Absent in the Spring (The Shakespeare Sisters 3)

ng out a little gasp as he ran his fingers lightly down her stomach, past her hips, hooking them into the waistband of her panties.

‘Lucy?’

‘Yes?’

‘Will you shut up and let me make love to you?’ he asked her, tugging her panties down, making her lift her hips to aid the movement.

She wasn’t sure what she loved the most, the way he looked at her like she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, or the way he ran his fingers down her thighs, leaving a trail of fire on her flesh. Either way, right now seemed like a good time to be quiet.

For a few minutes, at least.

He was the first to wake in the morning, his eyes blinking rapidly as reality seeped in to his blurred dreams. She was still lying beside him, her blonde hair fanned out against the white pillowcase, her face flushed and crumpled from where she’d been lying on it.

Her suitcase was still by the door, unzipped where she’d hurriedly found her washbag at some point in the night. Next to it was a large box, similar to the one she’d left his apartment with in such a hurry.

No, not similar. It looked exactly the same.

He couldn’t help but wonder what was inside.

It was another twenty minutes before she opened her eyes. He watched as she focused on him, then pulled her lip between her teeth, as memories of last night made them both heat up.

‘Good morning.’ He reached out to trace the scar on her forehead, made visible by the way her hair was falling. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘When you finally stopped molesting me,’ she said, grinning.

‘I was wondering, what’s in that box?’ he asked her, inclining his head to where her luggage lay. ‘It looks interesting.’

It was as though a light had turned on behind her eyes. ‘Oh God, I’d forgotten about that.’ She covered her mouth for a moment, as though embarrassed. ‘That’s what I wanted to show you.’ Her fingers muffled the sound.

‘When?’

She sat up, curling her legs beneath her. ‘When I asked you to come up to my room last night, remember? I said I wanted to show you something.’

‘I remember.’ He tried to keep his amusement down. ‘And I think you showed me, all night long.’

She shook her head. ‘You have a dirty mind, do you know that?’ She scooted off the bed. She was naked as she walked across the beige carpet, and he couldn’t help but admire the way her hips swung, her ass high and toned as she walked.

God, she was enticing.

She grabbed a T-shirt and sleep shorts from her case, pulling them on before lifting the box. Padding back to the bed, she laid it on the mattress, picking off the tape that fastened it shut.

‘There’s a good story to this,’ she told him, lifting the cardboard flaps to reveal the packing foam. ‘I bought it on the way back from Bergdorf’s that day. I saw it and thought of you.’ Gently, she took the foam out, to reveal an oversize black plate nestled into the box. It was old, the chips on the side of the rim were enough to tell him that, but that wasn’t what made it beautiful. It was the criss-cross of gold lacquer, metallic jagged lines that glued the pieces together, that made it stand out.

‘It’s exquisite,’ he told her. Reaching out, he touched the surface of the plate, feeling the smooth porcelain give way to thick glue. Each line told a story, of something broken but not irreparably. Of beauty rising from pain.

‘I brought it home with me,’ she told him. ‘I didn’t want to give it to you after our argument. And then as soon as I took it out in my apartment, it got broken.’

‘It did?’

She nodded. ‘My neighbour’s cat pretty much jumped all over it. It smashed to pieces on my kitchen floor. It looked as though it could never be mended.’ She touched the chip on the edge, where his finger had just been. ‘I couldn’t even find this piece.’

‘It must have been tiny,’ he said, watching her finger move back and forth over the jagged hole. ‘But it doesn’t matter. It’s still beautiful.’

She looked up from the plate, and into his eyes. ‘It reminded me of us. I think that’s why I was so upset when I broke the damn thing. It felt as though I’d messed everything up, and it was irreparable. But then I called a woman in London who specialises in Kintsugi. She offered to take a look at it to see what she could do.’

‘She did an amazing job. It’s hard to tell what’s old and what’s new.’ He felt a lump growing in his throat. The way she was touching the plate reminded him of the way she touched him. Softly, reverently, as though he was something worth taking care of.

‘It’s silly,’ she said, ‘but I always pictured it in the entrance hall of the lodge at Glencarraig. It would have looked beautiful on the table beneath the mirror.’ Her eyes dropped, as though she was embarrassed. ‘I guess that won’t happen now that your brother has it.’