"W-w-when?"
"After I get back from London. This will be my last night here."
Libby didn't stop to analyze the unexpected pitching of her heart or the sense of utter desolation his announcement brought. Edwina had told her of Chris's temporary encampment at Harte's Desire, but Libby thought he'd stay at least through the summer. Yet here he was calmly informing her that this was the last time she would see him. With his maddening, unwavering position on Harte's Desire's future, why was she so suddenly bereft at the thought of his leaving?
"I assumed you'd be here through the s-summer," she stammered, trying not to show how much his departure affected her.
"It's not really necessary for me to be around anymore. Ed Fulbright, one of my senior vice presidents, is coming up Monday to oversee the project now. Edwina's agreed to stay for the next several weeks while he learns his way around. She said she’d continue to help you with the fundraiser if you want."
"That's kind of Edwina. I'll call her if I need her," Libby replied softly.
"And, if I can help in anyway...?" Chris added, his voice trailing hesitantly.
"Sure, I'll give you a buzz."
"I really should be on my way," Chris said, glancing at his watch. "I have an early flight out of Philly and I need to get a couple hours sleep tonight."
Libby merely nodded and started loading the tray with their empty plates.
"I'll help you get this stuff back in," he said, gathering up the report.
"No need," Libby replied tartly.
"I insist. Isn't doing dishes the hallmark of a truly liberated man?"
Under different circumstances, Libby would have teased him back. Instead, she brusquely headed back inside wishing he'd drop off the face of the earth. As if aware of her mood, Chris silently followed her to the kitchen and again helped to clean up.
"This room would be just a collection of old things to me, but it’s more than that to you, isn't it?" he asked, putting the last plate into the dishwasher.
Libby stopped wiping the counter and stared at him, her eyes wide with surprise.
"Yes," she responded, meeting his inquiring gaze steadily. "My ancestors made or used these things, so they’re very special. For some crazy reason, my heritage means a lot to me," Libby ended softly. She sensed her love for family might make him uncomfortable, but it was who she was, and she wasn't about to pretend otherwise.
"You never mention your father?" he said, the words more a statement than a question.
Libby hesitated only slightly before answering. "He died a month before I was born, so I never knew him. My mother did her best, though, to keep his memory alive for me through stories about him. And, I have lots of photographs. A few of my favorites are on the piano in the living room."
Chris's blue-green eyes were riveted on her.
"How did you know this room is special to me?" she asked.
"By the way you described its contents to me earlier. You were almost reverent."
"I suppose I do get carried away,” she said with a sigh. “Sorry." She folded the dishrag and draped it over the faucet, anxious now for him to leave.
"Don't apologize. I guess I'm a little bit envious." Chris leaned against the counter and stared wistfully out the bay window into the darkness beyond.
Libby sensed a profound change come over him. A deep sadness was clearly visible beneath the controlled veneer he usually projected. His jaw was clenched tightly and a small muscle twitched near his left temple. The adversarial mood between them had faded. Two foes were now two friends sharing confidences, past disappointments, and revealed sorrows.
"Were you placed in the orphanage after your father died?" she half-whispered, afraid to break the spell.
"Yes." He stared motionlessly out the window, deep in thought, his face devoid of emotion.
"Your mother?" she asked softly.
Chris shifted to face her.
"I don't know who my mother is. Or even if she's dead or alive." His voice was low, forceful.
Libby heard the long-buried anger in his voice and read the fear in his eyes, perceiving in an instant the confession was costing him dearly.
"I never knew her," he repeated. "I was literally left at my father's doorstep with a note saying the baby inside the basket was his. He had as hard a time being faithful to a woman as he did to a job, so he never figured out who my mother was. There had been several different women in his life nine months earlier and the fact that he was a heavy drinker left him with a less-than-perfect memory of who she might be. I lived with him and my grandmother until they were both killed in a car accident. None of my relatives wanted to take me, the son of a ne'er-do-well alcoholic, so I was placed in St. Bernadette's."
Chris's face was an impenetrable mask, cold and distant. He then told her about the Darnell's and how he learned the construction business from the man who later adopted him.
"You never married?" Libby asked.
"I was engaged once," he replied flatly. "But Cynthia's just another piece of history I'd like to forget."
His eyes sought the distant darkness again and he clutched the counter so tightly Libby feared it would crack.
"Actually, once I divulged the truth about my strange family history, she very quickly decided to dump me. She came just this short of calling me a bastard, which is true in the opposite meaning of the word, I suppose." Chris paused.
"Cynthia was from a wealthy Main Line family that lived in a big old mansion out in the suburbs. I was madly in love with her. Cynthia said she loved me, too, until she found out I was only the adopted son of Bob Darnell. My true parentage was so repulsive to her, she broke off our engagement the minute I confessed everything."
Libby's heart constricted at the rejection he must have felt.
"Better you found out before you got married," she said, struggling to find words to ease his pain. "My marriage crumbled because Rick couldn't accept who I was, either. He felt threatened by my successful career and didn't share my desire to have children. He'd always been honest about not wanting a family and for a long time I didn't think I did, either. So I was the one who changed in that regard. But I never anticipated his jealousy over my work. He'd always been so supportive! When he demanded I take on fewer clients and cut my hours back, I was shocked."
