?”
“Made an ass out of myself.”
She couldn’t help the tsking sound she made under her breath at his language. Her father’s strict rules of propriety had been drilled into her from birth. But she fought off a bit of amusement at his temper. Evidently, he despised making mistakes that cost him blood. Too much blood, by the looks of it.
“Sit.” She pushed him down on the closed toilet seat, quickly grabbed some washcloths and ran them under warm water. She winced when she drew the shirt away from the gaping wound. A clean cut crossed his hand, deep enough to warrant stitches from the looks of it. She dumped the shirt on the floor and began wiping away the dirt. “You may need a hospital.”
He shook his head hard enough to remind her of a little boy refusing to go to the doctor. “I’ll be fine. You shouldn’t use those cloths, though. They’ll be ruined.”
She shrugged at the delicate rose lace that adorned the towels and kept pressure on the wound. “I do laundry.”
“Yourself?”
Her brow lifted in annoyance. She concentrated on the task and ignored his curious stare. “I know how to take care of a house. I like my privacy.”