Homecoming by Elizabeth Jennings Page B

dimly, as if he were talking through several layers of glass.
    “A chaser. I’ve got some good bourbon.”
    “Bourbon.” She shook her head, trying to get rid of the fog. “Sure. Who made it? A cousin?”
    “Nope.” Jack came back from the house with a bottle and two glasses. He poured one for her then peered at the label. “Rickety Bridge. Old Virginia brand. They only make two hundred bottles a year.”
    Federica sipped her bourbon, though she didn’t need anything to make her feel light-headed. Jack sank into the deck chair beside her with a sigh.
    He was inches away from her and her hands literally itched to touch him. Thank goodness one hand was occupied with a glass. Something was going to have to give, and soon. She felt like reaching over and touching him, grabbing him, anywhere. She, of all people, who had cultivated her touch-me-not persona for so long it was nearly perfect. So many businessmen on the road assumed that because she was on the road too, and away from home, she was an easy mark.
    So she had a lot of experience with icy refusals but not much with jumping bones. To keep her hands busy, she sipped her drink and wished that Ellen were here. Ellen would know exactly what to do. Too bad she couldn’t have Ellen at the other end of a hidden mike, like a Secret Service agent. That way Ellen could give her instructions. She could almost hear Ellen’s voice, coaching her.
    Women don’t jump men’s bones, Federica. That’s crass. Women eat men’s bones. Delicately. And spit them out afterwards.
    Now slowly, very slowly, sidle your hand close to his, as if you weren’t aware of what your hand was doing, and make a conversational gambit.
    Federica plopped her hand on the arm of Jack’s deck chair, then stared at it.
    That wasn’t very subtle. Now, think of something to say.
    Jack looked down at her hand, then at her, and Federica started drowning in those deep blue eyes.
    Talk, Federica! Say something!
    “Er—that was a wonderful meal,” she said finally. Her voice sounded choked and distant. “How come you cook so well?”
    “What?” Jack frowned.
    “I said, you cook really well. Where did you learn how?”
    “My wife,” he said glumly.
    His wife?
    “Your…wife?”
    “Yeah. Horrible cook. I had to learn how.”
    “Yoo-hoo, Jack.” Lilly’s voice called out and a section of picket fence swung open, scattering wisteria petals. Lilly stepped through and smiled blandly at Jack and Federica, sitting so closely together. “Sorry to bother you, Jack.” She innocently held out a canister. “But I’ve run out of salt.”
    Federica felt lost. His wife ?

Chapter Seven
     
    His wife?
    Stunned, Federica looked at Jack and Lilly, so alike but so different. Lilly looked curious, Jack looked annoyed and they both looked at her.
    His wife.
    He was married.
    Well, of course he was.
    A prime specimen like that. Walking around loose and unattached in this day and age. Unthinkable.
    It only confirmed the First Ellen Larsen Law of Love. The chances of a man being single are inversely proportionate to his attractiveness . Jack was the most attractive man she’d seen in a long time. Maybe ever. Ergo…
    A wife. Federica looked around, as if a wife were something Jack might have temporarily misplaced, like the keys to the house. Where had he put her? Was she hiding up in the attic somewhere, like Mrs. Rochester in Jane Eyre ? Or worse, was the wife out of town for a day or two and was Jack taking the opportunity to play around a bit?
    That thought was so humiliating Federica couldn’t even stay in the same place with it.
    She bounced out of her deck chair.
    “Hi, Lilly.” Federica looked around brightly, as if she and Jack had been attending a large dinner party and by sheer chance they were the last people to leave. “Jack and I were just—”
    “What did you say you wanted, Lil?” Jack’s brow was furrowed. He eyed his sister’s belly and got up from the deck chair. “Have a