Free Future Perfect by Suzanne Brockmann Page B

sure what he wanted in his life, but he was dead certain that he didn’t want
that
to happen.
    “Juliana.”
    She turned and looked at him, her beautiful eyes guarded.
    “Please …” he said. “Stay with me for a while.”
    He held his breath then, waiting for her response.
    She watched him steadily, her face expressionless.
    “Talk to me,” he said, quietly. “Please? I want—I’d
like
to know more about you.”
    Juliana saw naked honesty in his blue eyes. Honesty and fear. Fear of what? Loneliness, maybe. Whatever it was, he wasn’t being glib or smooth, and the end result was one hundred percent charm. Juliana walked back toward the bed and was rewarded by a flare of hopeful pleasure on his face. She leaned against the footboard.
    “Over the past two and a half days,” she said, a glint of amusement in her eyes, “you’ve done nothing but question me about where I grew up, how long I’ve lived here in Benton, how long I’ve had my horse—that is, when you weren’t, shall I say, otherwise engaged …?”
    He laughed. “No fair. Now you’re
trying
to embarrass me.”
    “Do you always ask so many questions?”
    “I used to be a reporter,” he said. “It’s in my blood.”
    He was quiet for a moment, looking down at the floral pattern of the bedspread. “You know, either I don’t remember, or you didn’t answer my questions.”
    “I answered some of ’em,” she said with a smile. She crossed to the chair and sat down, pulling her feet up on the seat, tucking them under her long skirt, resting her chin in her hand as she looked at him. “Let’s see, youasked me how old I was. I’m almost twenty-eight. You asked how old I was when I had my first kiss, and who the lucky guy was, and I said fourteen and Emilio Cardonza. You asked me where I was born, and I said Springfield. You asked if I had any brothers or sisters, and I said no. You asked me a million questions about where I went to college and what my major was. I didn’t answer them. I also didn’t answer when you asked me how old I was when I lost my virginity.”
    Webster groaned. “I didn’t really ask you that, did I?”
    “You did. How old are
you
?”
    “Thirty-four.”
    “Where were
you
born?” she asked.
    “Ocala, Florida,” Webster said. “My parents owned a ranch. We raised thoroughbreds and some not-so-thoroughbreds. Good horses, though.”
    “You must’ve had a great childhood,” Juliana said, envy in her voice.
    “Too many people assume that,” he said.
    She looked at him, her eyebrow raised. “You didn’t?”
    “My parents didn’t win any prizes,” he shrugged. “And my childhood pretty much ended when they sent me to boarding school. I was only home in the summers.”
    “Still, even to spend your summers on a ranch, with all those horses …” Juliana said. “You must be an excellent rider.”
    “I am.”
    She smiled. “Careful—don’t be a jerk. The correct response is to smile modestly and say, ‘I’m not bad.’ ”
    Webster grinned, not at all modestly. “But I’m not ‘not bad.’ I’m excellent.”
    “Maybe one of these days, when you’re feeling better,”Juliana said, “we can go out riding, and you can prove it.”
    “I’d like that,” he said. “I don’t get to ride much these days. There aren’t too many stables in downtown Boston.”
    “Is that where you live?”
    He nodded. “I have an apartment on Boylston Street.”
    “I lived in Boston for a few years,” Juliana said. “Brookline, really. I was seventeen. It was when I first went to live with Alicia.”
    “Alicia?” Web asked.
    “My great-aunt,” she said. “You spoke to her on the phone, remember?”
    Webster shifted his weight, trying to get comfortable. “Yeah, I remember. Is she really your great-aunt? She sounded so young.”
    “She is young. She’s only seventy-eight,” Juliana said.
    “Only seventy-eight …”
    “She’ll be back in a few days,” she said. “She’s spending a couple of