Page 52 of Jane Deyre
“It means your father agrees with me. Bedtime.”
Adele pouts. “Boo! Can’t I get another story?”
“Not tonight, honey. It’s late. Plus, you have to get up early to feed the snails.”
The frown on her face curls into a smile. Without another word of protest, she climbs up the stepstool and crawls into the high bed. For the second time tonight, I tuck her in tightly.
“Jane, can we make Stripe and Speedy the fruit salad for their breakfast?”
Mr. Rochester gives me a slightly puzzled look when I tell her we can. I plant a goodnight kiss on her forehead. The warmth of her little body radiates through mine.
She looks up at her father. “Papa, aren’t you going to give me a goodnight kiss?” Her big plaintive brown eyes could melt the brittlest of hearts.
Wordlessly, he bends down and kisses her on the exact same spot I did. It’s almost as if our lips have touched metaphysically. I feel a prick of longing, followed by a prick of remorse.
A contented smile forms on Adele’s rosebud lips. She lowers her eyelids, and Mr. Rochester ushers me out of the room. The silence between us palpable.
Electrical.
CHAPTER 26
Ward
Imay have said goodnight to my daughter, but I’m not ready to say goodnight to her nanny. Every minute I’m with her I feel a lightness of being, as if my weighty heart has been filled with helium. I don’t do fun, but she makes me have fun. She makes me laugh, and I don’t laugh. And she’s bringing me closer to my daughter, this sweet, beautiful child I’ve never known. And thought I’d never connect with.
Halfway down the stairs, Jane trips on a step. She let’s out a gasp, and her portrait goes flying. I save her from a nasty spill by catching her in time, cinching her tiny waist with my arm. We pause for a moment while she regains her balance.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice is shaky. Because she almost fell or because I’m holding her? “I’m such a spaz.”
“Hold on to the banister,” I say. “I can’t afford to have a nanny on crutches.”
“Don’t worry. I’m an expert with them.”
As we descend the remaining steps, I wonder what she means by that. Was she in an accident? Did she suffer some debilitating injury or disease? Did someone hurt her? She’s as much an enigma to me as I must be to her.
At the base of the stairs, she bends to retrieve her self-portrait.
“Let me.” I beat her to it and pick it up. Before handing the drawing back to her, I steal another long look at it and fantasize. What would she look like in a little black dress? How it would feel to slide the zipper down her back inch by inch? Then slip the dress off her, trailing butterfly kisses down her spine, one disk at a time?
I fight my arousal. I have my answers.
“Have a drink with me.”
“I should get going,” she says, taking the drawing from me. She seems nervous, eager to get away from me.
“You know, Jane, I’mnotthe Big Bad Wolf.”
She stifles a smile and feigns fatigue. “I’m really tired.”
Bullshit.“If you don’t say yes, I’m going to huff and puff and blow your house down. Your precious vision board won’t survive, and you won’t have a place to sleep tonight.”Except with me. In my bed.
Shoving that lewd thought out of my head (what the hell has gotten into me?), I inhale a deep breath and hold it. I feel my face reddening, my cheeks about to burst. She can’t help but laugh. God, I love her laugh. It’s genuine. From some place deep inside her.
“Okay, Mr. Rochester, but just one.”
I let out my breath.
One can lead to two.