realized she wanted to throw something at him. She truly did. If he hadn’t rattled her by reminding her of scattering pattern pieces on her floor while simultaneously disrobing her, she might have gone ahead and pitched a chunk of bread at him. With his reflexes, he’d have ducked, and she’d have felt like a fool. Good that she’d let the impulse wash over her.
“How long will you be away?” he asked her.
Long enough to get over you, I hope. “A week, unless I change my mind,” she said coolly.
“And stay longer or come home sooner?”
“Either. How long are you at home?”
“Awhile,” he said, rising.
“Then you’ll be gone before I return?”
He sauntered off without answering—pretending not to have heard her—and dipped behind the bar, then disappeared into the kitchen. Alexandra finished her lunch. She would fly to Boston tomorrow and spend a couple of nights there before heading to Knights Bridge. This would be her first Christmas away from England, but it would be wonderful—and a positive, healthy way to get herself out of her post-Ian funk.
He returned with more bread. “You didn’t have to go to the trouble,” she said.
He grinned. “You’re never more trouble than I can handle, Alex.”
He was gone again before she could respond. He went back behind the bar, greeting another patron with that sexy voice and amiable manner.
Everyone liked Ian Mabry.
A week away wouldn’t be nearly enough to get over him, but it would be a solid start. In the meantime, extra butter on her bread would help. She lifted a warm hunk of bread and glanced up, her eyes accidentally connecting with Ian’s.
Another grin, a sexy wink.
He wouldn’t believe she hadn’t been sneaking a look at him. Never. He was that sure of himself. That sure she was still under his spell.
Alexandra sighed and picked up her knife.
Lots of extra butter might help.
* * *
“Are you sure you want to make this trip, Alexandra?”
It was early evening in London, and Philippa Rankin Hunt was skeptical if not worried. Alexandra smiled at her elegant, silver-haired grandmother. “It’ll be wonderful.”
Philippa looked unconvinced. She’d had Alexandra join her in the living room of her Mayfair apartment and, over tea, tell her about her trip to New England. More than seventy years ago, her father, Philip Rankin, had gone to Boston in pursuit of the Ashworth jewels, appropriated by his brother-in-law but intended for Philippa, the only child of his deceased sister and her fighter-pilot husband. The jewels were stolen from Charles Ashworth’s Boston hotel and presumed lost until a few months ago, when Dylan and Olivia had returned them to Philippa, now an elderly woman. She was still digesting the fact that her uncle—whom she’d never liked—had been even more of a bastard than she’d realized, the Ashworth jewels had been rediscovered and Dylan, a wealthy former professional hockey player, was, in fact, her nephew, her father’s grandson by the young woman he’d left behind in America at the start of World War II.
It was a lot for Philippa, whose idea of an adventure was seeing the first rose of the season blossom at her country home. She’d been invited to Olivia and Dylan’s wedding but decided the trip was a bit much for her.
“I checked the forecast,” she said. “It’s cold in Boston. There’s a winter storm brewing. A nor’easter, they call it.”
Alexandra waved a hand. “It’s December in New England, Gran. Of course it’s cold with a chance of snow. I would love for Dylan and Olivia to have snow on the ground for their wedding. Wouldn’t that be picturesque?”
“A white Christmas is one thing. A blizzard is another.” Her grandmother set her teacup—Wedgwood she’d inherited from the Ashworths—on its saucer. “Olivia and Dylan can afford to have their wedding anywhere. Destination weddings are popular these days. Why not Nassau? Why Knights Bridge, Massachusetts?”
“It’s Olivia’s hometown. It’s what she wants.”
“Then it’s as it should be.”
“I’ll have a fabulous time, Gran. I’ve been working hard. I’m due for a bit of a break.”
Her grandmother eyed her with open suspicion. “You have that jilted-by-a-man look, Alexandra.”
“What if I did the jilting? Would it be the same look?”
“Did you do the jilting?”
“I’ve been so busy with work and Olivia and Dylan’s wedding, how would I find time for jilting or being jilted?” Alexandra sprang to her feet. She didn’t want to outright lie to her grandmother, so best to change the subject. “Come, Gran. Let’s go see some Christmas lights and have a nice, quiet dinner together. You can tell me again about your father—my great-grandfather, the jewel thief.”
“He wasn’t a jewel thief,” Philippa said, rising, steady on her feet. “He was merely seeing to my mother’s wishes after her untimely death.”
“Philip was a rake of a man, don’t you think?”
“I think nothing of the kind.”
Alexandra suppressed a smile as she hooked her arm into her grandmother’s. “Your mother wasn’t supposed to fall for him, but she did. The lovely Lady Helena. You can tell me about her, too. Have you ever fallen for a rake, Gran?”
She sniffed. “Your great-grandfather was a war hero. He wasn’t a ‘rake.’ And if you keep this up, Alexandra, I’ll drive you to Heathrow right now and you can sleep on the floor there.”
“Oh, so you have fallen for the wrong man,” Alexandra said with a delighted laugh. “I want to hear all over a bottle of good wine.”
Her grandmother reached for her wool coat, scarf and gloves. The feigned outrage was gone and she had a twinkle in her eyes. “Who said he was the wrong man?”
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