The Return Of Adams Cade

The land, the islands and the father he loved.

One

“He’s here, Mrs. Claibourne. And totally dangerous!”

Placing the last blossom in the massive flower arrangement that would soon grace the lanai of the river cottage, Eden Claibourne, mistress of The Inn at River Walk, stepped back. Carefully she inspected her artistry, nodded approval and turned, at last, to address the breathless young woman.

“Where is he, Merrie?” Her voice was hushed, musical, with only a hint remaining of the Carolina low-country accent.

Merrie, the youngest, prettiest and most impressionable of the staff, clasped her hands before her in an effort to calm herself. “I took him to the library as Cullen instructed and assured him you would be there shortly.”

“Thank you.” A probing look took in the young woman’s face, made even prettier by a dark, dancing gaze. Merrie was the daughter of a friend of a friend, a student at the local college and a newcomer to Belle Terre. Yet, obviously, the reputation of the arriving guest had preceded him even into the halls of the inn. “You do realize he isn’t dangerous, don’t you, Merrie?”

“Not dangerous, Mrs. Claibourne. Dangerous! With a capital D, because he looks so handsome.” Merrie laughed. “That’s how the girls in my class would describe him.”

“Ah, you’re studying slang now?” Eden chuckled, for normally Merrie rarely noticed the opposite sex, handsome or not. The girl’s first and last love was horses. “Slang aside, did you offer our guest a drink? Or a glass of chilled wine?”

Merrie’s head bobbed, sending an ebony mane ending in curls cascading nearly to her waist. “Mr. Cade prefers wine later, in his room.”

“Excellent.” A slim hand rested lightly on the girl’s shoulder, as Eden Claibourne remembered when Adams Cade had the same effect on her. The vernacular of the time was different, but the effect was definitely the same.

Putting memories best left in the past aside, Eden addressed Merrie in her usual sensible tone. “If you would please ask Cullen to have the wine steward select several wines, then, if he would, take these flowers with the wine to the river cottage, I shall greet our newest guest.”

Certain beyond doubt her instructions would be followed to the letter under the critical eye of her head steward, Cullen Pavaouau, Eden Roberts Claibourne hurried to the library.

Through the years many influential guests and many celebrities had chosen to stay in the gracious antebellum home Eden had transformed into an inn. But even before she’d returned to Belle Terre to reclaim and rescue the beautiful old landmark from crumbling ignominy, as Nicholas Claibourne’s wife, she had known what it was to live and move among the wealthy and near wealthy, the famous and soon-to-be famous. Yet in all those times, in all the places the Claibournes’ travels had taken them, in all the social and professional circles into which they had been welcomed, no one set excitement ablaze in the heart of the mistress of River Walk as had Adams Cade.

“Good grief! I’m as bad as Merrie.” Halting in the cool, broad hall, her hand resting on the carved door that stood slightly ajar and opened into the library, she caught what she intended to be a relaxing breath. Sweeping her pale-brown hair from her face, she adjusted her blouse and brushed a leaf from her slim skirt. Muttering, “Mr. Dangerous with a capital D, indeed,” Eden squared her shoulders and stepped inside.

He was there. Adams was there, standing with his back to the room, looking out over the grounds and the broadest expanse of the river. Absorbed in his thoughts, he didn’t hear her approach, affording her a precious instant to look at him. Time to seek out the changes the years and life and prison had wrought.

He seemed bigger now. Not taller, but more massive. A better fit for the breadth of his shoulders than his youthful slenderness had been. A product of maturity and time. As were, she supposed, the hints of silver threading through his thick, perfectly barbered, perfectly groomed hair.

Eden never knew what disturbance drew him from his thoughts. A raggedly caught breath? Some subtle scrape of her foot over the parquet? The wild-bird flutter of her heart?

As if thirteen years had not passed since he’d seen her, Adams Cade turned, his gaze a solemn touch on her face.

Beneath the elegant, worldly veneer that Eden Claibourne presented, the memories of a young girl quickened and trembled like the unshed tear on the sweep of downcast lashes. Visions of the wild, beautiful young man he’d been danced like living flames in her mind and heart. But when her gaze lifted to his, her eyes were clear, their brightness natural, and she searched the grave and handsome face for some trace of the laughing young rogue.

The rogue she’d loved in her reticent tomboy days. The days when all who knew her called her Robbie and she’d trailed behind Adams and his brothers at every opportunity. Like a shadow attached to his heel, she’d taken every step he took, risked every dare he dared. All for a smile and a teasing ruffle of the riotous curls her grandmother kept cut short.

Now, in the fall of light from the library windows, keeping his gaze, she searched again for the dashing young man the exuberant rogue had become. For Adams, the friend and champion she’d thought lost to her forever in tragedy that sent him to prison. Adams, her first and tender lover.

But in the silvery depths of his magnificent brown eyes, she saw no rogue, no laughter, no memories. Only cool control.

He was the epitome of rugged splendor in his immaculate suit. With the proper shirt, proper tie, proper shoes, the proper haircut, recalling another night he had been splendid, yet not so proper. A night of breathtaking wonder.

