Behind the Curtain - Page 116

“Is this all right?” she asked him. “I thought this skirt would look nice with the new boots you got me,” she said, referring to the beautiful pair of supple, russet leather boots he’d given her—he’d informed her last night with adorable solemnness—for her eighteenth birthday.

His gaze dropped down over her. “You look gorgeous. I like that sweater,” he said, his gaze lingering on her breasts warmly.

“Is it too tight?” she asked, sounding a little shrill.

He walked toward her, holding his arms out and laughing gruffly.

“Of course it’s not too tight. You can’t help it that you have beautiful breasts.” He wrapped his arms around her and placed a kiss on her nose. “Or the prettiest face in the world or stunning eyes,” he continued, dropping two kisses on her eyebrows.

“They’re going to hate me,” she whispered, her voice thick with dread.

“Not hate. Hate is too passionate. Much too common. Insufferably middle-class. Dislike, maybe. Disapprove with a white-Anglo-Saxon-Protestant arrogance, which is like an ice-cold blast of air,” he murmured nonchalantly. He planted a kiss on her mouth. “It’s unpleasant, but not deadly. It’s just something you have to forbear. Brace yourself for it, and then just count the minutes until you can leave. It’s the best you can do. Trust me, I know.”

Her brows pinched tight. His levity on this topic pained her. “How can they dislike you? You’re the very picture of an ideal son.”

“Never mind,” he said, briskly moving back and taking her hand. He pressed her knuckles against his lips before he led her toward the door. “It’s their way of loving me. It’s warped, but that’s WASP love for you.”

His voice still rang in her head when he turned his car down a tree-lined drive forty-five minutes later. Despite his teasing manner, she knew that his parents’ opinion of him mattered . . . that their cool disapproval pained him deeply.

“Asher,” she began determinedly. “Please don’t get too . . . sensitive about anything your parents do or say today when it comes to me.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, frowning slightly above his sunglasses.

“It’s just that I sensed how much your mother wants to patch things up with you. And she seems really concerned about your father’s and your relationship. I just don’t want to be the thing that gets in the way of you guys making up before . . . Well, I just don’t want to stand in the way,” she continued, shying away from mentioning the fact that he was leaving for London in a few days. They mentioned it less and less to each other, as their time together dwindled away. She fingered the hamsa at her throat in a nervous gesture. “Will you promise me you’ll try to keep things as smooth as you can with them?”

“Do what

you do? Is that what you mean?” He noticed her confusion. “Like you told me when we were young? How you knew just what to say in front of your family, and what not to say, in order to keep everyone happy?”

“Is that so bad?” she asked him quietly.

“I don’t know. I used to think so,” he said, his expression hard and guarded as he stared forward at the road.

“Just try to be patient with them, Asher? For me?”

He glanced over at her. “All right,” he said, grasping her hand. Relief swept through her. “If it’s important to you.”

As the house came into view, the butterflies in her stomach transformed to what felt like a swarm of bees.

“Is that it?” she asked through a tight throat.

“That’s it. Home sweet home. Cozy, no?” he muttered dryly.

They zoomed toward an enormous, intimidating-looking, pale limestone French Provincial–style mansion. In the distance was the pale blue lake. Asher pulled the car up to what appeared to be a six-car garage at the rear. A youngish dark-haired man jogged out to greet them. He opened Laila’s car door for her.

“Thank you,” Laila said as she alighted.

“How’s it going, Jerry?” Asher said, coming around the car and shaking Jerry’s hand.

“Well, sir. It’s good to see you again,” Jerry said.

“Hopefully I’ll make it for longer than an hour this time,” Asher said under his breath.

“Yes, sir,” Jerry replied with a brief knowing glance and a compassionate smile.

Asher took her hand and led her to a large double-door entryway. At that moment, one of the doors opened and Asher’s mother stepped out onto the upper step, followed by a tall, handsome, gray-haired man wearing a dark suit and open-collar button-down shirt. He was much younger and handsome-looking than Laila expected. He looked like Asher . . .

. . . Except that Asher didn’t have that cold, arrogant expression.

Tags: Beth Kery Erotic
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