A Scarlet Kiss Read online

  A Scarlet Kiss

  by Heidi Lowe

  Published by Heidi Lowe Books, 2017.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  A SCARLET KISS

  First edition. September 13, 2017

  Copyright © 2017 Heidi Lowe

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  CONTENTS

  TITLE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  BOOKS BY HEIDI LOWE

  BLURB

  ONE

  As soon as I spotted the floral print case make its way through the chute and down the conveyor belt, I hurried forward and snatched it up as quickly as I could. As quickly as a 50 lb suitcase would allow someone of my slim build.

  Waiting around for my case to show up had always made me anxious, ever since that one summer when, having touched down on home soil from a family vacation to Vancouver, we were informed that one of our cases had been left in Canada. Some kind of mix up. It just happened to be my case. It arrived first class the following day, but the scars were already firmly in place by then. After that, I couldn't leave the country without worrying if my clothes were stuck back in Massachusetts.

  I sighed with relief as I lifted the handle bar and followed the signs for the drop off and pick up bay of London's Heathrow Airport – one of the busiest airports in the world. This evening, it had certainly lived up to its name. People rushed back and forth past me, brushing me, barging me, and kicking my case in their mad rush to get out of the airport.

  The air was warm and inviting when I stepped out of the Terminal 5 exit. Surprisingly warm. Marcus had talked extensively about the weather in the UK, and I'd envisioned a snowy thunderstorm awaiting me on my first ever visit.

  Marcus. Where the heck was he? I prayed he wouldn't keep me waiting all afternoon. Punctuality wasn't his strong suit.

  Fighting back the urge to dig into my case for a cigarette, uncertain of how long I would have to wait for him, I looked up and saw a tall, shaggy-haired boy approaching. When he spotted me, he broke into a run. I followed suit.

  "There she is," he said, flinging his arms around me and lifting me off the ground in the process.

  I giggled as we kissed, like lovers reunited – he was the soldier coming home from war, and I, the doting wife. Well, not quite. But for a moment I allowed myself to fantasize.

  "God, I've missed you," he said, finally setting me back on the ground.

  "Silly, it's only been two weeks since we saw each other," I said, fixing my blouse, two of the buttons of which had come undone during our embrace.

  "Yes, and that was long enough."

  For some reason, perhaps because he was in his own territory, his English accent seemed far more pronounced. Well-spoken with great diction, that was Marcus Rutherford-Manning. He had the type of voice that I could listen to all day long and never tire of hearing. It was like a fetish of mine or something, how I insisted he read everything aloud to me, just so I could cream myself over his accent. Cereal boxes, junk pamphlets that dropped through the mailbox, everything!

  I combed my fingers through his light-brown locks, noting how much his hair had grown in such a short space of time. The little patch of hair above his mouth was also new, and rather adorable, if not hilariously inadequate. The guy just couldn't grow a mustache or beard, no matter how hard he tried. Mature in everything but his facial hair. Which was fine by me, seeing as the rub of hair against my skin when we kissed was grating.

  He took the case from me without asking, then took my hand in his spare one. "We're parked just over here."

  "We're?" I said, startled. Had his parents accompanied him? Was I about to meet the family for the first time? I was totally unprepared, and desperately needed a shower. I'd thrown my dark brown hair into a loose and careless bun for the plane ride; I looked a mess!

  He didn't say anything, just walked me through the parking lot until we got to a lush, black town car. It wasn't just the car that made my mouth drop open in astonishment, but the man standing beside it. A driver, dressed in a black suit and matching hat. He offered me a smile and a little bow, before opening the door for me.

  "What's this?" I looked to Marcus for answers, a nervous smile on my lips. "You hired a private car for me? That's a bit excessive, don't you think?"

  His cheeks flushed, and he exchanged looks with the driver. "Not exactly. Vivu has worked for my family for fifteen years..."

  Worked for his family? I mouthed to myself as I stepped into the car. Vivu, the driver, loaded my case into the trunk while Marcus climbed in beside me. He pressed a button and a glass screen went up, separating passenger and driver. I watched him the whole time, thinking this whole thing was an elaborate joke. An expensive one, too.

  "What?" he asked, finally noticing my eyes on him.

  "What's going on?"

  "Nothing. We're going home."

  I rolled my eyes. "Okay, but what's with the driver? Your family has their own private driver?"

  "Yes." He shrugged, peered out of the window as though this type of thing was a normal, everyday occurrence. But this thing that he did, looking out of the nearest window, that was his way of trying to get out of an argument. After six months of dating him, I'd come to learn all of his little tricks.

  I tapped him on the arm until he turned to look at me again. "Fifteen years? Most people don't have personal drivers. Is there something you haven't told me?"

  "Like what?" With those innocent puppy dog eyes – big and brown – eyes you could sink into, he almost had me fooled. Almost.

  "Just how rich is your family?"

  "I don't know."

  Now he was starting to bug me with this coyness. His age was also starting to show. Most of the time, when we were just hanging out, being a normal couple, I was able to forget the eight-year age gap between us. At just twenty-two, he was more mature than any of the guys I'd dated before him. Well, most of the time.