Thirteen years had passed since the night of her debut.

She was nineteen then, and a freshman in college. He, twenty-four and, in her eyes, a man of the world. Yet to her delight he agreed to be her escort for the season. Willing, for pesky Robbie Roberts, to suffer the formalities and the endless galas he found annoying and boring. The night of the ball, he was so gallant and so handsome she loved him so much it hurt.

After the presentation and the bows and the ball, as they walked a deserted beach in bare feet and formal clothes and with hands entwined, she never wanted the night to end. When he kissed her in the moonlight, drawing her down to the sand, she went hungrily into his arms. In a struggle for sanity, when he would have drawn away, it was her clumsily worshiping hands that kept him. Her naive touch that seduced.

When sanity was lost, the yards of her white satin gown became their lovers’ bower. And in that moment of rapture, the moment when the name he called was Eden, she discovered that the pain of love could be its greatest pleasure.

The night was magic. Adams was magic. And when he kissed her good-night one last time on her doorstep, she never dreamed it would be thirteen years, and this day, before she saw him again.

Thirteen years and a lifetime of remembering.

In a silence that had been only seconds but seemed forever, as she looked into eyes that revealed no secrets, she knew he hadn’t forgotten. But she wondered if he ever remembered.

A harsh breath threatened the perfect drape of his jacket as something akin to regret flickered over his face. Yet, with that small lift of his shoulders, he seemed to shake off a mood. Taking a step forward, his hand extended and palm up, he waited with the hard-learned patience of prison.

She wouldn’t have refused this silent, cautious man if she’d intended it. She couldn’t if she tried. As silently as he, she placed her fingers over his palm and felt the warmth of his firm and gentle clasp.

“Eden.”

In a voice barely more than a whisper, he called her name. Not Robbie. Eden. The name he’d said only once before on a moonlit night on the beach. Then she realized her mistake and understood that no matter what terrible things had happened to him, no matter who he had become, Adams Cade had never forgotten, and never stopped remembering.

“Your hair is darker.” His voice was low and resonant with the years of added maturity. “I remember blonde curls.”

Eden nodded as his gaze ranged over her, from shoulder-length bob to the sweep of her brows and the curve of her cheek. Pausing only the beat of a faltering heart on the tilt of her lips, he let his look glide intimately over the arch of her throat, the soft thrust of her breasts. Then the slender curve of her hips.

“You’re taller, more slender,” he murmured as the darkness of his gaze retraced its path to meet hers.

“Only a bit,” Eden assured him. Though at nearly thirty-two, she knew the softness of youthful curves had gradually become an inadvertent but fashionably angular leanness.

“I never thought to be in Belle Terre again. Nor did I expect to find Robbie Roberts returned as the beautiful, sophisticated Eden Claibourne, innkeeper extraordinaire.”

“Nor did I,” Eden admitted, regaining a bit of her composure. “But you’re here, and I am who I am and what I am. So welcome, Adams, to River Walk, and to my home in Belle Terre.” Her fingers still clasped tightly in his, she smiled up at him. “Because I thought you would be tired from your journey, the river cottage is ready and waiting for you.”

“Cottage?” He looked down at her in a gaze that was less guarded, if not yet at ease. “I won’t be staying in the inn?”

“Of course you may stay in the house itself, if you wish. But first, take a look.” Drawing him back to the window with its view of the grounds and the river, she gestured toward a building. Perched by the river’s edge, the single-story structure was nearly hidden by trees and plants scattered about it.

Small, in comparison to the main house, and quaint, it lay in dappled but deepening shadows as the setting sun streamed through moss-draped oaks. Within that shade, immense azaleas, camellias and oleanders blended with palms and palmettos. Clustered so thickly about its courtyard, the groomed and tended plants afforded an additional element of seclusion.

“There are porches on each side, with a lanai and a separate and private walk on the riverside,” Eden explained as he studied the cottage with a look of approval. “I thought you might prefer the privacy, at least at first.”

Adams nodded, grateful for her thoughtfulness. Returning to the low country, and the harsh days it recalled, was difficult enough without facing curious stares. A day or two of quiet to acclimatize and inure himself in the time and tide of the city would ease the way as much as it could be eased. “Thank you, Eden, for your kindness.”

“A consideration more than a kindness, Adams.” With a shrug of a shoulder, Eden dismissed the hurried but exacting care that had gone into each detailed preparation for Adams’ stay at the inn. Hopefully he would never know the mad furor the knowledge of his impending arrival had inspired.

With belying composure, she paraphrased a lecture she gave the staff almost daily. “Part of the charm of the inn is that we match our services to the unique needs of our guests.”

“Then I thank both you and your staff.”

Something in his tone made her regret her cavalier dismissal of his gratitude, and especially that she had made him seem to be just another guest. Adams had become a prominent man, a celebrity in the business world. She was sure, for that reason, he had become the object of much catering and courting. No, he wouldn’t be a stranger to special attention. But how often from the goodness of an unselfish heart? Because someone cared about Adams himself, rather than the hope of remuneration or favor?