THE FIRE STILL BURNS

by Roxanne St Claire

  Adjusting the neat creases on his trousers, Leonard sat and gave her a look of humility and gratitude. "Thank you, Miss Harrington. I love working in the kitchen. I really function more as Mr. Gilmore's chef than his valet, although I try to fulfill every need."

  "It's a wonder the man doesn't weigh three hundred pounds, with all that chocolate."

  He laughed and crossed his arms, the envelope he had now tucked out of sight. "I limit him to weekend splurges only. He's a very disciplined man."

  "No doubt that's how he became so successful at such a young age. He can't be forty years old yet."

  Leonard shook his head. "No, he's not. But he will be in a year. I certainly hope he settles down then."

  "The Burger Boy billionaire?" Grace grinned over her cup. "Don't count on it. I've heard he's quite the player."

  "I'm afraid it's true," Leonard said with a conspiratorial smile. "But he does believe in true love, so there's hope for him."

  At the statement, Grace stifled a sigh. "True love? Jeez. Is there such a beast, Leonard?"

  Leonard's eyebrows rose slightly. "Don't give up on it, Miss Harrington. I'm sure it will find you at the most unexpected time. Oh! I nearly forgot." He held the large white envelope out to her. "Mr. McGrath asked that I give this to you. And I do so along with my heartfelt apologies. He left it on my desk with a note, which I didn't see until just now. I hope it's not something you need for what you're working on now."

  Grace took the envelope, stifling the curiosity that came with it. What could Colin have left for her? "I doubt it has anything to do with what I'm working on. As you know, our approach to this business is very different."

  "Precisely why having you two here was so important to Mr. Gilmore," Leonard agreed. "He told me last summer that he expected the two of you to be the finalists, and for the decision to be a difficult one."

  Last summer? Grace distinctly remembered Colin telling her he'd turned down Adrian's invitation to bid until the very last possible minute. Could Colin be right? Could the Burger Boy have orchestrated this "showdown" between them?

  Before she could figure out a way to interrogate Leonard further, he stood and repeated his offer of a different drink.

  "No, thank you, Leonard." She'd have to think of another way of finding out the maneuverings that went on to pull off this odd arrangement. "I'll just have the tea."

  "Good night then, Miss. I'll be turning in shortly."

  Grace glanced at her watch. Was it that late already? "Oh, it's past ten. I wonder when Colin will be coming back." She could have bitten her lip as soon as she said it.

  "He's returned, Miss Harrington." There was that little twinkle again. Did Leonard fancy himself a matchmaker? "I heard his car pull into the drive. But he hasn't come into the house. He's probably walking the Edgewater property. I've noticed he likes to do that."

  When he left, Grace tore open the envelope. A stack of white paper fluttered out, copies of very light hand drawings. At the top of the first page, in a stylized handwriting were the words: Pineapple House, 1743. Architect: Unknown.

  Below it, a black-and-white artist's rendering of the front elevation of a beautifully balanced, exquisitely designed colonial home, complete with the ever-present widow's walk along the dropped hip roof and, of course, a carved relief of a pineapple over the front door. The architect in her admired every line, the even, rectangular windows and the simple, elegant design. And the woman in her wondered … why? Why had he left these for her to peruse?

  The detail on every one of the twelve pages was astounding. The sketches included renderings of the large central hall, a massive rosewood banister and handcrafted cabinetry in sixteen rooms. On the last page there were no drawings, just handwritten paragraphs in a stilted, turn-of-the-century script, bearing the title Biography of a Lost Landmark. Grace read it slowly.

  Pineapple House had been built by a prosperous sea merchant, and in its short hundred-year history, had hosted such illustrious guests as a Revolutionary War general, a U.S. Senator, and the Governor of Rhode island. The words documented the many births and deaths that had occurred in the house and gave excruciating detail about the exquisite art collection as well as a priceless set of Newport pewter, both lost when the house was ultimately destroyed.

  How could someone have desecrated this incredible piece of American history?

