Bougainvillea by Heather Graham

altered it somewhat.”
    David shook his head. “It’s all still there. So, when are you coming down? You could fly home with me after the convention.”
    She smiled and laughed. “Wow! That would be fast.”
    â€œFast is good.”
    She sobered somewhat. They’d shared an incredible bottle of Cabernet.
    Fast is good.
    And it would be.
    Ah, well, Jen would be proud of the sensations sweeping through her, if no one else. The mood in the suite was far too relaxed. She was sitting on her own side of the sofa, but she wasn’t immune to temptations of simple pleasure. He had changed into a pair of soft, worn blue jeans and a long-sleeved knit shirt. Very casual. She had changed, too, but in the opposite direction. Not knowing he had decided to order in, she had gone for a business dinner staple, a sleeveless black cocktail dress. At least thirty minutes ago, however, she had shed the heels she’d been wearing. Her stocking feet were curled beneath her. They’d talked about art and photography, boats, weather, the construction projects in Boston, the wonders of Chicago, and gone back to Bougainvillea. It had been a long day filled with trepidation for her, at first. She would love to lean back…actually, she would love to lean against his shoulder, or stretch out with her head in his lap.
    She sat straighter.
    â€œThere’s no time like the present, or something like that,” David said.
    A slow smile curved into her lips. “Actually, there is. I have to go home to Chicago.”
    â€œWhy is that?”
    â€œI have a cat.”
    â€œWhere is he—she?—now?”
    â€œHe’s at a neighbor’s who has to leave on a sales trip this weekend.”
    â€œHmm. Maybe we can send for the cat.”
    â€œI have to work as well. It’s a syndicated strip,” Kit reminded him.
    â€œOn day-to-day life. Imagine what new fuel you’d have for the machine, coming to Bougainvillea.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œWell, there’s Seamus, who is the real deal. Old South. A ramrod. All courtesy and graciousness—while he’s gripping the neck of his competitors. Michael, who works in the business end of the company, but hates it. He wants to take off in a sailboat and write the great American novel. He should, too—he’s good. Then there’s Lenore, who wants to be the great lady of the South, which is funny, in its way, because the community is so very Latin American, very progressive. Still, you know, she belongs to all the right clubs, hosts charity events, and plays the grande dame. Josh is about my age, and pretty much deep into the business as well. I’m better at money and naturally, any legalities involved, while he’s better at design. Kaitlin could fill you in on the what and where of the Miami club and dating scene—she’s Seamus’s assistant. We’vegreat neighbors, by the way. I think you actually went to school with Shelley Callahan.”
    â€œShelley. Sounds familiar,” Kit told him.
    He laughed. “Maybe we are a bit of a weird group, because Eli and Shelley still live at home, too. It’s an old place on the property, much smaller than Bougainvillea, but it had a carriage house, which is Eli’s now, and a garage apartment, which is where Shelley lives. She’s your age, and getting her master’s degree in literature at the university. Eli became a cop. Their father, Martin, is a retired cop, and just does a lot of fishing now. They’re actually more like family than neighbors, since we’ve shared holidays, dinners, and what have you ever since I can remember. Oh! We’ve also got one of the most wonderful and fascinating women you’d ever want to meet living on the property. Mary is a hundred and one.”
    â€œMary!” Kit swung her feet down. “She’s still living! My, Lord, she seemed ancient when I was a child.”
    â€œYou remember