Secret Nights at Nine Oaks (2 page)

Trying to distract himself from the woman racing up his driveway, Cain grabbed a sheaf of papers, and began making notes he really didn't comprehend. Temptation won and he glanced at the screen. She looked…well, comfortable in her own skin, he thought, dark red hair flying, her plush body in a tight
tank top and jean skirt that hugged her delicious curves as she shot up the drive at full speed.

It didn't surprise him. She'd always been a bit untamed. That was the reason he hadn't pursued her after that kiss under the stairs. All that energy was dangerous. A strand of unwanted regret laced through him like a rope about to tighten, choking him. With more force than necessary, Cain tapped the intercom console. “Benson?”

“I saw her, sir.”

Benson was always one step ahead of everyone, including Cain. “See that Miss DeLongpree has everything she needs.”

“Yes sir. Will you be meeting with her, sir?”

“No.” She wouldn't be pleased about that, but subjecting Phoebe to his lifestyle was out of the question.

She'd asked for sanctuary.

Nine Oaks was a fortress, his private haven from the public eye. From anyone. For five years.

If Phoebe DeLongpree wanted solitude, then he'd give it to her. Only that. He'd already ruined one woman's life. He wouldn't take the chance of destroying another one.

 

Phoebe sped past two-hundred-year-old oak trees lining the nearly mile-long private lane to the house, their branches arching over the road like protective
arms, welcoming her into seclusion. Into the ancestral home of Augustus Cain Blackmon the fourth. A bona fide recluse.

No one, including his sister, understood why he did the Howard Hughes thing, but there was a lot of speculation about why he hadn't shown himself in public or private since the death of his wife five years ago.

Though Cain never discussed his reasons with anyone, Suzannah believed it was because he loved his wife so much that he was still mourning her. But Phoebe, being a scriptwriter, came up with a dozen, slightly twisted scenarios, none of them as touching as a man who couldn't face the world without his bride. A real waste of a good-looking man, in her opinion.

In nine years, Cain Blackmon had aged to perfection, yet looks aside, why he cut himself off from the world nudged at her curiosity. Why lock himself up when he didn't have to? She'd have gone nuts being so confined. Besides, the newspapers had stopped asking why a couple years ago. At the thought of the press, she glanced in the rearview mirror as the news van pulled away. She understood Cain's need for privacy.

Sometimes, being alone was a good thing.

She wasn't used to publicity, either. Using the pseudonym of P.A. DeLong and being anonymous had suited her just fine.

Randall Kreeg had changed all that.

Needles of fear pricked her spine and she glanced in the rearview mirror again, half expecting to see him sitting behind her, looking smug and arrogant. Then she realized that no one stepped on this property without Cain's permission.
He can't touch me here,
she reminded herself and gripping the steering wheel, she worked her shoulders, refusing to allow her fear to ruin this opportunity to retrieve her creativity.

Yes, being alone was a good thing for her now.

Just not five years of it. Granted, Cain's seclusion was overkill in her opinion, but then she wasn't Cain. She'd never loved anyone that much. And she didn't have Nine Oaks to escape to. Till now.

As the house came into view, she felt as if she were in a time warp. Rolling to a stop in front of the antebellum mansion, she locked the brake and stood on the seat of her Jeep, then braced her arms on the top of the windshield. She just stared.

It hadn't changed in about two hundred years, if she had to hazard a guess. Suzannah told her that Cain had had the entire plantation restored to its former glory, even the stables. Porches wrapped the upper and lower levels of the mansion, a widow's walk was on the third floor. Painted white and trimmed with Charleston green shutters so dark they
looked black, the house rambled, its stone verandas leading to a dock, the river and a pool. From the river, acres of land spread out in three directions opening on to fruit orchards, rice, sugar, peanuts, cotton and timber. While pictures of Nine Oaks graced local shops, hotels and restaurants, nothing compared to seeing it up close again.

She loved this house. Its serene elegance drew her. Suzannah had always brushed off Phoebe's awe and envy over Nine Oaks, but then she'd grown up here with Cain. For a second, she wondered where he was. The library again, she decided, her gaze skimming the house.