Chris nodded in understanding.
She continued. "Ending a relationship is always traumatic, no matter who decides to call it quits, Chris. If Cynthia couldn't accept you for who you are, then at least you were spared the pain of a divorce later." Libby's voice stumbled over the name of the woman who so had obviously captured and broken Chris's heart.
Libby longed to pull him close and comfort the little boy inside who raged against the incredible loss and dismissal handed down several times so many years earlier. Instead, she moved closer and placed her hand gently on top of his clenched one.
At her touch, Chris turned and faced her. The lines of sorrow from minutes earlier had been replaced by a look of calm acceptance. Libby had no idea what he was thinking, but his eyes locked with hers, as though daring her to condemn him as Cynthia had.
She couldn't. His mother's sins were not his. Libby cursed the charade that prevented her from consoling him further.
"You think I'm a bastard, too, don't you?" Chris finally asked.
Chapter Twenty-One
With the bluntly delivered question, Chris pulled his clenched fist away from Libby's hand and clasped her arm, not roughly, but with unexpected tenderness.
"No," she replied simply, all senses reeling from the softness of his touch against her bare skin.
"No? Not even when I plan to demolish the very building you've begged me several times to save?" His voice was low, his dark eyes demanding.
Libby met his gaze without flinching. "If you truly believe--in your heart--that Harte's Desire must come down or your plans will fail, then I can't fault you for following your beliefs, Chris. Just as I can't judge you on the basis of your mother's and
father’s shortcomings. You've risen above them to succeed on your own merit, not theirs."
Chris's fingertips traveled the length of her arm, leaving a mutiny of glorious sensation in their wake.
"Am I a success, Libby?" He circled the tender, sensitive skin underneath her wrist.
"Only you can answer that," she murmured as her body involuntarily responded with tremors of newfound awareness. Every nerve danced in wonderful rebellion at his inquisitive touch, as his hands glided up her arm, over her shoulders and came to rest at the base of her neck. In a movement as light as spun silk, he pushed back her honey-colored hair to expose the velvet flesh behind her ear.
With infinite tenderness he brushed his lips across the soft skin exposed there then dipped his head and repeated the gesture in the soft hollow at the base of her neck.
Paralyzed by the currents of desire pulsing through her, Libby stood motionless, unable to voice any protest at his actions. When Chris gently unbuttoned her blouse to expose her shoulders, she still didn't object, nor did she complain when he kissed her there, too. But when his tongue began moving in slow, deliberate circles from her shoulder to her barely concealed breasts, a low moan of desire escaped from somewhere deep in her throat.
Reflexively she laced her fingers behind his head, tangling them in the black riot of thick, short waves there.
"Chris, we really shouldn't...," she mumbled unconvincingly.
"Hush my dear Libby," he replied huskily, his tongue sliding closer to the fully erect peaks of her breasts. “Hush.”
Libby's knees trembled when he pushed her blouse down, exposing the lacy bra covering her throbbing heart. As his lips and tongue continued their slow, maddening descent, he reached behind her and unhooked the bra which fell silently to the floor. With the gentlest of touches, he brought his hands from her back to the front, never losing contact with her trembling body. Bending even lower, now, he tenderly cupped a breast in each hand as his tongue circled first one stiffened nipple, then the other.
Libby felt she would die from the exquisite sensations he was arousing in her. Never had anyone lingered so lovingly, so thoroughly there and she was amazed by the sudden, heated response of her body. Without thinking, she pressed his head closer, wantonly arching toward him. His hands caressed and traced each hardened nipple, sending waves of pure pleasure to the core of her femininity.
"Chris, this is insanity," she breathed, her words coming out in quick gasps.
"Perhaps. But tonight it no longer matters." His voice was low, insistent.
She was helpless to prevent him from winding a trail of kisses back up her chest, over her soft neck and across her cheeks. When their lips finally met with fiery urgency, she ceased thinking and surrendered to the passion he had so skillfully nurtured.
With her tongue, she traced the strong, firm line of the lips she admired just an hour ago, delighting in the subtle, but enticing taste of coffee and chocolate lingering there. His tongue then outlined her full, swollen lips before slipping inside her mouth with unrestrained desire. Chris deepened the kiss and Libby responded with equal fervor, releasing her hands to caress his strong, muscular back. When she circled his trim waist, Chris groaned and suddenly Libby was cradled in his arms, their lips still passionately joined.
Libby barely noticed being carried out of the kitchen and up the stairs to the second floor.
Chris paused in the hallway, drawing back and looking at her questioningly. She pointed to a room at the far end, then hugged him tightly as he magically transported her to the antique carved oak bed dominating her room.
Laying Libby gently down on the thick mattress, he eased himself on top of her before resuming the deep and passionate kiss that had been interrupted.
In a dance as old as time, she surrendered, matching him in perfect harmony until she reached the pinnacle in a shattering explosion of sensation. Libby felt Chris shudder in release, too, and the sound of him calling out her name filled her with tenderness beyond reason.
