Harte's Desire

by Cambria Smyth

  At his words of consent, Libby broke into a wide grin. "Thank you so much, Mr. Darnell. I'll mail the paperwork tomorrow." She glanced at him and, seeing the trace of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, was immediately struck again by his handsome good looks. She smiled back and suddenly caught herself.

  Ignore the attraction, she reminded herself sternly. She was the enemy. Just because he's letting the society use Harte's Desire, doesn't mean he's got a caring or sensitive bone in his body.

  In fact, she thought, he'll no doubt find a way to make money or benefit somehow by having the fundraiser here. Probably sell tickets to see the second floor, or hope the publicity will generate greater attendance at the furnishings auction. He might act like the sensitive type, but beware the wolf underneath, she cautioned herself. He didn't get to the top by being Mr. Nice Guy.

  And, he did promise revenge, something she could ill afford right now.

  Libby rose up from the couch, anxious to end their meeting and escape from the man who was causing her heart to do flip-flops. It left her feeling like she was sixteen again, all nervous and excited. She didn't like it. She loved it and that scared her.

  Chris stood up, too, and extended his right hand. "It's a deal, then, Miss Reed?"

  She hesitated only slightly before accepting the handshake. His grip was strong and confident, and its warmth surrounded hers like a cocoon. Some undefinable connection spun between them, tilting her carefully ordered universe, and she didn't want the moment to end. But she had to leave before she succumbed any further to his charms.

  "It's a deal, Mr. Darnell," she said, backing away quickly.

  "Please, call me Chris, and…?" he offered, his voice rising with the unspoken question as to how he should address her.

  "Oh, call me Elizabeth..."

  No sooner had she gotten the words out when Mrs. McElroy appeared at the doorway, arms flapping, obviously upset about something.

  "Mr. D.," she cut in excitedly, "Thank goodness I found you. There's an awful buzzing noise in the butler's pantry and it's driving me crazy. I can't get your documents ready with all the commotion."

  "Now, Edwina, settle down and we’ll figure it out," he admonished with concern, gesturing toward Libby. "You've already met Miss Reed?"

  "Yes, I let her in while you were upstairs. I see you found her."

  Edwina regarded her employer with curiosity. He seemed brighter, more animated and alive than she had seen him in years, and what in dear heaven was he doing here in the drawing room? He never used any of the first floor rooms in the mansion except for those he had to, like the kitchen or his office in the dining room.

  She noticed that Miss Reed seemed somewhat flustered, too, and concluded there might be some attraction between them. She could almost feel it in the air. It wouldn't hurt to play matchmaker, she thought hopefully. Chris hadn't been interested seriously in anyone since Cynthia, and that was years ago. It was time he settled down and found there were other things in life besides work to keep him busy.

  "Miss Reed," she directed to Libby. "As a member of the historical society, you must know something about old buildings. Could you take a look, please?"

  With that, Edwina turned and headed down the hallway. Chris and Libby caught up to her in the pantry.

  "There's the noisemaker," Edwina declared, pointing to a small, square box mounted high on the wall near the door. It was emitting a loud, buzzing noise similar in sound to a doorbell. "I thought it might be someone ringing at the front door or the back door in the kitchen, but it wasn't."

  Libby noted the spaciousness of what was usually a small room. Two of its walls were covered with floor to ceiling glass-fronted china cabinets. There was a large double sink in the corner, flanked by enamel topped counters. A computer desk was placed against the room’s one empty wall, while a phone, in-baskets, and stacks of paperwork covered one of the countertops.

  Libby knew exactly what the problem was.

  "I think the answer's in the dining room," she said. "Follow me."

  Pushing through a swinging door, Libby walked into the elegant, paneled room that was now Chris's office. She pulled several of the side chairs away from the table and got down on her hands and knees. Although this was the last position she wanted to be seen in by Christopher Darnell, it couldn't be helped. She smoothed her hands over the worn Oriental rug covering the floor until her fingers found what she was searching for.