The front doors opened, and while she didn't expect Cain, she was a little disappointed when a young man dressed in a white shirt and dark slacks trotted down the steps. Another man, older and wearing a suit, walked sedately behind the first.

The young man smiled brightly. “I'm Willis, Miss DeLongpree. I'll take your bags up for you and park your car.”

She thanked him, smiling as she pitched him the keys, cautioning him the second gear stuck a little. Silver haired and slender, the older man waited on the wide Federal staircase and Phoebe recognized him as she mounted the first few steps.

“Hello, Benson,” she said. “How's it going?”

Not a fraction of Benson's distinguished expression changed as he nodded and said, “Miss DeLongpree. Welcome back to Nine Oaks.”

“Thanks.” Just because she knew it would fluster him, she popped up and kissed his cheek. “You're looking mighty good there, darlin'.”

He blinked and cleared his throat, his ears glowing pink. “And you, miss.”

“You still riding roughshod over the gang here?”

His eyes twinkled. “I will die doing just that, ma'am.”

Phoebe had the urge to tickle him just to see if he knew how to smile. She liked him. Once, Suzannah had snitched liquor from her daddy's private stock and together they'd indulged too much. Benson had found them, drunk and silly, and managed to get them both to Suzannah's room before anyone discovered their crime. Then he went beyond the call, soothing their hangovers with some old-fashioned remedy, and never telling a soul.
You had to love a man who knew how to be discreet.

Following him, she stepped into the coolness of the house, looking around at the familiar decor. Heart-pine floors stretched for yards in three directions, complementing the pale yellow walls and the carved pecan wood moldings and doors. But the real eye catcher was the twin sweeping wood staircases
that led to the second and third floors of the east and west wings.
Eat your heart out, Scarlett.

She looked at Benson. “So where's Cain?”

“Mr. Blackmon is very busy. Follow me, please.” He headed for the stairs.

“Too busy to greet his guest?”

“He's aware you've arrived, Miss Phoebe.”

Of that she didn't doubt, yet Phoebe stopped where she was and Benson paused on the stairs, looking down at her, then arching a brow. “Not even a hello?”

Sympathy clouded his dark eyes. “Mr. Blackmon doesn't receive visitors.”

“He really is the ogre locked in his castle, isn't he?” Somehow, she'd hoped his extremeness was mostly rumor.

Benson's gaze narrowed, and in a heartbeat he went from majordomo to watchdog. “He does as he pleases, miss.”

“Yes, well, so do I.”

Phoebe turned to her left and walked toward the library, suspecting he was in there. Cain didn't owe her a thing—if he was going to ignore her, fine, he could. It was his house. But nine years ago, the man had kissed her into a bone-melting puddle, and now they were connected.

He owed her at least a “Hello, how's your mama?”

“Miss DeLongpree. I wouldn't advise opening that door.”

Lord, he sounded afraid for her. “Duly noted, Benson. I take full responsibility.”

She pushed it open and stepped into the grand library. She hadn't really taken notice of it this morning, yet her gaze landed first on the back walls lined with dark wood shelves and stuffed tight with leather-bound books. Her mouth practically watered. There were groupings of chairs, and antiques dotted the room. Rich heart-pine floors were covered with vivid carpets in a mix of burgundy, blue and gold. Masculine, opulent, the room spoke of aged brandy and Cuban cigars, soft conversations about finance and world affairs. It said
Cain,
she thought, quiet, reserved. For a second, she absorbed the history lingering like smoke inside the walls before looking around the room again.

He wasn't there.

The chair was turned away from the desk, and a bank of computer screens filled one side of a large U-shaped work center. On the bottom of one of the computer screens, the stock market updates ticked by. Yet aside from the usual desk paraphernalia, lamp, phones, blotter, there was a china cup and saucer.

And whatever was in it, was still steaming.

He'd heard her coming and left somehow.

Phoebe felt a hard punch somewhere near her heart.

She didn't bother looking further. Quietly, she backed out and closed the door. Benson didn't say a word, didn't show any emotion, but Phoebe suddenly felt like the morning after Cain had kissed her so thoroughly, then later behaved as if it had never happened.

