Harte's Desire

by Cambria Smyth

  Chris listened to her walk away, then sat back onto the bench with a sigh.

  She was an angelic vision in red silk tonight, he thought pensively, toying with the folds in his tucked shirt. So devastatingly gorgeous. But more. A delightful conversationalist, a careful listener, a knowledgeable guide, a terrific dancer despite her warning to the contrary. She'd been able to talk easily with every person at their table. Then she managed to do the impossible--show him the Orphanage in a way he'd never seen it.

  He'd been so frustrated, and mad, when Sister Mary Clare refused to let him tear it down. Only out of his great affection for her had he agreed to match the state grant for its restoration. But tonight, Libby--how he loved the sound and feel of her name on his tongue--had changed all that. Like a sorceress, she'd helped him envision the Orphanage as it was meant to be. Bright, cheerful, a place full of hope rather than despair.

  He hadn't meant to kiss her again. Or maybe he had. It didn't matter. Sister Mary Clare had saved him from making a fool of himself, yet again. His body still ached from unfulfilled desire and the memory of her arms around him as they danced, caused another painful arousal.

  Cursing silently, Chris shook his head and took a deep breath of now still air.

  She had such an effect on him, he thought, why didn't he have any effect on her? She hadn't even flinched when Sister Mary Clare call her Libby in front of him. In fact, she'd made a bold ploy demanding him to consider her a friend if he wanted to use it. Very clever, he conceded. He didn't really expect her to come right out and admit to being Libby Chatham. Not there. Not with so many people, so many strangers around.

  But, he'd hoped she would tell him in the garden, away from the crowd. Away from those who'd just heard him confess how she'd taught him to see the Orphanage in a new way. He'd thought by sharing his genuine feelings with her, she'd be able to do the same in return. Oh, she'd admitted to accepting part of his plan for Harte's Desire. And it probably took some courage on her part to say so. But he wanted to hear more. Wanted to hear they'd been adversaries in the past, too.

  Yes, he was hiding as much as she was. The minute Rich Stone told him about Libby, he should have confronted her with the truth. Instead, he'd been running from it as much as she had. Afraid the truth would ruin...would ruin what? A tentative relationship based on lies? A working relationship inspired by his desire for revenge and her desire to save Harte's Desire?

  He now wanted her honesty more than he wanted revenge.

  Nothing made sense anymore, Chris decided. Any feelings they might have for each other were based on dishonesties and ruses both were party to.

  Chris stood up and yawned. He'd spend the night in his center city penthouse. The sixty minute ride back to Borden's Landing seem impossible at this late hour.

  Chapter Twenty

  "You're right on time," Libby greeted Chris, opening the front door to let him in. Grandpa Reed's grandfather clock, which occupied a place of prominence in the living room, was just chiming the hour in its deep, melodious tones when the doorbell rang.

  Chris strode into the room, holding a bottle of white wine emblazoned with the Harte’s Desire label and a large bouquet of roses wrapped in aluminum foil.

  Libby's heart skipped a beat, a natural reaction his presence always elicited. A quick glance confirmed what she already guessed--that he looked as handsome dressed casually as he did in a three-piece suit.

  Tonight he was wearing navy khakis, Docksider loafers, and a white polo shirt. The placket-fronted shirt was unbuttoned, revealing dark curly hair at its vee showing in sharp contrast to the shirt's whiteness. The knitted cuffs on its half-sleeves tightly hugged Chris's well-defined biceps. His forearms, lean but muscular, were nicely tanned and he wore no jewelry other than a watch on his left wrist.

  Libby, dryly observing how vibrant and healthy he looked, concluded his urgent business during the week must have been conducted on the tennis courts or golf course. She felt utterly pale and lifeless in comparison, having spent the past several days indoors, at her computer, finishing the report.

  "These are for you," Chris said, extending the flowers and wine.

  Libby arched her brows in surprise. Gifts from him, after their many failed attempts at romance, seemed totally out of character.

  "Actually," Chris continued, "Edwina sent the roses over. She remembered how much you enjoyed them in the garden there and insisted I bring some. She cut them right before I left."