  "Mrs. McElroy, if you check you'll find the noise has stopped. There's a call button under the rug here." Libby went on to explain, "The lady of the house would summon the maid or butler by pressing it with her foot. I must have accidentally set the chair on top of it while I was looking around earlier. Sorry about that. How amazing it still works!"

  Libby stood up, straightening her T-shirt and brushing the dust off the knees of her jeans. A few more strands of hair escaped the tidy bun on top of her head, leaving her looking charmingly disarrayed. Sensing that she was being scrutinized, she glanced up to find Christopher Darnell gazing at her with a mixture of desire and...and what?

  No one had ever looked at her that way before and she suddenly felt flattered to have this man's attention. Then she realized that if he knew her true identify, his look would be one of undisguised hatred and disgust instead.

  It was definitely time to go.

  "Well, glad I could help out," Libby said, eager to be on her way. "I'll send that letter of agreement right off to you, Mr. Darnell, er, Chris. And, thanks again for letting us use Harte's Desire."

  She didn't dare shake his hand again. "No need to see me out; I know the way.” With all the composure she could muster, and with her heart beating in staccato, she turned and left the room.

  If she could help it, she vowed, this would be her first, last, and only meeting with him. She'd have her committee members come over to take measurements of the rooms and move the furniture. The caterer could examine the kitchen layout on her own. She wouldn't have to go back there, to him, until the fundraiser.

  And he probably wouldn't attend, anyway, she reassured herself, knowing of his unconcealed hatred for historic buildings.

  "Miss Reed," Chris's deep voice commanded from behind as he caught up to her in the sunlit entrance hall.

  Libby turned abruptly to face him, only to find his magnetic blue-green eyes focused sharply on her.

  "Elizabeth," he began. "Have we met before?"

  "Ah, n-no," she stammered.

  "There's something about you I can't quite put my finger on. But I get this feeling we know each other."

  "Trust me, Mr. Darnell. We've never met before this."

  "Then why do you seem so familiar to me?" Chris continued to study her with great interest.

  "I really don't know. Maybe I just remind you of someone." Libby shrugged nonchalantly, even though her insides were a trembling mass of raw nerves. "And, if you'll excuse me, I must be on my way. Good day."

  With renewed determination to leave as quickly as possible, she turned away from him, opened one of the massive double doors, and stepped into the bright May sunshine.

  Yes, she reasoned, if she was lucky, she would never have to see Christopher Darnell again.

  Chapter Four

  It took Libby almost a full minute to realize that the persistent ringing in her ear was coming from the cell phone by her bed and not the one in her troubled dream. Actually the dream was a nightmare, with Christopher Darnell on the line, demanding to know if she was Libby Chatham.

  Groggily, she answered and heard a huge sigh of relief on the other end. She barely croaked out a sleepy "hello.”

  "Miss Reed?"

  "Yes?" It was too early for more than a one word response.

  "This is Edwina McElroy, Mr. Darnell's secretary. Did I wake you up?"

  Libby slowly opened one eye and squinted at the clock on her cell phone; the lighted screen read 9:02 and she realized with horror that she'd slept the better part of the morning away.

 
; "Oh, Mrs. McElroy, no, you didn't..." she started to say.

  "It doesn't matter, honey, if I did or didn't. You just sounded sleepy to me," Mrs. McElroy said kindly before changing the subject. "The boss asked me to give you a call this morning. He wants to know if you can meet with him sometime today. 'The sooner, the better' were his exact words."

  Libby's heart lurched and then sank. Maybe he's changed his mind about the fundraiser, she thought. Or worse, he knew who she really was. Had her dream been a premonition?

  "Did he say what he wanted to discuss?" she asked shakily, coming more awake with each second that passed by.

  "No, he didn't. Just flew out of his office, all in a huff, demanding I call you immediately to set up a meeting. The phones were fixed late yesterday and he's been returning calls all morning. Gets in at seven you know. A real workaholic, Mr. D. is."

