Crimson and Clover Read online

  Crimson and Clover

  Juli Page Morgan

  Avon, Massachusetts

  This edition published by Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, Ohio 45242

  www.crimsonromance.com

  Copyright © 2013 by Juli Page Morgan ISBN 10: 1-4405-6513-9

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6513-7

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-6514-7

  eISBN 13: 978-1-44056514-4

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art © 123rf.com

  Contents

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  About the Author

  Also Available

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  HUGE thanks go out to so many for helping to make this book a reality:

  To my family for sticking by me while I scribbled away at all hours and not complaining (much) when I totally forgot to cook meals or do laundry. To my husband Phillip for encouragement and believing in me, and for replacing the laptops I keep destroying; my daughter Laurel for her excitement and support, and for putting up with feeling like “the daughter of Nora Bing!”; my daughter Chelle, my biggest cheerleader, for reading and reading and reading again all the drafts of this book and never getting tired of it.

  To Debi Matlack and Stephanie Hussey for keeping me going when I was ready to throw in the towel, for their enthusiasm and always believing in Katie and Jay, and for inspiration in the form of pictures, CDs and books. I honestly could not have done it without you!

  To my critique group — Debi, Stephanie, Missy, Jess and Maria — for their insight, suggestions, cheering when it was good and letting me know when it wasn’t, and catching those darn typos.

  To Anne Marsden who sent me my first critique which turned this story into a real book, and also for Brit-picking those first few chapters to give me a feel for how my British characters should speak. Any flaws with British terms, locations or slang are entirely due to my own stubbornness in ignoring what she told me to do.

  To Jess Verdi and Jennifer Lawler at Crimson Romance for bringing Crimson and Clover to life!

  To Jennifer Curl who had no idea what she started in that tiny apartment we shared in Alabama. Jay Carey wouldn’t exist now without her.

  To Christopher Webster whose music is always on my writing playlist. Chris, you put my name on the liner notes of your album, I’m putting yours in my book!

  And to the real Maureen Smith, wherever you are. I miss you, my friend!

  CHAPTER ONE

  Nothing could dampen Katie’s elation at being in London, not even the knowledge that her favorite footwear had been ruined by rain. Though she loved them, the fringed leather boots were one of her last links to the year she’d spent in Haight-Ashbury, a year she’d be more than happy to forget. With a delighted grin, she veered left to splash through a large puddle, kicking her way to the other side to inflict a greater amount of damage and ensure maximum soakage. If the rain of London could put an end to the boots, she hoped her new life in England could put a similar end to the memories of her last hellish year in America.

  As she approached the street corner, she edged around the group of people gathered at the bus stop, their umbrellas weaving and bobbing like mushrooms in a breeze. The sight of them caused Katie’s internal radio, always set to rock ‘n roll, to play The Hollies’ “Bus Stop” in her head. She laughed under her breath as the lyrics ran through her mind and glanced back at those waiting on the corner to see if she might spot a couple who might be in the midst of falling in love, or at the very least a young, hip Englishman looking for a girl to share his umbrella. If the outcome would be the same as that in the song, Katie was willing to volunteer.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught movement, a trio of people entering a small establishment just ahead. As the narrow wooden door opened, the tantalizing aroma of frying bacon wafted out and all thoughts of bus stop romance fled to be replaced by raging hunger. The only thing she’d eaten in twenty-four hours was a mystery meal served on the plane, lukewarm and brown and tasting like stale cardboard. Katie followed the scent of food like a lion on the trail of a wounded wildebeest and slipped through the door before it could close.

  The pub was small and dim, the few windows covered by posters and handbills advertising local music acts and underground newspapers. The flare of a lighter igniting a cigarette illuminated the smoker’s face for a brief moment before shadows swallowed it again, and a fug of smoke almost obscured the low ceiling. Voices rose in genial conversation and the click of flatware against plates mixed with the psychedelic sounds of “Foxy Lady” playing on the jukebox in the corner.

  The combination of three of her favorite things — rock ’n roll, British accents and bacon — immobilized her for a moment and left her feeling like she’d stepped into Nirvana. The sight of one of the patrons lifting a cup to his lips broke her trance; if she could get a cup of coffee, it would be Nirvana.

  Katie doffed her wet jacket and hung it on one of a row of hooks affixed near the door. A large bar nestled against one wall, and Katie slid onto a bar stool, stowing her duffel bag and guitar case at her feet. A thin woman with waist-length gray braids and a pleasant face smiled at her from behind the bar.

  “Breakfast, love?” she questioned.

  Katie hesitated, the horror stories she’d heard about British food coming to mind. “Can I get bacon, eggs, toast and coffee?” It was the most generic breakfast she could think of and hoped it wasn’t too far in left field.

  The woman’s gaze sharpened at Katie’s American accent and she grinned. “How do you want those eggs?”

  Her tight shoulders relaxed at the knowledge she hadn’t made a fool of herself, and she smiled. “Scrambled?”

