“Jetlag doesn’t make you start hearing things. I know what I heard. And I wasn’t asleep,” she retorted sharply.
Douglas watched her. Her breathing had slowed but she still kept looking out the door as if she was going to see something there.
She hadn’t sat, she hadn’t drunk, she hadn’t done anything he told her to do.
He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had spoken to him in that tone. In fact, outside of his father, there might never have been a time when anyone had spoken to him in that tone.
He also couldn’t remember a time when he’d issued an order that hadn’t been carried out immediately.
This was a new sensation for him and it was intriguing.
“Do you hear anything now?” he asked, feigning concern.
“No.”
“What were you doing when you heard this… scream?”
“I was making lists. I was doing a budget. I was wide awake and…” She stopped herself and looked back out the door. She tipped her head to the side and seemed to be listening for something or thinking about something.
Then she took a deep breath and her teeth bit into her generous bottom lip. When her eyes came back to his, she seemed to have come to some conclusion.
“Yes, yes, you’re right. It was just… I’m exhausted. I’m sorry. I can’t sleep. Haven’t slept well in a long time. I’m sorry.”
When she stopped speaking, he raised an eyebrow then motioned to the couch with a nod of his head. This time she obeyed his unspoken command and sat down. She took a drink and then opened her mouth wide and breathed out like something burned her tongue. Her expression was so preposterous, it almost made Douglas smile.
“What is that?” she asked, lifting the glass to indicate the source of her question.
“Sherry,” he replied, walking to the desk and leaning a thigh against it. Then he took another sip of the whisky while he watched her.
“I’m sorry but it’s awful,” she told him, setting the glass down on the table in front of her.
“That’s a sweet sherry, would you like something dry?”
She raised comically horrified eyes to him at the thought of anything sherry and said, “No. No, thank you, no. No sherry, sweet or dry. Sherry, blech. Are you drinking sherry?”
As he regarded her sitting on his couch in her tight, fetching outfit, Douglas thought that this was a very bizarre conversation and would have preferred not to be having it. He also didn’t have time (nor would he allow himself) to consider the many things he would have preferred to be doing, most specifically with her or, to be precise, to her, as his call would be coming through shortly.
“Whisky,” he replied, seeking patience.
“May I have some whisky?”
Obliging her, he walked to the drinks cabinet, thinking to give her some spirit to soothe her mental state and get her to go to bed. There were a number of things to do and she was distracting.
“Do you like whisky?” he asked.
“I hate it,” she answered and when he turned on that strange comment, he saw she was again looking out the door. She had lifted her hand to pull her hair off her face and then she looked back at him, dropping her arm. He couldn’t help but notice how even these superfluous movements were innately graceful. Her face was free of makeup and her hair was slowly falling back into place around her face. He knew that she was thirty-six years old but she looked a decade younger.
Her voice was low and deep but entirely feminine and very sensuous. He’d always liked the way she’d said his name in that voice.
He’d forgotten that.
She lifted her legs to sit crossed-legged on the couch as he brought her the whisky. His mother would have had a coronary, to see a woman at Sommersgate sitting cross-legged, wearing whatever it was Julia was wearing, no matter how fetching (and whatever it was, it was not couture), with her feet tucked underneath her. That thought, as well, almost made Douglas smile.
“It feels warm going down,” Julia said.
“I’m sorry?” he asked.
“The whisky. It tastes terrible but feels warm going down. I’m chilled the bone.” And as if to demonstrate, she shivered dramatically.
He wasn’t surprised she was cold. She was barely wearing any clothes.
With effort, he pulled his eyes from her body and his thoughts away from the better ways there were to warm her and said sardonically, “Welcome to Sommersgate.” And to that, he lifted his glass to her in salute.
Her green eyes, which had been staring into her whisky glass, moved to him and in the briefest second, they lit right before she laughed.
He could not recall ever making her laugh before although he’d seen others do it. She’d always had an uninhibited laugh, throaty and rich, which engaged her whole body, rather than just her mouth. He’d always enjoyed hearing and watching her laugh.
He’d forgotten that too.
There was something quite unusually… pleasant about being responsible for that kind of laughter.
What was unpleasant was noticing that she did look exhausted. As her face lit up, the exhaustion was replaced by a light that he was far more familiar with when it came to Julia. And, as soon as the laughter died, the exhaustion settled back on her features. This was not evidenced in haggard lines, in fact, she hid it well. He hadn’t noticed it until she laughed. But she was pale and, once the laughter died away, there was none of the usual brightness to her eyes.
She lifted her glass to return the salute and downed the contents after which she grimaced.
“I’m sorry,” she said when she’d wiped the grimace from her face. “You get home late and have some crazy female running around your house like an idiot. You’re probably wondering what you’ve gotten yourself into. I promise, this is not an indication of the years to come.” And with that, she gave him a small smile that did nothing to transform her face and most certainly did not reach her eyes.
He had no reply and she didn’t seem to expect one. She stood and gathered the glasses.
“I’ll just take these to the kitchen and leave you in peace.” She turned toward the door finishing with, “Goodnight, I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Julia,” he stopped her and she turned back. “Just leave the glasses. Veronika will see to them.”
She hesitated, looked at the glasses, at him then put the glasses on the table seeming somewhat confused.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” he finished, done with the episode, done with her.