  That someone, she realized as she felt her face melt into an embarrassed cringe, was her great-great grandfather.

  A snippet of an old literary expression played in her head. Something about "the sins of the father."

  Grace stared at the drawings, leafing through the pages until her tea turned cold, then returned to her original question. Why had Colin given her these? To pique her interest in building Pineapple House instead of rebuilding Edgewater? To make her see what could be done with this land? To touch her architect's soul and … blackmail her, again?

  It was time they had a talk. She wanted to know his motives. She wanted to tell him about Leonard's slip about the timing of this arrangement. And she wanted to…

  Oh, there went her imagination again. Admit it, Grace. She wanted to kiss him. A lot more than she wanted to discuss motives and land deals. She just wanted one long, lazy, sensual lip-lock that could be the icing on their mutual ten-year-long crush. Was that breaking a rule?

  Without taking too much time to consider the consequences, Grace left the studio and darted down the back stairs to the second-floor hallway. Her door was closed; Colin's was wide open. His bed was made and the sheets had been pulled back and tucked in neat corners—evidence of Leonard's nightly turn-down. One light burned on the desk, illuminating an empty room. He must still be outside.

  She continued down the main stairs, pausing to scoop the trusty blanket from the sofa. She inhaled the scent of the wool, expecting a reminder of the afternoon's picnic, but it smelled freshly washed. Good ol' Lenny, again. Tossing it around her like a shawl, she opened the front door and peered out over the enormous lawn of Edgewater.

  Where would he be?

  To her left, a hint of cloud-misted moonlight lit the north corner of the lawn. The section Colin's desk overlooked. The original site of Pineapple House.

  Her loafers made no sound on the grass. She followed the moonlight and her instincts. At the edge of the lawn, a grouping of ancient oak trees had survived both the man-made destruction of this property a hundred and twenty years ago and the one nature had inflicted a few months earlier. Slowly, she approached the shadows, her blood pumping so violently that she thought he might hear her pulse before she spoke.

  She knew why she was there. Looking for him in the dark. She knew why. Would he?

  She paused, listening. All was still. No breeze. No crickets. No Colin.

  "Did you like the sketches?"

  She bit back a breath at the sound of his voice. Following it, as her eyes adjusted, she found him sitting on the ground, leaning against the trunk of a tree. He looked up at her with a knowing expression. Had he expected her?

  "Yes." She dropped to her knees next to him. "Pineapple House is beautiful, Colin."

  He reached out to her, his hand grazing her cheek as he turned her face to his. "So are you, Gracie."

  And then he kissed her.

  * * *

  "Gracie."

  Colin murmured her name into their kiss, loving the sound—and the minty taste of tea—on his lips, in one easy movement, he slid his arms around her slender waist to guide her onto his lap without breaking their kiss.

  Hadn't he just been thinking about this? Dreaming of holding her, of loving her? And here she was. His goddess, his fantasy.

  He whispered her name again and she settled into him, her arms tight around his neck. After a moment, she dropped her head against his chest. Somehow that was even more intimate than the kiss itself. A gesture of pure trust.

  "Remind me to share sketches with you more often, honey," he whispered into the silken strands of her hair. "I like your respons
e."

  She looked at him, a gleam in her eye. "You kissed me."

  "You kissed back."

  "I'm only human, Colin."

  He closed his eyes and eased her into a safer spot on his lap.

  "Uh, me, too, as you are undoubtedly figuring out right now." He heard her tiny, sexy intake of breath. Oh, this was dangerous. Unexpected, romantic and completely dangerous.

  Wordlessly, she leaned into him for another kiss, this one eliciting a gentle moan from her throat as their tongues tangled. Good grief, he couldn't do this for very long. He had to fight to keep his hands from exploring her, had to resist the urge to guide her over him and let nature start the ancient, rhythmic movement of man against woman.

  "Did you come out here to make out in the dark, Gracie?"

  She didn't answer for a minute. Had she?

  "Not exactly."

  Not exactly? If she came on to him, kissed him, held him and pressed her precious breasts against his chest, he couldn't be expected to stop, could he?

