GARRET STOOD against the wall and watched Kit dance in the arms of another man. Another man who, if the way his hand was spread across her lower back was any indication, felt completely at ease with Kit’s body pressed against his.
Marco Baresi. The celebrated writer. The good friend. The author Garret used to enjoy reading.
He watched them turn slowly, engaged in conversation as they flowed across the floor with a familiarity that would be hard to mistake. Kit, clad in a dark red silk dress that draped across her shoulders and down her body to mid-thigh, leaned back and smiled at something Baresi said. Her auburn hair, held back with a clip above her ear on one side, swayed as they danced.
A few people walked by and eyed Garret, no doubt trying to figure who he was and whether or not he was important. The party was invite only, so no one doubted he belonged there, even if they couldn’t place him.
Garret waved to one of the servers, who immediately brought him a glass of champagne. He sipped it as the music played, waiting for the dance to end. He tried to turn his eyes from the couple to take in other parts of this opulent party he’d managed to snag an invitation to through an old contact who’d owed him a favor. But he didn’t try very hard; after only a few seconds, his eyes drifted back.
The tightness in his chest didn’t let up as Kit and Marco turned and glided to the other end of the dance floor. It took everything he had to fight his primal urge to intervene. It wasn’t that he thought Kit was going to jump into the other man’s bed, but Garret was jealous, ridiculously so, of the time they were spending together and of the ease they seemed to share. And he couldn’t help wondering if Kit would ever feel that comfortable in his arms.
Finally, the song ended. Baresi continued to hold Kit in his embrace as he finished saying something to her, but the couple stopped moving. Unable to stay away any longer, Garret took the last sip of his champagne and set the glass down on a nearby table.
“May I have the next dance?” he asked, having moved across the floor.
With a surprised gasp, Kit spun. Baresi released one of her hands when she turned, but kept his arm wrapped around her waist as she stayed tucked against him.
“Garret?” she said, sounding as confused as her expression looked. “What are you doing here?” Her perfectly framed eyebrows came together. Then came together even more, and not in surprise.
“Let me guess, my brother sent you?” she asked, all but turning away from him. Dismissing him.
“Actually, Kit, your brother is back in New York. I came because I wanted to be here.”
For a moment, she was speechless and just stood there staring at him—while she was still in another man’s arms. He was going to have to change that. Soon.
“Darling, why don’t you introduce me to your friend?” Marco Baresi said, nudging Kit out of her silence. She gave herself a little shake and eyed Garret warily, but dutifully turned to Baresi and spoke.
“Marco, this is a, well, this is Garret Cantona. Garret, this Marco Baresi, my good friend and the reason for this party.”
Garret didn’t miss the lack of a qualifier attached to his name, but ignoring that for the moment, he turned to the author. Garret acknowledged that the man—though bald, just a hair taller than Kit in her heels, and more than a few years older—might hold a certain appeal to women. He was unquestionably okay looking, but he also had the kind of confidence and easy sensuality, judging by the way his hand remained on Kit, that women might find attractive.
“I hear congratulations are in order, Mr. Baresi. I’ve been a fan for many years.” But not so much anymore, he appended in his head.
His statement not only surprised the author, but Kit too. She drew her head back and looked at him as if she was trying to figure out if he was poking fun. But he wasn’t. And to prove it, he continued.
“I’ve heard rumors that you had a muse for 10,000 Yearnings, and from what I gather, most people have assumed it was Kit,” he said putting two and two—and two—together, from everything he’d read about Baresi. “But,” Garret continued, “I think that if you’ve ever based a character on Kit, it would have to have been Marta in Comings Away.”
For a beat, no one said anything. Then Marco Baresi threw his head back and laughed. Garret glanced at Kit—who was frowning at him, or maybe at Marco—and took a moment to study her. He was relieved to see she still looked well rested, though if it was possible, he’d wager she’d lost a pound or two in the past two days.
When he finally stopped laughing, Baresi smiled at Garret. “You know her well, then,” the author said in his thick Italian accent.
“Well enough for now,” Garret answered.
Baresi gave him a speculative look that he soon turned on Kit.
She met her old friend’s gaze for moment then Baresi turned back to him. “No one has ever suggested Marta was based on Kit. Most of them assume it was the lovely, lithe, and seductive Genevieve from 10,000 Yearnings. But you are, of course, right, my friend,” he added. “I’m curious, if you will, what made you see that?”
Garret could tell from the look on Kit’s face that she was anything but curious. In fact, she looked like she wanted to be anywhere in the world but in the middle of this conversation. Too bad.
“There is no denying the appeal of the young Genevieve,” Garret started. “Her sensuality, her seductiveness, is rather,” he paused searching for the word. “It is rather irresistible. And easy for one to attribute to Kit without reserve.”
Kit shifted and looked away. Still looking for an escape she wasn’t going to find.
“But Marta,” Garret continued, keeping his gaze on Kit, who finally, with obvious reluctance, met it. “She possesses a spirit, a will to not just survive but to make her life better. To live better, to love better, to be better. A strength that goes beyond the sexual realm—one that is more subtle but stronger than any aspect of Genevieve’s character. And that,” he said, his eyes locked on hers, “is Kit.”
He felt more than saw Baresi’s eyes bounce between the two of them. But in his mind, in this place, there was no one in the room but him and Kit. Her golden eyes watched him as he noted the flush of her skin and the rhythm of her pulse beating in her neck.
“I suppose then, mi amore, that tonight, I shall be lonely.”
Garret heard the words, but it seemed to take more than a few seconds for them to register with him—and with Kit. But after a moment, she gave a little shake of her head and turned toward her old friend.
“Marco, don’t pretend you’ll be lonely tonight,” she chided. “We would have stayed up drinking, smoking Cuban cigars, and rehashing old times. But you know Cara is always willing to accommodate any of your other companionship interests.”
Marco gave a good-hearted tsk-tsk and shook his head. Saying something in Italian, he leaned forward and brushed a kiss across Kit’s cheek before facing Garret.
“She is my muse in more ways than one, my friend,” he said. “And she is perfectly capable of taking care of herself, as I well know. But do not assume that because she is competent, she needs no one.”
“Marco!” Kit protested, but he silenced her by raising her hand to his lips and pressing a kiss there, like a gentleman from days gone by.
“Be good, be kind, and if she comes back to me,” he said, placing Kit’s fingers in Garret’s hand, “rest assured, I do know how to heal her and will not hesitate to do so again.” With that, he turned and walked away, leaving the two of them standing on the dance floor as the orchestra struck up another song.
Garret hesitated for a split second before he pulled her into his arms and began moving to the music. Judging by Kit’s silence, they were both contemplating what Marco had said, and what he hadn’t. Then again, she could just be plotting his demise for crashing the party and disrupting her evening.
“Kit?” he asked, pulling back a bit to see her face. Her eyes were fixed over his shoulder for several strains, then finally met his gaze.
“I don’t want to talk about it tonight, Garret. I don’t want to talk about why you’re here or what Marco said. I just want to dance and visit with my friends and then go back to my room, alone,” she added. “And get a good night’s sleep before I fly home tomorrow. Can you just let me do that?”
He studied her, not just her eyes, but the feel of her body against his, the way her feet moved with his, the tilt of her head, and the feel of her fingers brushing his neck. What she was asking wasn’t what he wanted—good god, it wasn’t what he wanted. But if it was what she needed, then yes, he could do that.