She felt ignored. Unworthy. Used.

Disappointed, she followed Benson upstairs.

A
half hour later, Benson slipped into the library, posting himself at the edge of Cain's desk.

“Is she settled?” Cain asked, writing.

“As well as Miss DeLongpree can settle, sir.”

Cain looked up, amused. “Still a little hyper?”

“Yes, sir. She's in the east wing, the yellow suite,” Benson said. He added, “She was very determined to see you.”

Cain said nothing, closing a folder. He'd heard her coming and slipped out through a secret passageway his ancestors had built into this house over a century ago to escape from the Union Army. It was devious
and a bit cowardly, but Cain told himself he was sparing Phoebe. He wasn't the man she knew before, and she'd be expecting that.

“Where is she now?”

Benson gestured to the security screen, to the center block, and Cain watched as Phoebe, in a bikini, hopped on the diving board.

“Oh good God.” His muscles locked, heat skimming his bloodstream. Cain swallowed. There wasn't enough bikini to cover that body, he thought, and watched her bounce on the board, then jackknife and plunge head first into the twenty-foot-deep water. She barely made a splash.

“Impressive,” Benson said, and Cain spared him a glance. If he didn't know better, he'd swear the man was smiling.

Seconds later, she popped to the surface in a smooth arch, then started swimming laps, looking like a slim, hot pink torpedo shooting through the water. Cain watched her for a second, then tapped the keys and viewed another section of the property. He wasn't a voyeur, but the image of her round plump breasts spilling out of her top left an imprint in his mind.

And in his blood.

It confirmed what he knew—getting anywhere near Phoebe was dangerous.

“She won't give up easily, sir.”

Cain rubbed his temple. “She doesn't have a choice.”

“Sir…if you would simply—”

“Spare me the sermon, Benson. Please.”

Once in a while, Benson made a plea for him to leave Nine Oaks. Since Benson had practically raised him, he wasn't offended. Yet Benson had been here the day his wife had died. He'd heard the horrible argument they'd had, had warned him when Lily had taken a boat out onto the river.

Cain didn't choose to be alone because he was grieving, as most people assumed.

He was alone, because he was paying for his crime.

Lily wasn't skilled enough to sail alone.

And that night, he knew it.

 

There was a fine art to being lazy.

Phoebe hadn't a clue how to begin. As a kid, her mom had instilled in her that “a flagrant misuse of time” was nothing short of criminal. Once Phoebe was on her own, she'd gotten over that. Well, mostly.

She'd always been a little hyperactive, which translated into her mouth running faster than her brain and getting her and Suzannah into major trouble when they were in college. But she'd needed to
do something, even if it was wrong. Right now, she wished for anything so she could sleep tonight. After weeks without a good night's rest, the reflection in the mirror was looking pretty sad. She dreaded bedtime.

Although she could have done another twenty laps, she was waterlogged already. Maybe later, she thought, trying to clear her ears as she stepped inside the house. Maybe after one of Jean Claude's famous meals.

Entering the house from the south side, she wrapped the flowered sarong more securely around her hips and headed toward the foyer. Her heeled sandals clicked on the pinewood floors, almost echoing in the big house. The sound made her feel as if she were in a museum, that any extra noise was going to earn a reprimand from the guard.

That would be Benson, she thought, smiling. She passed several unused rooms, and knew she and Cain were the only people here who didn't work for the estate. It was sad to have so much room and not use it. The house screamed for a big summer party.

Suddenly she found herself staring at the library door. She hadn't meant to come this way, especially not dressed as she was. But Cain was in there. She could hear the low murmur of his voice. She thought about how he'd slipped out of the room when he
knew she was coming in, and the sting of it skipped through her again. This need to see him irritated her. She didn't really want to speak to someone who went out of his way not to be near her, but just the same, the need was there. Being so casually dismissed pushed her to reach for the door latch. Her hand stopped midway. Whoever Cain was talking with, he didn't sound pleased.