  Yes. He could be. She was a virgin. She had no idea what she was doing to him. He took a deep breath and slowly, agonizingly inched her onto the grass.

  "Then what exactly did you want?" He said it softly, with a laugh, but he needed to know the truth. Because if she wanted…

  No. No. No. She wanted love. She wanted forever. She wanted a commitment where there wasn't one to give.

  "Why did you give me the sketches, Colin?"

  "So you'd kiss me."

  She laughed. "Seriously."

  "I wanted you to see them." Feeling moderately more in control of his urges, he put his arm around her and nestled her into his side. "Aren't they amazing?"

  "They are. You didn't tell me the history. And the detail! Where did you get them?"

  "The last of Marguerite's Restoration Rebels passed away about six months ago, and willed her the sketches. They'd been hidden in an attic for over a hundred years. Some artist created them as the plans for Edgewater were being drawn up." He paused, enjoying the warmth of her against him. "What have you been doing all evening, Gracie?"

  "Drawing."

  "Really?"

  "No. Thinking instead of drawing."

  He chuckled. "Been there a few times. What were you thinking about?"

  "You."

  The word washed over him. "Not very inspirational."

  "You got that right. I didn't get a thing done. But—" she pulled back a little to look at him with a serious expression "—I did have the most interesting chat with Lenny."

  "Yeah?"

  She nodded. "You might be right about Adrian. Lenny said he mentioned us as the finalists last summer. Didn't you say you only sneaked in a week before the presentations were held?"

  "Yes. But for months before, Adrian was relentless in his pursuit of McGrath, Inc., on this." He leaned his head back against the tree, remembering some of the early conversations. "I was flattered, but, until I talked to Marguerite about Pineapple House, I had zero intention of going after this business."

  He felt her cuddle deeper into the blanket and he pulled her closer just for the pure pleasure of it.

  "Did you know I'd be involved?" she asked.

  He waited a beat before answering. "I assumed H&H would bid."

  "Is that why you didn't want to participate?"

  "That was one reason."

  "You didn't want to see me?"

  "Not really."

  This time she was quiet for the better part of a minute and finally asked, "Why?

  "I think we about covered my debilitating crush this afternoon."

  "You don't still have one?" She sounded so unsure, so scared to hear the truth. And yet, the truth was all he could give her.

  "Yes, I do."

  She lifted her face toward him, then her delicate fingers touched his cheek, and he turned to look at her.

  "Me, too," she whispered.

  Without warning, she took his mouth in a soul-wrenching kiss, lifting herself right back onto his lap.

  "Gracie." As he murmured her name, he kissed down her throat and lifted his fingers to the V-neck of her sweater, caressing her collarbone and the delicate skin below it.

  His head spun with need. His body tightened, straining his jeans and testing his every ounce of control.

  He tried to ease her off his lap, but she leaned backward, falling gently on the grass. Helpless, he went with her, giving into the thrill of unimpeded body contact. He bit back a curse. He wasn't a saint, for God's sake.

  "You're killin' me, honey." He heard the near growl of his voice as his hand moved naturally to the hem of her sweater. And under it.

  He touched her warn, satin skin. She closed her eyes and drew in a breath, her hips rising against him.

  He clenched his jaw. She kissed it until he relaxed.

  He stiffened his hips. She slid her leg around his.

  He held his hand firmly on her waist. She arched her back to give him access to her breasts.

  She couldn't possibly know what she was doing with each sexy move she made. Could she?

  "I know you're a virgin, Gracie, but surely you've spent enough time with men to know that we're really helpless, pathetic animals." He punctuated each word with a kiss against the sweet skin of her throat and jaw. "We're not gifted with a surplus of willpower in this situation."

  She laughed and the movement tightened her stomach right over his erection. Oh man. He moaned and let his head drop into the rise of her chest. "You have no idea how much I want you, Gracie." He couldn't stop himself. He kissed the flesh and brushed his hand over the thin material of her bra, over the swollen peak of her breast. "I want you."