  Libby brought the multi-colored blooms to her face and inhaled deeply, savoring the rich fragrance so often missing from the modern varieties.

  "Please thank her for me, will you?" Libby replied, eyeing Chris cautiously over the perfumed blossoms, stifling an unwanted stab of regret that the idea to bring flowers wasn't his. What was he up to with the bottle of wine, she wondered, unless Edwina, in a matchmaking mood, had sent that over, too?

  "The wine is from me," he said. "A peace offering."

  "A peace offering?"

  "An apology for my, uh, ungentlemanly behavior at the orphanage last week." Chris looked at her contritely.

  Libby took the wine from his extended hand.

  "Oh. You mean in the garden?" Her heartbeat doubled in remembrance of their passionate kiss. Despite the flutter in her stomach, she laughed casually, trying desperately to make light of the situation.

  "Forget it," she said. "I have."

  "Well, I had no right to take such liberties with..."

  "Your employee?" Libby interrupted.

  "It runs deeper than that, Libby." Chris stared at her intently, his brows knitted in concern.

  "Let's just chalk it up to the roses and moonlight and leave it at that, shall we?"

  "Alright," Chris agreed, shrugging his shoulders. "Have you eaten yet?"

  "Not yet."

  "Neither have I. That's why I thought I'd suggest going out. Or we could bring in something, like Chinese food or a pizza."

  Libby was prepared for his suggestion. In fact, she'd braced herself both mentally and physically for any of a dozen scenarios with Chris tonight.

  She'd carefully steeled herself to resist any temptation, like an innocent kiss or a back rub, he might offer, knowing that once accepted, she was powerless to resist him. All day she reinforced herself mentally that this would be strictly a business meeting. She would not let herself get carried away by his good looks or any subtle attempts at seduction on his part.

  To hide every curve of her trim figure from his appraisal, she'd chosen a roomy linen shirt with a ruffled neckline buttoned as high up her neck as it would go. A diaphanous, multi-colored skirt flounced from her waist down to a spot just inches short of her ankles.

  Apart from the creamy expanse of her neck, the only thing left showing was her dainty feet, clad in strap sandals. As she did every summer, Libby had painted her toenails in a vibrant pink enamel. She'd toyed with the idea of removing the polish, but decided she'd already made enough concessions tonight on his behalf.

  As for dinner, she'd anticipated that, as well. Thanks to some late nights and overtime on Connie's part, the report was ready by two that afternoon. Thinking that Chris might be available to come over earlier, thereby avoiding the dinner dilemma altogether, she'd called to see if he was free. Edwina politely informed her that Chris wasn't due back until 5:30, and that Libby was on his appointment book for 6 p.m. Slightly dismayed but not daunted, Libby considered the options. Dinner out was definitely a bad idea. Depending on where they went, it could be too intimate, too cozy, and decidedly too dangerous. Take-out didn't appeal to her either. That's all she and Connie had eaten the past week during their late night crunches to be ready for today. A home-cooked meal actually sounded pretty good. She'd make something simple and fast. There'd be no time for lingering over coffee and dessert if she scheduled things right. Besides, they had work to do.

  She looked at him confidently. "If you don't mind, I thought I'd cook something quick here tonight. We've got a lot to go over and re
ally don’t have time to eat out."

  "That's fine. I just don't want to impose on you."

  "You're not," she replied lightly, as if entertaining handsome men in her home was an everyday occurrence. "Come on out to the kitchen. I'll put these roses in water and you can start reviewing the report while I finish getting dinner ready."

  She led Chris though the living room and dining room, thankful to see the week's accumulation of dust had been wiped away by the cleaning ladies that morning. She'd been so busy in her office that housework had taken a very low priority lately.

  The kitchen was filled with the spicy smell of chicken fajitas that bubbled enticingly in a special sauce on the stove. A variety of toppings--sour cream, salsa, shredded cheese, and black olives--sat in small bowls on the counter. As Chris pulled out a chair from the antique oak claw-foot table in the center of the room, Libby gently stirred the Spanish rice and black bean casserole warming in the oven.