  His conscious effort to avoid looking me in the eye spoke volumes.

  "What do you mean you don't know?" I demanded.

  "Gosh, Jenna, it's not as though I go around counting how much money my parents have. Why does it matter anyway?"

  Why did it matter? The money wasn't the issue, rather the fact that he'd kept it from me. I wasn't stupid. Normal folk didn't have private chauffeurs who'd been with the family for fifteen years.

  Deciding it was best not to start a fight over nothing, I said after a little while, "You're right. I'm sorry. It doesn't." I kissed him, felt the relief in his lips, then laughed. "As long as we don't pull up to a castle and you tell me it's home."

  From the nervous little laugh he gave I should have known where this was going. Instead, I sat back and enjoyed the drive from London to Buckinghamshire, peering out at the English landscape, in awe of their crazy insistence on driving on the left side of the road. That would take some getting used to.

  "How was your flight?" he asked, taking my hand in his, momentarily pulling my gaze from the rolling landscape of the English motorway.

  "Fine. Had an empty seat between me and the guy in the isle seat, so that was good."

  He laughed. "I almost forgot about your phobia of sitting beside strange
rs on public transport."

  "It's not a phobia, I just don't like strangers, period."

  "Well, you'll have to get over that, because you'll be meeting Mr and Mrs Rutherford-Manning soon." He rolled his eyes at the mention of his parents, as he often did when the topic came up.

  "They really can't be that bad," I insisted. That was more for my own benefit, to allay my fears of meeting the parents. It had taken a lot of cajoling, a lot of pleading to get me to spend the summer with him and his family. Not just because it still seemed too soon for our relatively new relationship, but because, for as long as we'd known each other, he'd never had good things to say about his parents. When you'd spent half a year listening to how hopeless they were at raising him, how non-parental they'd been, naturally you would be apprehensive.

  "Calling them my parents is a huge exaggeration," he'd said several times. "They brought me into the world, yes, but that was where their job terminated."

  I was certain he was being hyperbolic, that, judging from his charming, debonair and chivalrous character, only great parenting could be responsible for that.

  "How did you come out so good?" I'd questioned, half-joking.

  "Oh, that wasn't their doing. Scarlett was like my surrogate mother. I don't know where I would be if she hadn't stepped in." His eyes would grow watery, and he'd smile when he mentioned her. Any woman would have been jealous of her boyfriend heaping so much praise on another woman. The other woman, in this case, being his older sister. The famous Scarlett Rutherford-Manning, a woman who sat on the highest pedestal and could do no wrong. He'd made her into a saint, never spoken a bad word against her, at least not to me. Conversely, I couldn't believe anyone could be as faultless as he'd made her out to be.

  "They are," he said, a distant look in his eye. "Worse, possibly. Thank God they don't spend a lot of time at the house."

  "Will they be there when we arrive?"

  "No. You'll see them later. Maybe." He shrugged. "Who knows, who cares?"

  I gave him a dubious look, thinking to myself, Great start to the holiday.

  The drive from Heathrow to Merrick took a little under an hour. As the signs welcoming us into the county of Buckinghamshire whizzed by, anxiety filled me like never before. Everything just looked so...English. Like I'd stepped right into Downton Abbey or some other period drama. Outside of the capital, London, fields and greenery abounded. The air smelled fresher here, too.

  The driver turned down a narrow lane, past huge, resplendent detached houses, each one seemingly bigger than the one before it. The place looked like money, old money. Nobody who lived here worked regular jobs or knew what it was like to worry about how they would pay the mortgage from one month to the next. Tucked away from the main town center, away from the common folk.

  "You live around here?" I gawked at Marcus, managing to pull my gaze from the scenery outside my window.

  "Lots of people live around here," he mumbled, shifting slightly.

  "Yeah, lots of filthy rich people! How much would a house around here cost?" In my wonderment, it didn't occur to me that my continued mentioning of his wealth would make me come off as shallow. Which wasn't me at all. Hey, I was the girl who picked up pennies on the street, for God's sake. The girl who frequented thrift stores. Money didn't impress me.

  "I'm not sure. Our house has been in the family for centuries, so..." He scratched at his messy locks, pushed strands behind his ear.

  I opened my mouth to give an estimate – based on absolutely nothing but my limited experience with real estate, having my father as reference – but the car stopped at a gate. The driver rolled down his window, pressed a card to the entry system, and seconds later the metal gates whirred and slowly opened to let us in.

  Everything happened in slow motion. From our entrance onto the grounds, to the unfolding of what lay beyond the gates. The stables came into view first, causing me to gasp and nearly choke on the air. The gravel driveway went on forever as we cruised up to the entrance of what I was certain was a castle. A looming, imposing manor more grand than anything I had ever seen stood before us, surrounded by several smaller buildings. Beyond the stables, I got a glimpse of the gardens. Yes, gardens plural.

  Vivu cut the engine.

  "We're here," Marcus announced, his voice slightly uncertain. So too were his eyes when they met mine. He flinched a little.