  He heard her gasp in response, then a strangled sound caught in her throat.

  "Oh, Colin, I'm so sorry." Her voice cracked as she wriggled out from under him and he quickly moved his hand. She lay down next to him, their hips finally separated, but the heat still palpable between them. "I really haven't spent much time in a situation like … like this. But I'm not stupid. I do know what I'm doing."

  She started to sit up, brushing a leaf from her hair. "And I'll stop. It's wrong."

  "No, it's not wrong, Gracie." There was nothing wrong about what their bodies were screaming to do. But that was his opinion. She was waiting for love. "But this isn't how you want to lose your virginity, honey. Out here on the grass. On a blanket. Under the stars."

  She laughed softly. "No, not when you put it that way."

  He reached out and touched her lips, swollen from his kisses. "Put it this way. I'm not the man you want to give it to, Gracie." That would be one lucky SOB who wasn't a certified commitment-phobe.

  She didn't say anything, but stood, her legs obviously shaky. "Don't be so sure of that, Colin McGrath."

  Then she pulled the blanket around her shoulders and hurried back into the house.

  * * *

  Eight

  « ^ »

  Grace was still trembling when she closed her bedroom door behind her. What was happening to her? Had she lost her mind? There was a name for girls who played with fire like that. Several names, as a matter of fact. And none flattering.

  She made her way into the bathroom, debating between a bath or a shower or just an old-fashioned howl at the moon, when she caught sight of her image in the mirror.

  Who was that woman?

  Certainly not Grace Harrington.

  Her lips were dark and full, her cheeks flushed, her pupils dilated to the point of nearly obliterating the green of her irises. Her hair was tangled and wild and … was that a leaf in it? Her fingers grazed the reddened flesh of her chin, remembering the sexy abrasion of his unshaved kisses. Of his desire.

  I want you.

  Her insides still pulled, an unfamiliar achy tug that felt like a burning, unsatisfied hunger at the deepest part of her. Her arms and legs were numb, her breasts bursting with the need for him to touch her again. And again. And again.

  She hadn't meant to be a tease, hadn't int
ended to respond like that, but this need…

  I want you.

  She'd hear those three words in her head forever.

  Those were definitely not the three words that were supposed to send her to a lover's bed.

  But, really, Gracie… She stared at her aroused reflection, liking the sound of his playful nickname, even in her head. What are you waiting for?

  Someone better than Colin? She could look long and hard before she'd ever find a man who'd resist what he'd just resisted. She'd judged him all wrong. The demon with long hair and an earring, the rebel with an attitude and a big bad motorcycle was … no rule-breaker.

  He was a good man.

  An image of him kissing his grandmother's aged hand flashed in her mind. Hadn't that one simple gesture demonstrated exactly what kind of man he was?

  Maybe this wasn't love. Oh, there was no maybe. This wasn't love. This was want.

  And tonight, want beat love all around.

  Turning from the mirror, she walked to the dresser and yanked open the bottom drawer. Inside, her casual clothes were folded and organized by color and fabric. She lifted a shirt, flipping it to the floor and liking the freedom of that. She tossed the pink sweater that Allie had said she'd soar in next to it.

  Then she found what she wanted to wear. What she'd worn a hundred times in the last ten years, always fantasizing about him touching the now-worn fabric, taking it off…

  She stripped off her pants, sweater and bra, and stood fingering the unadorned edge of her functional white satin underwear. It wasn't "old lady" underwear, but it sure wasn't anything like the whispers of lace she'd seen piled in Allie's laundry basket. She didn't own such a thing.

  So it would be nothing at all.

  She stood naked in front of her dresser, refusing to give herself too much time to think about this. A chill skittered over her skin in the cool night air, reminding her that she'd left her window open. Unfolding the soft cotton, her fingers grazed the lettering, remembering the feel of it against her skin the first time she'd worn it.

  She tugged the T-shirt over her head, and let it fall mid-thigh. Yes. This was what she wanted to do. She had no doubts. No second thoughts. And there would be no regrets.