  Now fully awake, Libby quickly recalled her agenda for the day. A shower, long and hot, was definitely in order and she had to review some work with her assistant in about an hour.

  "I could be there around one this afternoon, Mrs. McElroy, if that suits his schedule," Libby replied.

  She heard the shuffling of what sounded like an appointment book in the background.

  "Yes, he's free at one, Miss Reed. No need to ring the bell, just come on in. We'll see you then."

  Libby hung up the phone, pondering the meeting to come. What could he possibly want, she wondered? What could have upset him so much that he had to see her? A phone call? There was only one likely reason, Libby surmised, and it was no doubt the one she feared the most.

  Hearing noises in the bedroom, Libby's two cats, Muffin and Crunch, came bounding into the room and up onto the bed. Libby stroked them both before shoving them off the bed with a friendly swat. Grabbing a robe, she followed them downstairs where they waited to be fed. She was glad for their companionship in an otherwise empty and lonely house.

  Coffee, she thought. What she really needed was a strong cup of coffee. Libby walked through a small hallway to the kitchen. Ignoring the decaf she usually drank, she plucked the can of regular she kept on hand for her guests out of the refrigerator and set up the coffeemaker.

  Libby looked around with fondness at the room she had spent so much time in as a child.

  She had nothing but warm memories of the house, which had once been her grandparents' and was now hers. She'd spent so many of her childhood days there, with Pop-Pop and Grandma Reed. She wasn't surprised when they willed it to her, not only because she was the sole grandchild but because they knew she would never tear it down or remodel it beyond recognition. Married when she inherited it, Libby rented it for a few years to a nice elderly couple. When her divorce became imminent, and her tenants thankfully decided to move to a warmer climate, Libby moved the thirty some miles from Philadelphia and took over the home for her own.

  She could still remember the smell of Grandma Reed's pies left to cool on the kitchen's deep window sills. The room was bright and airy, with a large bay window overlooking the backyard. In a concession to modern conveniences, Libby installed new cabinets and appliances when she moved in two years ago. She left the rest of the house untouched and it looked remarkably the same today as it did when built in 1917.

  With four bedrooms, it was certainly much larger than Libby needed, but she adored its turn-of-the-twentieth-century warmth and character. Designed in the bungalow style, it had a steeply-pitched slate roof that swept down to create a charming, columned porch on the front of the house. The porch was enclosed with multi-paned doors which could be opened in fair weather, bathing the room in fresh air. She didn't have riverfront property like Harte's Desire, but was close enough to the water to enjoy its cooling effects. There were three other porches, one of them used for sleeping as was popular back then.

  The house was built of sturdy red brick, made locally, while its projecting dormers and bay windows were covered with cedar shakes stained red to match the house.

  The Craftsman-style interior was formal, yet rustic, with paneled wainscot, polished hardwood floors, and open ceiling beams in the living room. Built-in bookcases flanked its red brick fireplace and French doors opened to the front porch beyond. The dining room had built-in, glass-fronted china cabinets and a bay window with a window seat. A small family room next to the kitchen was dominated by a corner fireplace, also done in red brick.

  Surprisingly, the dark wood paneling, doors, and trim throughout the house had never been painted. Twice a year, Libby rubbed lemon oil on their varnished surfaces to protect and enhance the warm patina that had gradually accumulated over the years.

  Libby waited impatiently for the coffee to finish brewing. It had been quite a night, she reflected after a long yawn. Actually, yesterday had been quite a day. She couldn't seem to get Christopher Darnell off her mind. He was nothing like the man she imagined him to be. Expecting an old, gray-haired patriarch, she found instead a strong, accomplished, and exceedingly handsome younger man. Powerful, dominating, and thoroughly charming when he wanted to be. She had anticipated hating the person who threatened to destroy, and would if given the chance, the old buildings she loved.