Afterward, no words passed between them, just the uneven cadence of their ragged breathing mingled with the occasional chirping of early summer crickets outdoors. A gentle breeze from the open window tugged at the curtain before wafting over their bodies as they lay intimately entwined on the bed.
Chris rolled off Libby and reclined his full length against her, pulling Libby into his arms and resting her head on his solid shoulder. She snuggled close to his warmth, cherishing the pungent scent of their lovemaking combined with the spicy smell of aftershave radiating from his heated body. Libby idly stroked the dense thatch of springy hair on his sculpted chest as his breathing turned slow and deep.
She relaxed against him, utterly satisfied and wholly complete.
As the afterglow of their lovemaking subsided, feelings of remorse and guilt flooded her. With a heart pounding in regret, she starkly faced the reality she'd tried so long to deny.
She loved him--deeply, totally, absolutely--as she never loved before. Although she should hate him for razing Harte's Desire, he was now more dear to her than any building could ever be. She'd tried to fight the attraction she felt for him. In the end, however, her heart won over her head and she knew she'd love him even as the wrecking ball made its first pass at the mansion's crumbling walls.
Heaven help her, but she'd fallen in love with the very man who opposed everything she believed in. Love knows no reason or logic, Libby conceded silently, still running her fingers lightly over his body.
She had to tell him.
The deception of her identity had to end. He had to know who she really was if there was any chance, any hope, for true love between them.
Did he love her, too?
Libby pondered the possibility, and concluded that while Chris didn't seem the type to engage in one night stands, he didn't act like someone mindlessly in love, either. Moving back to Philadelphia was hardly the action of a man besotted with his next door neighbor. She decided he did feel something for her, though, which might grow into love. But she had to confess before the truth was destroyed by any deeper feelings he might acquire.
Libby gazed lovingly at the utterly masculine body stretched languidly beside her. His powerful limbs were entangled with hers and his sculpted chest rose and fell with slow regularity.
She had to tell him.
Perhaps now was the best time to do it. Now. Not an hour from now, not in the morning. Now.
"Chris," she whispered hesitantly, slowly putting her feelings into words. "There's something you need to know about me."
She paused. His face was hidden from view so she couldn't see his reaction.
"I should have told you this from the very beginning because I never meant to deceive you, only to help the historical society. But I cannot lie to you anymore."
Once she opened the floodgates of confession, Libby felt tremendous calm and knew she'd made the right decision.
Taking a deep breath, she finally uttered the words so long withheld.
"Before my divorce, my married name was Libby Chatham. Elizabeth Reed is my maiden name."
Chris made no response, physical or verbal, so Libby repeated her words more boldly this time, thinking he hadn't heard her. Again, no reply.
She pulled away from his embrace and propped up on one elbow to stare at him, only to discover he was asleep. Deeply, soundly asleep. For a minute she watched him slumber, admiring his handsome features muted in the darkness.
The deception had to end, but it would have to wait until they woke up, she decided, greatly disappointed he hadn't heard her confession.
Snuggling back next to him, she marveled at how perfectly their bodies fit together. Their intimate embrace was pure heaven for the senses; she clutched him tightly and fell into a dreamless sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Several hours later, Chris awoke with a start. The dimly lit numerals on Libby's clock confirmed that if he didn't leave now, he'd miss the plane to London.
He looked at t
he sleeping form next to him and stopped from reaching out to smooth the tangled tresses framing her face in joyous abandon. How he would love to wake her with a tender caress and repeat the wild lovemaking they shared just hours ago. Only this time, he would go more slowly, worshipping every sweet curve and seductive valley, until they both could no longer stand it. His body swelled in response to his lusty thoughts and he stifled a groan of regret.
Not wanting to rouse Libby, he cautiously eased off the bed and collected the clothes strewn on the floor. As quietly as possible, he got dressed and, with shoes in hand, tiptoed downstairs.
The roses Edwina sent over stood proudly in a heavily-cut crystal vase on the oak table where Libby placed them as a centerpiece for last night's dinner. Many of the buds were now fully open and their heavy, old-fashioned scent filled the room.
Chris plucked a single, red bloom from the vase and laid it on the table. Grabbing a piece of paper and a pen sitting near the phone, he jotted a quick note and tucked it under the rose.
Chris re-read the brief words he'd written and pondered them as he put his shoes on.
He could say no more right now.
He'd grossly underestimated Libby and, where she was concerned, he'd made blunders right and left. There was so much they needed to discuss, but he wanted to do it in person. He'd tell her as much once he got settled in London. It was the least he could do.
Had she made love to him out of pity? Or was there more to it than that? He honestly didn't know. There was no time to wake her and demand an explanation for her actions, especially when he was struggling to find justification for his own.
Chris muttered a curse under his breath, wishing the trip abroad wasn't so crucial to closing a deal he'd been working on for over a year. But the long flight and week away would give him much-needed time to think. He hoped Libby would understand. This was hardly the ending he would have chosen for tonight, of all nights.
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