  “Lovely. Brown sauce?”

  Uh-oh, there it was — her first unfamiliar term. Unwilling to subject her taste buds to anything unknown when she was so famished, Katie shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Right then. I’ll have your coffee out straight away.”

  As the woman hurried away, Katie dug in the front pocket of her jeans and pulled out an elastic band wrapped around the key to her guitar case. She pulled the band loose and gathered her dark brown hair behind her with both hands, using the elastic to secure it in
a low ponytail that reached her waist. Tightening it with a slight tug, she turned back to the bar as the woman placed a steaming cup of coffee before her along with small containers of milk and sugar.

  “There you are. Need anything else?”

  Katie shook her head. “No, I’m cool. Thank you.”

  The woman smiled. “Just give us a shout if you do. I’m Libby.”

  “And I’m Katie,” she said, returning the smile.

  Libby nodded. “Welcome to England, Katie.”

  Warmth spread through Katie’s chest at the friendly words and she turned her attention to the coffee. Ignoring the milk and sugar, she raised the cup to her lips and hummed as the hot liquid traced a path down her throat. Eyebrows raised, she took a closer look at the coffee and fought down a shudder. Instant coffee, or she’d eat her duffel bag. Shrugging, she took another long swallow. Even if it was vile, it was coffee. With her free hand she spun the guitar case key on the bar, watching with idle interest as the pub’s low lights flashed off it with every rotation. Not wanting to lose it, she reached for it to return it to her pocket, but the key skittered away as her fingers brushed against it. Before it reached the edge of the bar, a lean, masculine hand closed over it, stopping its escape. Katie murmured her thanks and turned to the man who had materialized next to her.

  Warm brown eyes smiled back at her from a lean, chiseled face, leaving Katie staring in awe. Why had everyone warned her about the food in England while neglecting to mention Adonis was alive and well in London? Her friendly smile, frozen in surprise, thawed and deepened. “Hi there.”

  “Hi there.” His voice was low, husky and sparked a flash of excitement in Katie’s belly. “I’m Adam Greene.”

  “Katie Scott.” She took the key and fought back a quiver of delight at the touch of his warm fingers. “Thanks for saving this for me.”

  “My pleasure.” Adam settled onto the stool next to Katie’s. “Where are you from, Katie?”

  “Alabama,” she replied. “By way of California … by way of Alabama.” Heat crept into her cheeks as she heard herself rattling on like an adolescent confronted by the coolest boy in school.

  If Adam’s voice was swoon-worthy, his laugh should have been patented as an aphrodisiac. “After all that, however did you end up in Ladbroke Grove?” he asked.

  “I’ve been planning to move to London for a while.” She took a sip of coffee to give her time to regroup and get her cool back. “Someone told me Ladbroke Grove was the happening place. So here I am.”

  The delicious aroma of breakfast wafted from the plate Libby set before her, reigniting her hunger. “Scrambled, bacon and toast. More coffee?”

  “Yes, please.” Katie handed over her cup and snatched up a fork, but stopped to watch in bemusement as Libby scowled at Adam.

  “What do you want, then?” The beginning of a sly grin belied the gruff words.

  The winsome smile on Adam’s face made Katie pause in admiration, her fork suspended halfway between her plate and mouth. “Sausage, egg and chips,” he purred at Libby. “Why’d you even bother to ask?”

  “Of course.” Libby was already moving away, but tossed a question over her shoulder. “A cuppa?”

  “Right,” Adam replied.

  Her temporary paralysis broken by Libby’s retreat, Katie began inhaling her breakfast with the appetite of a pack of hungry wolves, serenaded by Adam who was singing along with the jukebox. Satiated by both food and his rendition of “Green Tambourine”, she put her fork down and glanced over at Adam. “I’m going to need some help,” she told him with an apologetic smile. “First of all, what’s brown sauce?”

  Eyebrows arched in surprise, Adam shrugged. “It’s … well, it’s sauce to put on your food. And it’s brown.”

  Katie snickered. “That clears things up.”

  “I dunno.” Adam appeared flummoxed, his forehead creased in a frown. “Don’t you have brown sauce in America?”

  “I’m not sure. We’ll get back to that. So what’s a cuppa?”

  “That one’s easy.” Adam lifted the cup of tea Libby had just handed him. “This. A cuppa tea.”

  “Fairly self-explanatory.” Katie nodded and committed the term to memory. “And one more thing; are there any inns or motels around here? When Jimi was waxing poetic about Ladbroke Grove he kind of neglected to mention anything like that.”

  “No, there’s not much like that in this area.” He dug into his breakfast with gusto, despite the runnels of brown decorating the eggs. Katie shuddered and decided she didn’t need to know any more about brown sauce. “Jimi who?” he asked around a mouthful of sausage.

  “Hendrix. He’s the one who told me I should come here when I told him I was thinking about moving to London.”