  My mouth remained agape, speechless. I couldn't form words to make a sentence, so I simply stepped out of the car, thinking that this was all a mirage that would disappear once I was able to see it clearly. Nope. The house only seemed to grow more humungous in size. Huge French windows, lush ivy crawling beautifully over the brown stone walls, a detached garage that looked the size of an Olympic-size swimming pool. Across from the main house sat a large annexe building.

  "Hey." I felt Marcus's hand against my back, smelled his spicy cologne. "Say something, Jenna."

  "Like what?" I was still trying to figure out how to feel. My emotions were all over the place.

  "I don't know, anything. You're mad at me, aren't you?"

  My glare spoke where I couldn't.

  Vivu brought in my case, and Marcus took my hand luggage from me. Inside, the opulence made me gasp again. Nothing could have prepared me for any of this. Antiques, paintings of battles and regal-looking men and women, all of whom looked alike. The staircase wound, the wooden balustrades were gilt.

  "So you do live in a castle," I said, shaking my head at Marcus, whose guilt was written all over his face. He'd deliberately kept this from me, hadn't warned me about what I was walking into.

  "Don't be upset that I didn't say anything earlier," he pleaded, turning his mouth down to look as pitiful as he could.

  "Oh, I'm not upset...I'm furious!"

  TWO

  The French armoire in our bedroom smelled centuries old, and had that sturdy antique look and feel to it. You know, built to last – the kind of thing that survived long after its creator had perished. It was the only antique in the room, however, I was surprised to see. Everything from the bed to the windows was modern, and gave a nice contrast against the backdrop of the original features of the house.

  The light tap at the door was apologetic. I knew it was Marcus even before he peeked his head in, the pitiful look still on his face.

  "Are you still mad at me?"

  "Yes," I said, though I'd simmered down a lot since we'd arrived a couple of hours ago.

  "Don't be," he said. He came in and sat on the bed. Outside, the sun had begun to set, giving the horizon a beautiful crimson look. The same sunset I'd seen for thirty years. It was easy to forget that I wasn't in America anymore.

  "Why didn't you tell me?"

  He shrugged. "What was I supposed to say?"

  What would have been appropriate? Was I just making a big deal out of nothing?

  I sat beside him on the bed. "It's just a surprise, you know."

  "I get it. That's why I hate talking about it. No one in the States knew. People judge you when they hear your father's the sole heir to a famous British baking empire."

  I squeezed his hand, tried not to laugh at something that obviously caused him great distress. Didn't bother to point out that these were first world problems, problems of the rich.

  "Yeah, that must be so terrible," I teased.

  He smiled. "Hey, terrible is subjective. And believe me, I would have given anything to have a normal upbringing, in a normal house, with normal, working-class parents."

  "Normal's overrated."

  Although he'd said it a number of times, I only half believed him. Like those really slim individuals who insist they want to be fatter. Sometimes people said things just to say them.

  "In any case, I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I'm an ass, I know. As an apology, I'm entirely at your service for the rest of your stay here."

  I raised an eyebrow, a wicked grin creeping to my lips. "Hasn't that always been our arrangement? In exchange for me giving you access to the queendom,
you do everything I ask." My hand rubbed his thigh while I kissed his neck. I felt him tremble a little as my breath tickled his flesh. One of the perks of dating a younger man: he still had that barely been touched innocence about him. There had only been a couple of girls before me. I would be lying if I said it wasn't a turn on to be the one with all the experience for once.

  "What time did you say your parents would be home?" I whispered this, while my hand inched ever closer to his crotch. His breathing grew heavy, erratic.

  "Uh...I, I..." He couldn't get the words out.

  Eventually, he found his way, helped me out of my clothes, and we ravaged each other right there and then.

  "What's so funny?" I said, picking out the cucumbers from my sandwich and lining them around the edge of the plate. Marcus and I sat in the kitchen eating the sandwiches he'd prepared, following our love-making session. Sex always gave me an appetite.

  He sat across from me, hair all over the place, shirt only half-buttoned, showing off his hairless chest. "Nothing, just that I didn't realize how carried away I got with those." He pointed at my neck, grin all-consuming.

  It took a second to grasp what he was referring to.

  So, as with everything, pros accompanied cons, and this was up there high on the list of the cons of dating younger men: love bites. This wasn't the first time he'd defaced my skin with his mouth. It was his insistence on placing them so visibly that bothered me, like he wanted to mark his territory.

  "How many are there this time?"

  "Two... At least of the ones on display." Was that pride I saw on his devilishly handsome face?

  "Not cool, dude," I said. "What will your parents think when they see this?"

  "Who cares what they think? Besides, they won't notice. They don't notice anything but themselves."

  I checked my reflection on the gargantuan refrigerator. Two conspicuous red blotches decorated my neck. I groaned to myself. The worst part of all: his bites had a habit of sticking around forever. Mutant bites. I could have told him I hated them and wanted him to stop doing it, but I guess a small part of me liked receiving them. They reminded me of my youth; made me feel closer to twenty than thirty, that kind of thing.