Naked Hope (7 page)

Once inside, she pulled her hand from his grasp, and faced him, hands on her hips. She waited, watching his anger recede by degrees as the heat in his eyes shifted to ache. “Apparently we both made the same assumption.”

He flushed. “I thought you or Chapman had placed the article.”

“And I thought you had.”

His blue-gray eyes sparked. “Why would
I
do such a thing?”

Jill squared her shoulders. “I have the same question for you.”

“Because you and your institute will certainly benefit from the notoriety and financial support my family provides.”

Jill took a step back, waited a beat, and offered a chilly smile. “With all due respect, I have no need of notoriety. I’m quite well known in my field

” She forced herself to stop. Defending herself because she felt angry would get them nowhere. She turned and stared into the barren fireplace surrounded by mahogany and brick. “I didn’t get where I am today by leaking private information to the public. Further, I have no idea yet whether your daughter will qualify. So, you see, there is no upside for me or the institute to plant an article like that.”

Eyes wide, he leaned back against one of the massive bookcases. “You think Liv won’t qualify?”

“I can’t say, yet. Forming any kind of opinion would be unfair until I have all the data.”

“What do you mean?”

“I won’t know until I finish my assessment.”

Gavin slouched onto the leather sofa. “You really didn’t plant that article?”

“No, of course not

oh…” Jill sat and leaned forward. “Gavin, I’m beginning to see. When you read that article, you thought I’d admitted Olivia. We have a lot of work ahead. These assessments aren’t just nice-to-haves for your daughter’s file. They have a purpose and are how I determine whether Olivia will qualify. But you have my word you’ll be the first to know.”

She crossed her arms. “In the meantime, please respect the fact that I’m not a pull toy. No matter how well intentioned you may be, I prefer not to be pulled, propelled, or otherwise marched from one place to the next.”
No matter how much I might enjoy your touch
. She winced at the thought.

His eyes widened and his eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. “I don’t—I
do
that?”

She nodded. “Frequently. Take me to Olivia, please.”

In the sunroom, Olivia hopped off the swing and trotted over to Jill. “Dr. Jill, do you ever eat worms for lunch?”

“Worms?” She touched a hand to her chin as if she might consider the idea.

Olivia giggled. “Or paste? Or what about”—she rolled her eyes—“grass? Not the green kind, but the yellow kind. You know, after it gets old.”

“Robins eat worms…no one eats paste…and goats eat grass.” Jill spread her arms wide. “Am I a robin or a goat?

Olivia’s grin broadened. “What about raisins, chocolate chips, or ice cream?”

Jill tipped her head and looked skyward. “I’m not big on raisins, and I like my chocolate chips
on
my ice cream—especially those miniature chocolate chips. Ever seen them?”

Olivia’s head pumped with several nods. “My
grandmere
uses them at Christmastime.”

Jill walked over to the swing and sat. “How about you?” she asked, noting the child’s upbeat mood. “Do you eat worms or grass or raisins?”

Olivia hopped up next to her onto the swing.

Jill had never seen her move so fast.

“Don’t be silly. I don’t like raisins, either. I like eggs!” She pushed off, making the swing sway back and forth.

“Fried or poached?”

“Poached!” Olivia swung harder.

Jill smiled. “Poached, you say. Okay. White or brown?”

Olivia shrieked, “Green! With ham.”

Good girl, Olivia. Keep going
. Jill used her softest voice. “Have you ever had green eggs and ham?”

Olivia grew very still, face puckered. Her breathing calmed. “No, but I have a book about it.”

Jill slowed the swing. “Would you like to read it to me?”

Olivia shrugged. “Do you like curly fries? I do. And egg salad on black bread.”

Not surprised by Olivia’s quixotic shift, Jill asked, “Black bread?”

Olivia’s eyes clouded and her eyebrows plummeted. “You know what I mean.”

“Is black bread ever called anything else?”

Olivia shrugged again. “And a dill pickle. Egg salad on RYE

” she shouted the word and gave Jill a wide smile, “with a dill pickle and curly fries.”

The child deserved a reward for working so hard. “Why, I think that sounds like a lovely lunch.”

Olivia clattered toward the door.

Jill called after her, “Olivia, where are you off to?”

Olivia jerked to a halt and whirled. Her face scrunched into a mirthful smile. “I need to have a word with Baines,” she said and ran out the door, and then poked her head back in and announced, “I’ll be right back!”

