First Impressions

by Nora Roberts

  appealing. “I’d rather be sexy, but I settled for wholesome.” She gave the word a pained emphasis as she came back to the table.

  There was no guile in her manner or her expression. What, Vance wondered again, was her angle? Shane was involved in studying the details of the kitchen and didn’t see him frown at her.

  “I do admire your work.” Inspired, she turned back to him. “Hey listen, I’ve got a lot of remodeling and renovating to do before I can open. I can paint and do some of the minor stuff myself, but there’s a lot of carpentry work.”

  Here it is, Vance reflected coolly. What she wanted was some free labor. She would pull the helpless-female routine and count on his ego to take over.

  “I have my own house to renovate,” he reminded her coolly as he stood and turned toward the sink.

  “Oh, I know you wouldn’t be able to give me a lot of time, but we might be able to work something out.” Excited by the idea, she followed him. Her thoughts were already racing ahead. “I wouldn’t be able to pay what you could make in the city,” she continued. “Maybe five dollars an hour. If you could manage ten or fifteen hours a week …” She chewed on her bottom lip. It seemed a paltry amount to offer, but it was all she could spare at the moment.

  Incredulous, Vance turned off the water he had been running, then faced her. “Are you offering me a job?”

  Shane flushed a bit, afraid she’d embarrassed him. “Well, only part-time, if you’re interested. I know you can make more somewhere else, and if you find something, I wouldn’t expect you to keep on, but in the meantime …” She trailed off, not certain how he would react to her knowing he was out of work.

  “You’re serious?” Vance demanded after a moment.

  “Well … yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I need a carpenter. You’re a carpenter. There’s a lot of work. You might decide you don’t want any part of it. But why don’t you think about it, drop by tomorrow and take a look?” She turned to leave, but paused for an instant with her hand on the knob. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  For several minutes, Vance stared at the door she had closed behind her. Abruptly, he burst into deep, appreciative laughter. This, he thought, was one for the books.

  Shane rose early the next morning. She had plans and was determined to begin systematically. Organization didn’t come naturally to her. It was one more reason why teaching hadn’t suited her. If she was to plan a business, however, Shane knew an inventory was a primary factor—what she had, what she could bear to sell, what she should pack away for the museum.

  Having decided to start downstairs and work her way up, Shane stood in the center of the living room and took stock of the situation. There was a good Chippendale fireplace seat in mahogany and a gateleg table that needed no refinishing, a ladder-back chair that needed new caning in the seat, a pair of Aladdin lamps, and a tufted sofa that would require upholstering. On a Sheridan coffee table was a porcelain pitcher, circa 1830, that held a spray of flowers Shane’s grandmother had dried. She touched them once briefly before she picked up her clipboard. There was too much of her childhood there to allow herself the luxury of thinking of any of it. If her grandmother had been alive, she would have told Shane to be certain what she did was right, then do it. Shane was certain she was right.

  Systematically, she listed items in two columns: one for items that would need repairs; one for stock she could sell as it was. Everything would have to be priced, which would be a huge job in itself. Already she was spending her evenings poring through catalogs and making notations. There wasn’t an antique shop within a radius of thirty miles she hadn’t visited. Shane had taken careful account of pricing and procedure. She would incorporate what appealed to her and disregard what didn’t. Whatever else her shop would be, she was determined it would be her own.

  On one wall of the living room was a catchall shelf that had been built before she’d been born. Moving to it, Shane began a fresh sheet of items she designated for the museum.

  An ancestor’s Civil War cap and belt buckle, a glass jar filled with spent shells, a dented bugle, a cavalry officer’s sabre, a canteen with the initials JDA scratched into the metal—these were only a few pieces of the memorabilia that had been passed down to her. Shane knew there was a trunk in the attic filled with uniforms and old dresses. There was a scrawled journal that had been kept by one of her great-great-uncles during the three years he fought for the South, and letters written to an ancestral aunt by her father, who had served the North. Every item would be listed, dated, then put behind glass.