When it grew quiet again, she rapped on the door. She heard his unintelligible response and pushed it open, her gaze sliding around the room, then focusing on the desk. He stood behind it, his hands clasped behind his back as he looked out the window. He stared at the water a lot, she realized.

“Yes, Benson?”

“It's me, Cain.”

He stiffened, yet kept his back to her.

“What is it that you want?” Cain said more tersely than he intended.

She considered the wisdom of confronting him when clearly he didn't want her near. “Am I truly welcome here?”

Her voice sounded fragile, and Cain sighed softly and faced her. His gaze latched onto her face, to her pretty green eyes that looked so hollow right now. Then his attention slipped lower. Good God, he thought and swallowed, his pulse skipping a couple
of beats. The skimpy bikini barely covered her smooth tanned skin while the sarong was tied low on her hips and showed the enticing dip of her navel. He'd never seen anything so exotic.

“Am I, Cain?”

He dragged his gaze to her face. “Of course you are.”

She sagged a little. He didn't want to make her feel uninvited. He just didn't want her within touching distance. His moods had a tendency to rub off on people, and knowing she was here, simply reminded him that he'd made a terrible mistake before and would never risk it again. But the temptation just to look at her won out over his better judgment and Cain moved from behind the desk.

Phoebe watched his approach as if she were looking down a long thin tunnel. Her world narrowed. Cain. The man who'd made her world tilt years ago and never tip right since then. Her knees softened a little. Her tastes in men didn't normally lean to the suit-and-tie type, but lordy-my, a girl could change her taste, couldn't she? His white dress shirt pulled at his broad shoulders, his hair a dark, chocolate-brown that shone so much she wanted to run her fingers through it.

He stopped, and she looked up at him. “Thank you, Cain.”

He only nodded. Silence stretched between them
and for a woman who normally didn't know how to shut up, she was at a loss for words. She tried for the ordinary.

“So are you going to have dinner with me or anything, or just keep this distance you're so fond of lately?”

“Perhaps.”

That wasn't an answer. “Well, just so you know, I'm available for cocktails at five.”

A smile barely curved his mouth. “I'll remember that.”

Her gaze traveled over his face. “You're just so snappy with the pleasant conversation, aren't you?” Now that she was near him, her nervousness fled. Amazing, she thought. It was like staring into the face of someone she'd known for…centuries.

When he didn't say anything, kept staring, she said, “Out of practice?”

“Hardly.”

“We can start at the beginning.” She held out her hand. “Hi, I'm Phoebe DeLongpree, your sister's best friend.”

He looked down at her hand. He knew what would happen if he touched her, felt her warm skin against his in something as mundane as a handshake. He'd want more, and that he couldn't have. Ever.

“Very funny.”

Phoebe frowned, lowering her hand. “More than a physical recluse, I see.” Miffed, she moved to the door.

“Phoebe.”

“Yes?”

“This is a male household. I suggest you cover yourself a bit more.”

Phoebe didn't bother looking down at herself. She knew what she looked like. She'd run nearly a hundred miles in the last couple weeks, worked out till she was sore and tired, doing anything to fall into a peaceful sleep. She faced him. He was behind his desk again, shuffling files.

“It's a bikini, Cain.”

“Is that what you call that?” There was more cloth in a handkerchief than in that top, for heaven's sake. And unfortunately, Cain's imagination was easily filling in what lay beneath every sparse inch of fabric.

“Yes, I do. And I look good in it or I wouldn't be wearing it. And anyone on your staff could have walked outside and seen me, so I think the problem lies with
you.
”

He snapped a look at her. She unwrapped the sarong, slinging it over her shoulder, and on heeled sandals the same shade as her bikini, she turned and walked to the door.

His gaze lowered and Cain groaned, feeling mor
tally wounded. The damn thing was a thong, and her slim hips and tight, round behind rocked in sexy motion as she left his office. He closed his eyes, the image replaying in his mind enough to make his ears ring and every muscle in his body lock up. His groin was so tight he thought he'd snap in two if he tried to sit.

Cain let out a long-suffering breath, rubbing his face, then scraping his hands back over his skull.