  "I hope you like Mexican food, since that's what we're having."

  "It smells great. I'm starved," he announced, watching Libby sprinkle cheese on top of the casserole and put it back in the oven.

  Turning back, she saw him carefully observing every detail in her kitchen, ignoring the thick stack of paperwork on the table waiting his perusal.

  On top of the kitchen cabinets was a museum-like display of items she and her mother had collected over the years. Tea pots, trays, tin boxes, woodenware, all antique and all hand-painted. Libby also used the space for salt-glazed crocks and handwoven baskets passed down from both sides of her family. Several nick-knack shelves holding antique toys, glassware, family memorabilia, and ceramics hung on the walls. Any wall space remaining was crammed with antique prints and samplers, more often than not the craftsmanship of an ancestor.

  Chris got out of his chair and walked over to a short pine shelf near the refrigerator. Gingerly, he brought down a small, unusually shaped wooden object--a thin disk with V-shaped notches carved along its edge, held between two wooden pins.

  "What the heck is this?" he asked, holding it up to Libby.

  "Everybody asks about that one," she said, uncorking the bottle of wine he'd brought. "It's used for edging noodles or pie crusts. The notched edge makes a decorative pattern in the dough. My great-grandfather carved it from a cherry tree in front of his farmhouse in the late 1800s."

  Chris gently placed it back on the self, then walked around the kitchen surveying the rest of Libby's eclectic display.

  She watched him from a discreet distance, so intent on his actions that the wine she was pouring into two glasses spilled onto the counter. Silently scolding herself for letting her attention wander, Libby wiped up the mess and handed one of the glasses to Chris.

  He accepted it without comment and toasted her silently. "You've got quite a collection."

  "I do, don't I?"

  She pointed out several family pieces, including a drawer shelf her grandfather helped her to make and an egg basket her paternal great-grandfather had woven.

  "Your house is just how I imagined it would be," he said.

  "And how is that?"

  "Like Harte's Desire. Full of old things." His tone was neither mocking or condemning, just matter-of-fact.

  "This house belonged to my grandparent's. They left it to me." Libby took a cautious sip of the tart, but smooth vintage wine, mellowed to perfection.

  "They gave it to the right person. It's definitely you."

  Libby basked in the warmth of his approval. "I've always thought that peoples' homes and what they put in them reflect pretty accurately who they are. Mine's no exception, is it? I mean, could you see me living in a brand new tract house?"

  "No way," Chris declared emphatically, a smile lighting the handsome planes of his face.

  “What’s your apartment like,” she asked, “or do you have a house?”

  He grew serious again. “An apartment. What do you think it looks like?”

  “If I had to guess,” she said, “I’d say modern, clean, lots of straight lines and angles."

  “That about sums it up.”

  “Any family photos?”

  He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “A few, in my living room. Why do you ask?”

  "You may have a hard time admitting it, Chris, but those photos tell me there are some things from your past that you treasure."

  Chris sipped his wine slowly. "I've told you a bit about my unpleasant childhood. Aside from my work, my personal life has largely been full of disappointment," he related candidly, raising his glass again.

  Libby followed the wine glass to the firm line of Chris's mouth. His lips, strong and smooth, slowly parted before taking a sip of the fine chardonnay he brought tonight. He swirled the wine lightly in his mouth then swallowed. The act was done so naturally but with such sensuality that Libby felt the familiar jolt of desire overtake her senses.

  Deciding she'd break the somber mood that had descended thick and silent around them, Libby laughed gently. "See what happens when I start philosophizing? I lose all track of time! Dinner's ready and I haven't even set the table yet."

  Abruptly breaking away from his own thoughts, Chris sat down at the table where Libby was noisily arranging silverware and plates.

  "I'll do that," he offered with authority. "You go finish dinner. I may be a bachelor, but I do know my way around the kitchen." Throwing her a teasing smile, Chris acted as though their earlier conversation was entirely forgotten.