  Shane might have inherited her grandmother’s fascination for the relics of history, but not her casualness. It was time the old photos and objects came down from the shelf. But as always when she examined or handled the pieces, Shane became caught up in them.

  What had the man been like who had first blown that bugle? It would have been shiny then, and undented. A boy, she thought, with peach fuzz on his face. Had he been frightened? Exhilarated? Fresh off the farm, she imagined, and sure his cause was the right one. Whichever side he had fought for, he had blown the bugle into battle.

  With a sigh, she took it down and set it in a packing box. Carefully, Shane wrapped and packed until the shelves were clear, but for the highest one. Standing back, she calculated how she would reach the pieces that sat several feet above her head. Not bothering to move the heavy ladder from across the room, she dragged over a nearby chair. As she stood on the seat, a knock sounded at the back door.

  “Yes, come in,” she called, stretching one arm up while balancing herself with a hand on one of the lower shelves. She swore and muttered as her reach still fell short. Just as she stood on tiptoe, teetering, someone grabbed her arm. Gasping as she overbalanced, Shane found herself gripped firmly by Vance Banning. “You scared me to death!” she accused.

  “Don’t you know better than to use a chair like that?” He kept his hands firmly at her waist as he lifted her down. Then, though he’d had every intention of doing so, he didn’t release her. There was a smudge of dust on her cheek, and her hair was tousled. Her small, narrow hands rested on his arms while she smiled up at him. Without thinking, Vance lowered his mouth to hers.

  Shane didn’t struggle, but felt a jolt of surprise. Then she relaxed. Though she hadn’t expected the kiss then, she had known the time would come. She let the first stream of pure pleasure run its course.

  His mouth was hard on hers, with no gentleness, no trace of what kissing meant to her—a gesture of affection, love or comfort. Yet instinct told her he was capable of tenderness. Lifting a hand to his cheek, Shane sought to soothe the turbulence she sensed. Immediately, he released her. The touch of her hand had been too intimate.

  Something told Shane to treat it lightly no matter how her body ached to be held again. Tilting her head, she gave him a mischievous smile. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” he said carefully.

  “I’m taking inventory,” she told him with a sweeping gesture of the room. “I want to list everything before I haul it upstairs for storage. I plan to use this room for the museum and the rest of the first floor for the shop. Could you get those things off the top shelf for me?” she asked, looking around for her clipboard.

  In silence, Vance moved the ladder and complied.

  The fact that she’d made no mention of the turbulent kiss disconcerted him.

  “Most of the work will be gutting the kitchen and putting one in upstairs,” Shane went on, giving her lists another glance. She knew Vance was watching her for some sort of reaction. She was just as determined to give him none. “Of course, some walls will have to be taken out, doorways widened. But I don’t want to lose the flavor of the house in the remodeling.”

  “You seem to have it all plotted out.” Was she really so cool? he wondered.

  “I hope so.” Shane pressed the clipboard to her breasts as she looked around the room. “I’ve applied for all the necessary permits. What a headache. I don
’t have any natural business sense, so I’ll have to work twice as hard learning. It’s a big chance.” Then her voice changed, became firm and determined. “I’m going to make it work.”

  “When do you plan to open?”

  “I’m shooting for the first part of December, but …” Shane shrugged. “It depends on how the work goes and how soon I can beef up my inventory. I’ll show you the rest of the place. Then you can decide if you want to take it on.”

  Without waiting for his consent, Shane walked to the rear of the house. “The kitchen’s a fairly good size, particularly if you include the pantry.” Opening a door, she revealed a large shelved closet. “Taking out the counters and appliances should give me plenty of room. Then if this doorway is widened,” she continued as she pushed open a swinging door, “and left as an archway, it would give more space in the main showroom.”

  They entered the dining room with its long diamond-paned windows. She moved quickly, he noted, and knew precisely what she wanted.