Jill cocked her head.
I don’t know who she sounds like more. Her father or her grandmother.

As lunchtime drew near, Olivia went with Baines to wash up and Gavin joined Jill in the sunroom. “I believe we’re having your favorite for lunch.” His mouth spread into a big smile.

“My favorite?” Jill could only stare. Gavin shifted his weight, his blue-gray eyes brightened and his typically erect posture made him look impossibly tall.

“I have it on good authority that egg salad on rye with a dill pickle and curly fries is your favorite.”

Jill gulped, unable to mask her horror at the prospect of egg salad. “You think that’s my
favorite
?”

Gavin’s posture slipped a notch. He edged toward the door. “It’s not?”

“Egg salad and curly fries?”
Why couldn’t she stop saying that?

His tic returned. “Liv and I agreed this morning she’d learn what you like for lunch and we’d surprise you.” He ran a hand through his hair, and turned.

She half expected him to bolt.

Instead, he faced her, his body rigid. “I’m sorry if we got the choices wrong.”

At the sight of his embarrassment, Jill couldn’t help but giggle. “You didn’t.”

His tic jumped. “I don’t understand. Just now you acted as if you don’t care for those things.”

Jill tried without success to stop laughing. “Now I understand what Olivia was up to this morning.”
Why couldn’t she stop laughing?

Gavin shoved his hands deep into his pockets, “Do you or do you not like egg salad?”

His voice a half-measure short of a growl Jill wondered,
could anyone be stiffer than Gavin Fairfield when he was embarrassed?

“And what the devil are you laughing about?” he demanded.

Still choking back laughter she sputtered, “Don’t care for egg salad, am allergic to dill pickles, and I’ve never tasted curly fries.”

Red-faced, he murmured, “Then clearly we got the menu wrong.” He pivoted.

Jill caught his arm, aware of his corded muscles beneath her fingers. “Wait, Gavin. Your daughter is highly creative and connects unrelated concepts in intriguing ways, evidence her brain is compensating for the damaged areas that no longer function. She’s quite the little sleuth because when we were working this morning, I had no idea what she was up to. I fouled up things because I turned her little investigation—which I thought was just her being playful—into an assessment. And, because she worked so hard to remember her words, I rewarded her by agreeing egg salad on rye with a dill pickle and curly fries sounded fine.”

“I see.” He stared down at her, rocking back and forth on his heels. At last, he said, “And will you be laughing this hard when your mouth is full of egg salad?”

She drew back horrified at the idea. “You wouldn’t expect me to eat the stuff!”

He grinned, a telltale twinkle in his eye. “I’ll be curious to see how you explain to Liv you don’t actually like egg salad.”

Chapter Six

Without bothering more than tossing a robe over her shoulders, Jill stepped out into the cool morning air to collect the mail. Much like her voice mail, the mailbox had been stuffed full over the past week. She piled bills, invitations, donation requests, a check from one of her publishers, and a landslide of seed, lingerie, and shoe catalogs into her arms, when a car honked. She turned just in time to see Gavin drive up in his black BMW.

The passenger’s window slid down. “Thought I’d give you a lift.”

Caught in my robe. I haven’t even brushed my hair yet. Is there no justice?
Her mouth gaped open. The mail in her arms shifted, sending the catalogs on top spilling to the ground. She bent over to collect them, making strategic use of her chin to keep the rest of her mail from getting away. Yet, each time she reached for a fallen piece of mail, more mail slipped out of her grip.

Dressed in black jeans, a black sport coat and a crisp light blue shirt, Gavin jogged over to help collect the errant mail.

She watched his body stretch, appreciating the view as he handed her the various catalogs—mostly lingerie. At that moment, the image of him retrieving her bow when it flew out of her hand during her audition all those years ago, spiraled back. Her cheeks flushed hot.

“No rush.” He waved a hand at her body. “It’s obvious I’ve been up longer than you. I’ll hang around until you’re ready.”

“You needn’t bother.” She spoke through a clenched jaw, hoping to keep the mail anchored with her chin. “I have my car. If you’d called, I could have saved you the trouble.”

Mail started to slip again.

He caught it mid-slide by moving against her and circling his arms around hers. “Exactly why I didn’t call. Didn’t want to give you an opportunity to object.”