As much as he wanted her gone, he wouldn't go back on his promise. When he lowered gingerly into the chair, he resigned himself to the sexiest creature on the planet torturing him with temptation.

It was going to be weeks of pure hell.

 

Standing at the top of the staircase, Phoebe eyed the long curving banister, imagining descending the steps in a gown to a handsome escort waiting at the bottom. Chewing her lip, she leaned out, looking down the halls to see if she was alone, then hitched her rear onto the polished banister and slid her way down. She hopped to the floor, her sneakers squeaking, and she did a little wiggle before turning toward the hall.

Someone cleared his throat.

She flinched, spinning around. Willis stood nearby, grinning, and holding a tray. Phoebe flushed a little, put her finger to her lips, then moved closer.

“This is for Cain, right?” she said, scoping out the coffee service.

“Yes, ma'am.”

She snatched the pad and pencil from the breast pocket of his jacket, and scribbled a note, then stuffed it under the saucer. Willis, blond and young, gave the plate a skeptical look.

If that won't get a rise out of Cain, nothing will, she thought, then winked at Willis before heading toward the heavenly scent of freshly baked bread.

Benson appeared out of nowhere. “Miss Phoebe, dinner is served.” He gestured toward the formal dining room.

“Oh, great.” She was looking forward to tasting one of Jean Claude's creations. She followed Benson into the dining room, its vivid red walls and white trim giving a casual feel to the austere surroundings. The older man pulled out her chair and when she sat, he lifted silver domes off the plates. Her mouth watered as the glorious scents of lemon, chicken and delicate vegetables wafted up to greet her.

She tipped in her chair, looking around. “Cain isn't joining me?”

“No, miss.”

“Well, that stinks,” she muttered under her breath.

Benson poured her some wine and offered her napkin, then said, “Enjoy,” before he left her alone.

Phoebe stared at the wide empty room. “Hello, hello, hello,” she said like an echo. She hated eating alone. It was boring and she always ate too fast. She felt a bit insulted that Cain couldn't be bothered to join her. She'd practically invited him to, in his own house no less.

Gathering her plate and utensils in the napkin, she walked to the kitchen, stopping in the doorway, and taking in the small bit of chaos. The Nine Oaks' kitchen had been modernized and she didn't know what half the appliances were used for, but then, a microwave was her best friend lately.

Around the edge of the granite counter, a few of the staff sat, eating dinner and watching the TV. She recognized Jean Claude, Willis and Mr. Dobbs, who handled the dogs and cared for the stables. The two others she hadn't met yet, but from the looks of their clothing, they worked on the grounds.

“Oh, I could just live at your feet, Jean Claude,” she said, inhaling deeply. “You could just throw me some scraps and I'd be grateful.”

Jean Claude glanced her way as he pulled a flat wooden paddle filled with steaming loaves of bread out of the stone oven. “Well, where y' at, Miss Phoebe?” His smile was big and bright.

“I'm just fine, Jean Claude. Do y'all mind if I join
you?” She nodded toward the counter. “It's dull eating with a flower arrangement for company.”

“Yes, of course,” the group said, and Willis hopped up to get her plate and make a spot for her.

She slid onto a stool at the granite counter.

“I was glad to hear you were coming for a visit, Miss Phoebe,” Jean Claude said.

“Shocked you, I'll bet,” she said, cutting her chicken. It was stuffed with crabmeat and shrimp and she was practically drooling over it before the first bite made it to her mouth.

His lips curved. “Yes'm, it did.”

Jean Claude was raised in New Orleans, Cajun to the bone, tall, slim and handsome at nearly sixty. There was something terribly sexy about a man who could cook, and Jean Claude was the best chef in five counties.

“Suzannah invited me. I think she blackmailed Cain, though.”

“Miss 'Zannah is a strong woman, that I'll say.”

“I'd say pushy.”

“More than you?”

She smiled. “She runs a close second.” She gave him her best begging-to-try-it look. “You going to share some of that?” She eyed the fresh bread.

“What? You don't like my dinner?” He nodded toward the plate.

“It's great, but your bread, well…it's a spiritual thing.”

Grinning, Jean Claude cut her a slice, slathering it with butter.