  “The fireplace hasn’t been used in years. I don’t know whether it still works.” Walking over, Shane ran a finger down the surface of the dining table. “This was my grandmother’s prize. It was brought over from England more than a hundred years ago.” The cherrywood stroked by sunlight, gleamed under her fingers. “The chairs are from the original set. Hepplewhite.” Shane caressed the heart-shaped back of one of the remaining six chairs. “I hate to sell this, she loved it so, but …” Her voice was wistful as she unnecessarily straightened a chair. “I won’t have anywhere to keep it, and I can’t afford the luxury of storing it for myself.” Shane turned away. “The china cabinet is from the same period,” she continued.

  “You could keep this and leave the house as it is if you took a job in the local high school,” Vance interrupted.

  There was something valiant and touching in the way she kept her shoulders straight while her voice trembled.

  “No.” Shane shook her head, then turned back to him. “I haven’t the character for it. It wouldn’t take long before I’d be cutting classes just like my students. They deserve a better example than that. I love history.” Her face brightened again. “This kind of history,” she said as she walked back to the table. “Who first sat in this chair? What did she talk about over dinner? What kind of dress did she wear? Did they discuss politics and the upstart colonies? Maybe one of them knew Ben Franklin and was a secret sympathizer of the Revolution.” She broke off laughing. “That’s not the sort of thing you’re supposed to teach in second-period eleventh-grade history.”

  “It sounds more interesting than reciting names and dates.”

  “Maybe. Anyway, I’m not going back to that.” Pausing, Shane watched Vance steadily. “Did you ever find yourself caught up in something you were good at, something you’d been certain was the right thing for you, then woke up one morning with the feeling you were locked in a cage?”

  The words hit home, and he nodded affirmatively.

  “Then you know why I have to choose between something I love and my sanity.” She touched the table again.

  After a deep breath, Shane took a circle around the room. “I don’t want to change the architecture of this room except for the doorways. My great-grandfather built the chair rail.” She watched Vance walk over to examine it. “He was a mason by trade,” she told him, “but he must have been handy with wood as well.”

  “It’s a beautiful job,” Vance agreed, admiring the workmanship and detail. “I’d have a hard time duplicating this quality with modern tools. You wouldn’t want to touch this, or any of the woodwork in this room.”

  In spite of himself he was becoming interested in the project. It would be a challenge—a different sort than the house he had chosen to test himself on. Sensing his change of attitude, Shane pressed her advantage.

  “There’s a small summer parlor through there.” Indicating another door, she took Vance’s arm to draw him with her. “It adjoins the living room, so I plan to make it the entrance to the shop, with the dining room as the main showroom.”

  The parlor was no more than twelve by twelve with faded wallpaper and a scarred wooden floor. Still, Vance recognized a few good pieces of Duncan Phyfe and a Morris chair. On the brief tour, he had seen no furniture less than a hundred years old, and unless they were excellent copies, a few pieces of Wedgwood. The furniture’s worth a small fortune, he mused, and the back door’s coming off the hinges.

  “There’s a lot of work here,” Shane commented, moving over to open a window and dispel the faint mustiness. “This room’s taken a beating over the years. I suppose you’d have a better idea than I would exactly what it needs to whip it into shape.”

  She watched his frowning survey of chipped floorboards and cracked trim. It was obvious to her that his professional eye missed little. It was also obvious the state of disrepair annoyed him. And, she thought, faintly amused, he hadn’t seen anything yet.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t press my luck and take you upstairs just yet,” she commented.

  A quizzical brow shot up as he turned to her. “Why?”

  “Because the second floor needs twice the attention this does, and I really want you to take the job.”

  “You sure as hell need somebody to do it,” he muttered. His own place needed a major overhaul. Heavy physical work and a lot of time. This, on the other hand, needed a shrewd craftsman who could work with what was already there. Again, he felt the pull of the challenge.

  “Vance …” After a moment’s hesitation, Shane decided to take a chance. “I could make it six dollars an hour, throw in your lunches and all the coffee you can drink. The people who come in here will see the quality of your work. It could lead to bigger jobs.”