His nearness caused tiny tremors in her lower abdomen. Jill stopped struggling with the mail and scanned his face. His grin almost masked the tired lines in the corners of his eyes.
He has trouble sleeping.

“I’m here to offer a full confession. After watching you work your way through that egg salad sandwich yesterday, I thought we owed you a break.”

“But I love to drive

” The mail on top slipped.

He shifted his body, pressing closer. “Have you had breakfast yet?”

The heat of his body warmed her. She didn’t trust her voice and shook her head.

“Get dressed. I know a place with the best caramel cinnamon rolls.” His eyebrow quirked. “If we’re lucky, we’ll get a table outside.”

Jill opened her mouth to tell him she already knew about the Maple Tree Inn, and then snapped it closed, suddenly aware of the nearness of his mouth. The neurological anatomy of the male brain is hardwired to drive men to please women. By her count, this was his second attempt in as many days. What possible harm could be in Gavin Fairfield wanting to please her? She swallowed hard, remembering the way she slogged through her egg salad sandwich.
But caramel rolls were a far cry from egg salad, and this time she knew what was on the menu. Careful, girl. This is business, not personal. You can’t forget for a minute he’s made his agenda clear.

Jill showered, using her favorite spicy jasmine shower splash, fixed her hair in long loose waves, and stepped into tall boots. After considering her wardrobe, she selected a long skirt made of bright colored scarves that rode low on her hips. She pulled on a three-quarter sleeved black tank and topped it with a snug-fitting denim vest.

Gavin stood, tilted his head, and smiled as she entered the living room. “Nice.”

In the car he said, “I owe you an apology. Adrienne admitted to being the leak.” He shrugged. “She meant well. She’s…overenthusiastic about keeping me in the public eye, but she’s a damn fine agent. The very best, in fact. So, tell me, Jillian. Why did you choose this line of work?”

Something about the way he said her name and the timbre of his voice sounded intimate. Jill crossed her legs and smoothed her skirt as she angled her body toward him, trying to quiet the fluttering in her belly. “I love children.”

“You loved the cello, as I recall,” he teased.

“And I still do. Maybe I’ll play for you one day.” She chuckled, more than a little surprised to be joking about the subject.

“I’d guess you chose this career for more reasons than your love of children. Not telling me?”

Several seconds passed and he prompted, “Passion, money, living up to someone else’s expectations—that’s usually why people do what they do. Which was yours?”

“Which one is it for you?” she asked, unsure just how much was wise to share.

He stared straight ahead. “The short version is no one in my family wanted me to be a musician. But I didn’t choose it. Music chose me.”

Jill uncrossed her legs. “So, for you it’s passion.”

“Definitely. Your turn.”

Jill leaned back, letting the comfort of the smooth leather seats hold her close. “I was Olivia’s age. A Saturday, I remember. My sister, Anna and I were in the back seat of our car. My parents drove for what seemed like an eternity. I didn’t know where we were going, and Anna didn’t care.”

“Too young?”

Sudden tears burned at the back of her eyes. “No, she was seven years older.”

Brows drawn low, he glanced her way. “Was?”

Jill squeezed her eyes shut until the tears backed off. “She died recently.”

She opened her eyes.

Gavin’s fingers gripped the steering wheel. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

Jill blinked back another surge of tears. “She had Down Syndrome and died of congenital heart disease.”

He nodded, flicked on his signal, glanced over his shoulder, and changed lanes, increasing his speed.

“I didn’t know until we got there that my parents were institutionalizing her,” she blurted, surprised to find herself talking about Anna.

“She had a low IQ?”

“She didn’t meet the definition of profoundly retarded. Her IQ was thirty-seven which is mid-range.” Jill shivered and hugged her arms to her chest.

Gavin adjusted the air vent to keep the stream from blowing directly on Jill. “They couldn’t handle her care?”

Jill bit her lips and nodded, blinking back the tears crowding the corners of her eyes. She stared out the window swallowing hard against the knife-edged grief. “Anna needed special training and an environment equipped to help her make the most of what she had to offer. I stayed in the car that day because I was too young to go in.” She broke off to collect herself against the next wave of sadness. “When they returned without her, my mother was crying and my dad’s face was all puffed up from the effort not to. In those days, Down Syndrome and mental retardation often carried the stigma of shame. My parents were farmers—neither finished high school. Both very intelligent, but ignorant. They always believed they were somehow responsible. They carried that tragic burden to their graves.”