horses and riders cresting a hill—and Vance lapsed into a heavy silence. His mother had taken the backseat, so Layla slid him a sidelong glance from the passenger side.
If he felt her regard, he didn’t betray it with a flicker of expression. His face could have been carved in stone and his lips were pressed firmly together. They stayed that way until he slowed the car around yet another bend—this one more hairpin than the others. Then he glanced in the rearview mirror at his mother and uttered a single word. “Dad?”
“Not expected back until dinner. But, Vance—”
“You made a promise,” he said, pulling into a gated driveway.
Katie went silent, and Layla found she couldn’t speak, either, her voice stolen by the beauty around her. Wrought-iron gates stood open and up the paved driveway were two massive mission-style homes arranged around a spacious courtyard with a tall fountain in the center. Behind the buildings, a hill rose, covered in those thick-foliaged trees. To the left of one of the two dwellings was an expansive spread of land shaded by a grove of tall oaks. In the distance beyond them was another, smaller dwelling similarly styled to the other buildings. Though they’d passed other homes of different sizes and styles along the way, the Smith compound stood alone in its lush setting.
To get a better look, Layla pushed the button to unroll her window, and a blast of warm air, scented with leaves and cool water, rushed into the car. “It smells so...green. It’s beautiful here.” She glanced back at Katie Smith, noting the woman’s attention was focused on her son’s profile.
Layla whipped her head toward Vance, and for all her vows to not get involved in his family business, she was still struck by the naked longing on his face as he gazed upon his childhood home.
* * *
VANCE BLAMED IT ON LAYLA. He’d intended to keep the car running upon reaching the compound. With his foot on the brake, he’d pause just long enough to let his mother hop out and then they’d be making the return trip to Crescent Cove. But the first person out of the car had been Colonel Parker’s pretty daughter and his mother had encouraged her to explore the grounds.
Hell. He couldn’t let her wander without an escort, could he?
She trailed her fingers in the water showering from the courtyard’s fountain, then teasingly flicked drops in his direction. “You actually grew up here?” she asked. “It’s paradise.”
He shrugged, glancing around. No sign of any other Smiths, thank God. His father and uncle could be anywhere, from the grove located behind the house to any of the others they owned in the area. Fitz was likely at his office in the packing house a few miles away. Baxter kept to his high-rise city offices, where he managed the numbers side of Smith & Sons Foods. Neither one of the younger men was much interested in getting his hands dirty, so they hired an independent consultant for grove management.
A waste of money in Vance’s mind, and something his grandfather would have frowned upon....
His train of thought derailed as he saw Layla bend over to pick up something at her feet. She wore cuffed shorts that rode up in the back, high enough to make his mouth go dry. It wasn’t accidental, he decided. She was out to make him nuts with that display of long, smooth legs.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
She straightened, a piece of paper in her hand. Frowning, she stared at him over his shoulder. “Excuse me for objecting to litter in this lovely place.”
Looking around, he realized that while his mind had been preoccupied, she’d wandered away from the compound and that he’d trailed her to the stand of massive oaks that had been their childhood go-to place for games of hide-and-seek, cops and robbers, astronauts and aliens. For a moment he saw their ghosts: Fitz and Baxter and Vance, their skinny boy bodies darting from tree to tree. Long-ago laughter echoed in his ears, causing sudden pain to pierce his chest.
Still frowning, Layla came closer. “Are you all right?”
He didn’t want her to read his mood, so he ducked his head and snatched what appeared to be a flyer from her hand. “What’s this?”
Bold lettering spelled out PICNIC DAY across the top.
Another pang stabbed him. His fingers crumpled the paper, but Layla pried it free before he could turn it into a ball.
“‘A Smith family tradition. Thirtieth annual celebration,’” she read