  Libby brought over a plate of steaming flour tortillas. "Actually I was surprised that 'Mr. Modern' could produce a gourmet meal from Harte's Desire's ancient kitchen!"

  "'Mr. Modern?' You mean me?" Chris rejoined with feigned indignation.

  "Yes, you. You actually did quite well with the antique stove at Harte’s Desire."

  Chris gave a hearty laugh. "Only because I had no choice!"

  Having brought the rest of the dinner to the table, Libby motioned for him to sit back down.

  "More wine?" she asked, noticing his half-empty glass.

  "Sure."

  As hard as she tried, Libby was failing to fight the attraction she felt for him, that pull she’d tried to ignore ever since they met. His presence in her kitchen was too homey, too comforting. His keen observations were hitting too close and, heaven help her, she was enjoying his company entirely too much.

  She refilled both glasses and sat down across from him.

  Dinner passed with casual bantering between them as Libby carefully guided their conversation toward such innocent topics as baseball and Borden's Landing gossip.

  To her surprise, Chris helped clean up afterwards, clearing the table and loading the dishwasher. Libby made a pot of coffee and put some home-made chocolate chip cookies on a plate.

  Filling two mugs with the hot brew, she suggested they have dessert on the front porch where they could enjoy some fresh air while he reviewed the report.

  Choosing the isolated safety of a wicker chair rather than the matching sofa, Libby sat down on its overstuffed cushion and handed the report to Chris who chose to sit opposite her in another wicker chair.

  As he began to read, Libby propped her feet up on a nearby ottoman and relaxed with a sigh. She'd drunk a little more wine than usual tonight, and mellow relaxation spiraled downward. She sipped the steaming coffee slowly, savoring its warmth and hoping it would revitalize her.

  As Chris continued to flip through the pages, she watched his face reflect a variety of emotions. Curiosity, interest, surprise, disagreement. Although he had a pencil in one hand, poised to make notes in the margins, he'd not written a thing since he began reading.

  Thirty minutes later, after Libby finished her coffee and ate several more cookies than she intended, he placed the pencil and report down and stared at her in frank appraisal.

  "You've done an excellent job, Libby. Your report has told me more about Harte's Desire that I can absorb in one reading. It's thorough, well-written, and appears to be well-documented.
And, I see you made good use of the original architectural drawings and old photos Edwina found in the attic. I'm sure the state office will be as impressed as I am."

  Libby's face fell as she absorbed the full measure of his words. She could see he'd been absorbed in the report by the careful way he read it, but she hoped, in vain now it seemed, that her eloquence about Harte's Desire and its significance would finally convince him to save it. Realizing this was just another exercise in futility, Libby struggled to find a proper response to his comments.

  "I'm glad you're satisfied, Chris," she finally managed to utter, her words stilted and lacking true conviction. "It's always nice to know I've got another happy client."

  The sarcasm in her voice was unmistakable. Chris looked at her sharply.

  "Come on, Libby," he chided, "surely you weren't hoping I'd have a change of heart after reading this? You knew the ground rules when you accepted this job. You were to document the building, past and present, nothing more. You can't save it because it's not yours to save. And I've already told you, several times in fact, that re-using it just doesn't fit into my scheme for the site."

  Libby stared into the distance, only minimally aware of the day’s fading light through the open French doors. Deep down she'd known she couldn't change his mind. He held all the cards. Ever the optimist, though, she had hoped. Hoped he would finally see how important Harte's Desire was. Hoped he would realize how very dear the mansion was to her.

  She didn't know whether to laugh or cry at her foolish idealism. To think she could make a difference where the all-powerful Christopher Darnell was concerned. She must have been crazy to dream the report would sway him when her other attempts failed.

  Well, she'd tried one last time. She'd given it her best effort. But for once her best wasn't good enough.

  "It's obvious that nothing short of a miracle will change your mind," she finally managed, her voice tinged with anger and frustration.

  "Probably more than a miracle," Chris replied stiffly. He paused. "I'm leaving Harte's Desire, Libby."