  Rather, she felt utterly confused by her attraction to him. And, she was attracted to him alright. Physically and on other levels she had yet to define, or admit. But she knew any relationship, however brief and sweet, was doomed once he discovered her identity. And it was inevitable that he would, sooner or later. Borden's Landing was a small town and in the two years she'd been living here, Libby had come to know most of its residents on a first name basis.

  She shuddered, imagining his wrath when he learned the truth. Hoping her deception wouldn't be discovered until after the fundraiser, she poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table to savor its steaming comfort.

  Lord knows she'd tried to get him off her mind yesterday. After leaving Harte's Desire, she spent the afternoon doing research at the county archives and later made herself a simple dinner. Still feeling strangely restless and bored after eating, she decided that a good workout at the health club would calm her nerves as it usually did. When thirty minutes on the treadmill left her exhilarated instead of exhausted, she headed to the free weight room. The health club was packed for a Thursday night, but she did as many exercises as she could, all the while comparing the men working out there to Christopher Darnell. None of them seemed to have anywhere near his physical perfection.

  Still wide awake when she got back home at ten, Libby poured herself a glass of Chardonnay and curled up on the sofa in front of the fireplace with a historical romance. The book was an excellent one, but she groaned inwardly when the description of its hero matched Christopher Darnell to a tee. There was no getting away from the man, she thought. Thoroughly caught up in the story and its all too similar protagonist, she finally forced herself to turn out the lights and go to bed at two.

  Visions of him kept her from falling asleep right away, and continued to plague even her dreams.

  Memory of that dream brought her back to thoughts of the day's coming events. She drained her coffee cup and headed upstairs to the shower.

  Forty-five minutes later, dressed and refreshed, Libby emerged from the house wearing a casual pair of slacks with a matching knit silk top. She concluded it was better to wear something more suited for a confrontation than jeans and a T-shirt. Her hair, freshly washed and blow-dried, fell in luscious golden waves past her shoulders.

  Closing the back door behind her, she headed to the carriage house that sat some fifty feet away. Like the main house, it had a slate roof, red brick walls, and projecting dormers covered with cedar shingles. Although it had been built to house automobiles rather than horses and buggies, it was a substantial size.

  Libby had converted the servants' bedrooms on the building’s second floor into her offices, giving the smaller room to her assistant, Connie Garrett, while keeping the larger one for her. Seeing Connie's car in the driveway, she hurried up the stairs to
greet her.

  "Hi, Lib," Connie called out when Libby appeared at the doorway. "Boy, are you late this morning. Out 'till the wee hours last night, I hope?"

  "And wouldn't you like to know?" Libby replied teasingly to the 23-year old assistant she hired two years ago fresh out of college. Connie was bright, single, and led an active social life. What began as a working relationship gradually turned into an easy friendship, and they often shared confidences.

  "Actually, I was up late, but not for the reason you're thinking."

  "One of these days, you're going to waltz in here with the biggest grin on your face and tell me you've finally met Prince Charming. You may claim you're over your divorce from Rick, but I don't believe you, Lib. And do you know why? You hardly ever date and you always find fault with any man who shows even half an interest in you." Connie gently chided her boss as she munched on a bagel spread thickly with cream cheese.

  Connie had met Rick a couple of times before the divorce was final, and although she respected his work as an architect, it was easy to see why the marriage failed. Rick had an ego. A big ego. Things were fine while Libby struggled to establish herself in the field of historic preservation. But as her reputation grew and she felt confident enough to start her own business, Rick began to feel threatened by her achievements. Especially when he still hadn't been promoted to a junior partnership in the Philadelphia architectural firm where he worked.

  Connie remembered Rick's last visit. He stopped by to see the upstairs offices, which had just been completed. After taking a quick look around, he proceeded to criticize everything Libby had done. The paint colors were wrong, the lighting placed incorrectly, the storage closet too small. It was obvious he was jealous of her success.

  Libby didn't talk much about her failed marriage, even though Connie wished she would. Connie knew the divorce left Libby wary of all men and reluctant to enter into any relationship, long or short.