He eased away and dealt with the rubbish. He glanced back at her laying sprawled on the bed as if she were too boneless to move. That was a good thing; it meant he hadn’t forgotten how to please a woman—even if she knew what she needed. He padded over to the light switch and turned it off, then joined her in bed, but he was sure he wouldn’t be sleeping much as she curled up against him.
Strange beds always harbored too many details of the previous occupants. And while the sheets offered a little protection there was still enough history to give a restless sleep as it filtered into his dreams.
When he woke it was dark, and for a moment he had no idea who he was or where he was. It took a couple of heartbeats for the confusion to fade and for him to realize he was alone and the house was silent. He eased out of bed and pulled on his jeans and went downstairs.
Lydia drew her legs up on the loveseat in the parlor. She couldn’t use the front room without thinking of Gran. The muscles on her inner thighs twinged and the memory brought a flush to her cheeks. It had seemed like a good idea at the time and Caspian hadn’t said no. What man would? He was spending a night at Callaway House. And enjoying the hospitality the way rich, married men once would have.
Except Caspian was neither rich, nor married.
She turned the page of the diary and scanned the pages, reading without absorbing the details, hoping she’d get sleepy again. She’d woken up and after lying awake and listening to him sleep had gotten up even though she’d wanted to remain in bed. His body was warm, and firm, and when he looped his arm over her waist it had seemed so natural. There was a grace to his movements that she’d noticed even when he was working. The way he touched, the way he moved. But it was his eyes, the green ice had been burning when he’d looked at her.
And like the gentleman he was he’d made sure she came first. Too perfect. Yet there was still the morning after to get through, and that would decide if it had been a one-time thing or something that might last a little longer—she didn’t expect forever. But she wouldn’t mind a few more weeks, or months, of having him in her bed before he learned how hard the Callaway name was to be around.
She hoped he wouldn’t care; after all, it wasn’t as if his family name could be tainted by association. To stop herself thinking of the end before they’d really begun she made herself concentrate on the diary. Gran had been writing about a singer with the voice of an angel and the looks to match—the too pretty man in the photo? He was very popular apparently and also cash poor.
He gave me a gift tonight, said I’d been most kind but that it was time to move on. I didn’t open it until after closing. For a man who never had a dollar on him he gave me a silver compact. Pretty little thing.
Lydia stopped and re-read. She’d seen that silver makeup mirror in Gran’s personal things. It had been wrapped up in a piece of tissue paper and tucked in the drawer with her makeup. It was now at her apartment in a box in the spare room. Had she and the singer been lovers? Is that why Gran had kept it safe for so long? Then she shook her head; Gran hadn’t thrown anything out. No doubt she’d kept it because it was pretty. She should get Caspian to take a look at it; she’d drop into his shop—plus it would be an excuse to see him again, outside of the house.
“You couldn’t sleep?”
She yelped and dropped the diary she’d been reading. Caspian stood in the doorway, half-dressed in jeans.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
She picked up the book and tried not to glance over, but her memory filled in the details. Fit without being muscle-bound, just enough hair on his chest to make him a man. A narrow line of hair led from his naval and dipped into his jeans.
“I’m not used to sharing a bed.” That was the truth, but she could get used to seeing Caspian in hers. “Did I wake you?”
He was leaning in the doorway, looking far too attractive for the middle of the night—or was this that morning after talk? “No, I never sleep well in strange beds.”
She raised her eyebrows—how many strange beds did he sleep in?
“When I travel, for work. I don’t…” He looked away, his gaze falling on his left hand resting on the door frame. An unconscious gesture, but she was sure he was thinking of his ex-wife.
This was the awkwardness she hadn’t wanted in the morning. Too late now, they were both up. She patted the cushion next to her. “Want to join me?”
He didn’t answer; he just sat, without touching her. It took a moment for her to realize that she wanted him to put his hand on her leg or at least acknowledge what they’d done. But they weren’t together. It had been an itch that needed scratching. If this didn’t go well, maybe she wouldn’t bother showing him Gran’s mirror. Just cut ties and walk away. One little mirror wouldn’t matter to the estate; besides, Gran had never put it on the insurance, or even spoken about it, so it probably wasn’t worth much money.
She turned to face him and asked the obvious. “Why don’t you sleep well in strange beds?”
She expected a response like too soft or too hard, or fear of bedbugs or something else innocuous. He looked at his laced fingers as if thinking hard. Too hard for the question. A chill brushed over her skin and drew the fine hairs on her arm up in gooseflesh. Around her the house was silent. It was then she realized that was what had woken her. She’d gone to sleep listening to the noise of the storm and the creaking and rattling of the house. Now it was deathly still. As if the ghost was waiting for something.
Caspian drew in a breath. “Do you believe in psychics?”
That wasn’t what she was expecting. “Like fortune tellers?”
“No, like real psychic powers. People who can do things others can’t.” He glanced over. “Like psychometry.”
She wasn’t even sure what the word meant. “What is it?”
Again he paused and swallowed. “If someone is psychometric they get impressions off objects. I don’t sleep well because I know what has gone on in the strange beds.”
Lydia didn’t know whether to laugh or be stunned into silence. Was he saying he could see the past? Impossible. Yet she remembered the way he’d touched the furniture. The way she’d caught him holding on to the bedpost. He hadn’t been thinking of an auction; he’d been looking into the past.
He’d been seeing the past of Callaway House the whole time he was here.
“Are you telling me you can walk up to something and know who has touched it?”
“It’s not like that. I get a feeling, some images—particularly of strong emotions—I can sift through to when it was made and get a feel for the age.”
“That must be useful in your line of work.” What the hell had he seen? Had he just wanted her because of what was going on in his mind? Oh my God, what was she even thinking? She was ready to believe him instantly. Because it fitted. The few comments he’d made about something were like he knew it. The recently used trunk. She hadn’t been able to tell the difference because there wasn’t one to her eye. He’d known that because he must have felt it or seen it or something.
“That’s why I do this job. It means I get to use it instead of hiding from it. I still have to prove authenticity and go by the book, but it is a valuable shortcut that has saved me from buying a good fake.”
She nodded. Then shook her head. “You know how this sounds, right?”
He looked back at his hands. His finger touched where a wedding ring would have once sat. “I never told Natalie. When I said I caught her cheating, I meant I got an impression of her in our bed with another man. She’d brought him to our house. If she hadn’t, I’d have never found out.”