  Adam choked on a bit of food and gulped his tea. Coming up gasping, he looked at Katie with an expression of awe. “You know Jimi Hendrix?”

  Warmth flooded Katie’s cheeks at the innocent question. Adam’s paisley shirt, leather vest and flared trousers gave the appearance of a flower child, but she didn’t know him well enough to be sure of how he’d react on learning Katie’s acquaintance with Jimi Hendrix was limited to the three days he’d spent in her bed.

  “A little,” she murmured, deliberately vague. “I met him at the Monterey Pop Festival.”

  “Monterey.” Adam looked impressed. “So when you said California you meant San Francisco?”

  “Mm-hm. I spent a year in the Haight.” Katie leaned her head on her hand. A full stomach had exacerbated the jetlag she’d been trying to ignore since the plane landed. Waves of drowsiness washed over her and she let her eyes close, the husky sound of Adam’s voice as soothing as bees in a sunlit garden. She jerked awake from a light doze at the feel of his hand on her arm, and found him smiling at her in amusement.

  “Look, my flatmate’s on holiday and won’t be back until next week. Why don’t you crash at my pad? I have to work, and with Stuart away no one will be there to bother you.”

  It took a moment for his words to penetrate the haze of exhaustion, but when they did, she felt a rush of gratitude. “You’re sure I won’t be in the way?”

  “Not at all,” he assured her. “Come on, let’s pay for our food and then you can get some rest.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Awakened by the sharp backfire of a vehicle, Katie bounded from the bed, her heart pounding like a jackhammer. Pressing a hand to her chest, she gazed around, bemused at the sheets suspended from the ceiling. As her heart rate slowed, her memory circuits fired and the confusion lifted. After months of planning, and a devastating delay due to the sudden death of her father, she was in London. And, more specifically, in the bed of one Adam Greene in a converted attic on Blenheim Crescent, a bed surrounded by sheets to form a cubicle of privacy. She recalled the short walk from the pub to the apartment and could remember falling face-first into the bed Adam indicated; she drew a blank on anything that might have happened after that.

  Her duffel bag leaned against a small chest of drawers in the corner, so she stripped off her T-shirt and dug in the bag for a pair of shorts and a fresh blouse. Dressed and wide-awake, she eased her head around the makeshift curtains, feeling like a turtle emerging from its shell.

  The squeak of hinges in need of oil accompanied the opening of the door and she turned to see Adam enter the room, clad only in a towel wrapped around his waist. Water dripped from the ends of his hair and ran in rivulets down his bare chest, and his eyes squinted against the smoke that rose from the cigarette clamped between his teeth. Juggling an armload of clothes, a shampoo bottle and a plastic soap holder, he used his bare heel to kick the door shut behind him. A length of lean thigh was revealed as the movement caused the towel to gape open and Katie smiled in feminine appreciation.

  She cleared her throat to get his attention. “Good morning.”

  “Christ!” The cigarette tumbled from his mouth to land on the floor and Adam’s eyes widened with surprise as he caught sight of her. He directed
his attention to the smoldering cigarette and attempted to rearrange his burden, succeeding only in dropping the clothes on top of the burning ember. “Bugger,” he muttered and bent to toss the garments aside and retrieve the cigarette. More than his thigh came into view as he crouched down and the shampoo and soap clattered to the floor as he tried to adjust the towel.

  Katie’s smile widened. “Didn’t know I was awake, did you?”

  Adam looked up, shamefaced. “You did give me a bit of a fright at that.” He put the cigarette between his lips and stood. The knot in the towel slipped free and he made a grab at the terrycloth with both hands, just managing to preserve his modesty.

  Though Katie tried to stifle her laughter, some sound must have escaped because Adam looked up, the corners of his mouth quivering with shared amusement. At that moment, a long runner of ash fell from the cigarette to his chest.

  “Ow!” He brushed at his skin, leaving the towel dangling from one hand in front of him. For a moment, he studied his precarious position, and then looked up at her and grinned. “Ah, fuck it. Nice to really get to know you, Katie Scott.”

  “You, too, Adam Greene,” she replied, and burst into laughter as he snatched the towel away with a flourish before turning to disappear behind a yellow sheet printed with a gaudy pattern of cabbage roses.

  Still shaking with mirth, Katie padded across the floor to collect Adam’s belongings. She now had proof that he had a dynamite body to go with that breathtaking face and felt her skin tingle remembering the quick view he’d given her.

  “Sorry about that, love.” He emerged from behind the sheet, covered from the waist down in a pair of faded jeans and rubbing the ends of his hair with the towel.

  Katie waved his apology away. “I’m the one in your space, remember? I should apologize for startling you.” She raised the items in her hands. “Where should I put these?”

  “Just dump them on the couch, thanks. You were sleeping so soundly I didn’t think you’d wake before this afternoon. I thought I’d have time for a quick wash, at least.” His eyes were bright with amusement as he came to stand next to her, dropping the towel on the back of the couch.