  He surprised her by grinning. Her heart leaped into her throat. More than the tempestuous kiss, the quick boyish grin drew her to him.

  “All right, Shane,” Vance agreed on impulse. “You’ve got a deal.”

  Chapter Three

  Pleased with herself and Vance’s abrupt good humor, Shane decided to show him the second floor. Taking his hand, she led him up the straight, steep stairway. Though she had no notion of what had prompted the amused gleam or sudden grin, Shane wanted to keep him with her while his mood lasted.

  Against his work-hardened hand, her palm was baby soft. It made Vance wonder how the rest of her would feel—the slope of her shoulder, the length of her thigh, the underside of her breast. She wasn’t his type, he reminded himself, and glanced at the hairline crack in the wall to his left.

  “There are three bedrooms,” Shane told him as they came to the top landing. “I want to keep my own room, and turn the master into a sitting room and the third into my kitchen. I can handle the painting and papering after the initial work is done.” With her hand on the knob of the master bedroom door, she turned to him. “Do you know anything about drywall?”

  “A bit.” Without thinking, Vance lifted a finger and ran it down her nose. Their eyes met in mutual surprise. “You’ve dust on your face,” he mumbled.

  “Oh.” Laughing, Shane brushed at it herself.

  “Here.” Vance traced the rough skin of his thumb down her cheekbone. Her skin felt as it looked: soft, creamy. It would taste the same, he mused, allowing his thumb to linger. “And here,” he said, caught up in his own imagination. Lightly he ran a fingertip along her jawline. He felt her slight tremor as his gaze swept over her lips.

  Her eyes were wide and fixed unblinkingly on his. Abruptly, Vance dropped his hand, shattering the mood but not the tension. Clearing her throat, Shane pushed open the door.

  “This—umm …” Frantically, Shane gathered her scattered thoughts. “This is the master,” she continued, combing nervous fingers through her hair. “I know the floors in bad shape, and I’d like to skin whoever painted that oak trim.” She let out a long breath as her pulse began to level. “I’m going to see if it can be refinished.”

  Idly, she touched a section of peeling wallpaper. “My grandmoth
er didn’t like changes. This room hasn’t altered one bit in thirty years. That’s when her husband died,” she added softly. “The windows stick, the roof leeks, the fireplace smokes. Basically, the house, except for the dining room, is in a general state of disrepair. She never had the inclination to do more than a patch job here and there.”

  “When did she die?”

  “Three months ago.” Shane lifted a corner of the patchwork coverlet, then let it fall. “She just didn’t wake up one morning. I was committed to teaching a summer course and couldn’t move back permanently until last week.”

  Clearly, he heard the sting of guilt in her words. “Could you have changed anything if you had?” he asked.

  “No.” Shane wandered to a window. “But she wouldn’t have died alone.”

  Vance opened his mouth, then closed it again. It wasn’t wise to offer personal advice to strangers. Framed against the window, she looked very small and defenseless.

  “What about the walls in here?” he asked.

  “What?” Years and miles away, Shane turned back to him.

  “The walls,” he repeated. “Do you want any of them taken down?”

  For a moment, she stared blankly at the faded roses on the wallpaper. “No … No,” she repeated more firmly. “I’d thought to take out the door and enlarge the entrance.” Vance nodded, noting she had won what must be a continuing battle with her emotions. “If the woodwork cleans off well,” she continued, “the entrance could be framed in oak to match.”

  Vance walked over to examine it. “Is this a bearing wall?”

  Shane made a face at him. “I haven’t the slightest idea. How do—” She broke off, hearing a knock at the front door. “Damn. Well, can you look around up here for a few minutes? You’ll probably get the lay of things just as well without me.” With this, Shane was dashing down the steps. Shrugging, Vance took a rule out of his back pocket and began to take measurements.

  Shane’s instinctively friendly smile faded instantly when she opened the door.

  “Shane.”