A Lasting Impression

his mouth fully, and kissed her, long and slow, taking his time. Time they didn’t have, but at the moment, Claire didn’t care. Oh, how she’d wanted to kiss him at the reception, and then when they’d exchanged presents, and then when . . .
    She slipped her arms around his neck, loving the feel of him against her, and in his sheriff’s duster, no less.
    All too soon, his mouth relinquished hers. He held her tight, tighter than she could remember. “You take care of yourself while I’m gone,” he said, his voice hoarse.
    “I’ll be fine. You’re the one traveling. You be careful.”
    He drew back slightly, and tenderly traced his thumb along her lower lip. “That wasn’t fair, I know. Surprising you like that.”
    “That’s all right. I cheat at checkers.”
    He laughed. “Yes, you do. Among other things.”
    She walked with him into the entrance hall. “I’ll see you in two weeks.”
    “About that . . .” He paused by the front door, looking down. “I might be gone a little longer than I first thought.”
    “Why?”
    “I’ve got work to do for Adelicia, plus some business to conduct for the firm.” His gaze met hers but fleetingly. “And you need time to catalog the art and to do everything on the forty-seven lists Mrs. Acklen has left you.”
    Claire smiled, but only because she told herself to.
    “I want you to have time to paint too, Claire. Time for yourself.” He looked at her then. “You haven’t had much of that lately. Time to think, to do what you’d like to do.”
    “That’s very generous of you, Sutton, but quite frankly . . . I’d rather have time with you.”
    His smile gained longing, but his eyes . . . His eyes spoke of something different. With a brief smile, he reached for his satchel, and Claire instinctively reached for him. He dropped the satchel and his arms came around her. She held him as tight as she could, pressing herself into him, wanting him to remember what she felt like—what they felt like together.
    The front door opened. Eli quickly lowered his eyes. “Excuse me, Mr. Monroe, but the Lady’s asking for you, sir.” He closed the door, not waiting for a response.
    Claire let go first, pleased that Sutton seemed reluctant to. “How long do you think you’ll be gone?”
    “I’m not sure.” He picked up his satchel again.
    “Can we write?”
    Opening the door, he smiled a little. “Yes, we can write.”
    “Every day?”
    His smile deepened, but in a sad way. “I’m going to miss you,” he whispered, then tucked a curl behind her ear and pressed a hard, quick kiss to her forehead. “I’ll see you soon.”
    And he was gone.

45

    F eeling a little awkward, Claire stood outside Sutton’s room in the art gallery, hand on the doorknob. Two weeks had passed since he’d left, yet it felt like much longer. He’d written, requesting she retrieve a file from his desk, and informing that a courier would come by for it. But even with his permission, she felt a sense of trespass.
    The knob turned easily in her grip. Sutton had said it wouldn’t be locked. Not with the main doors to the gallery kept locked at all times, something he’d stressed when he’d entrusted her with the key.
    The door creaked as she opened it.
    His room was cast in shadows, but she quickly remedied that by pulling the curtains back from the windows. Afternoon light poured in. The first thing that struck her was how sparsely decorated the quarters felt. Then she realized it wasn’t the absence of furniture or necessities she was noticing. She was simply comparing it to the mansion’s decor where crystal vases, miniature statuary, and bric-a-brac decorated every tabletop and mantel.
    The simplicity and organization of Sutton’s bedroom suited him.
    The file was atop the desk, exactly as he’d said. She turned to leave, then caught the faintest scent and paused. She breathed in again, but it was gone. On a whim, needing a tangible reminder of him, she crossed to the wardrobe, opened it, and held one of his shirts to her face. She inhaled the hint of bayberry and spice, of sunshine and meadow, and something else decidedly male—and closed her eyes, memorizing it.
    He’d written her twice since he’d left. She’d written him nearly every day. At night before she went to bed. He’d written her once from Café du Monde in New Orleans, and she’d found it more than a little unnerving to think of him being so close to where her family’s gallery had been. But his next