Housebound

by Anne Stuart

  “So do I. It’s a great place to escape to when my family’s demands get overwhelming.”

  “I can imagine so. Your family seems to be the type to get overwhelming quite frequently. This does look a little unfurnished for a bedroom, though.”

  “Oh, this isn’t usually my bedroom,” she said blithely, then her unruly tongue ground to a halt.

  “I didn’t think so. You usually sleep next door to Holly, don’t you?” He grinned at her.

  “Did you go through my drawers?” she questioned curtly, unable to hide her discomfort.

  “Didn’t think of it. Though that’s a good idea. No, I can recognize that delicious smell of roses that permeates the room. And I can recognize your taste. No one else in this house would have such a strange collection of books. Your mind fascinates me.”

  “Why? Because I like steamy romances and Doris Lessing?”

  “Not to mention Dick Francis, Dorothy L. Sayers and Charles Dickens.”

  “Acquit me of the last!” she begged. “Dickens found his way up there while I was looking up something. I disapprove of him heartily—he’s tedious and sexist.”

  “So was almost everyone back then.” He took a sip of his own coffee. “He has things to recommend him, though. You ought to try him again.”

  “Forget it. He had his chance and he blew it with A Tale of Two Cities. Did you say you had a message for me?” She tried to keep her mind off his lovely long legs, the sensual curve of his mouth, that mop of thick black curls, and how much she liked having him stretched out comfortably in her inner sanctum, arguing about Dickens.

  “Wilson’s car is broken down.”

  “No!” She was immediately panic-stricken. Noah Grant was already playing havoc with her fantasies—she needed Wilson around to make her see some sense, or heaven only knew what might happen. She hadn’t been prey to this kind of nervous schoolgirl passion since she was seventeen.

  “Don’t worry, he’ll be there to protect you from me,” Noah said with a grin. “Holly went to fetch him, which explains why I’m momentarily free. Did you tell her to cling to me like a burr all day, or was that her idea?”

  “She didn’t need much encouragement, I’m afraid. I’m sorry, has she been intolerable?” Anne knew still another pang of guilt.

  “Almost. I know I have myself to blame as much as anyone. I realized what I was getting into.” His clear blue eyes caught hers for a long, silent moment, and Anne was suddenly, belatedly aware of the encroaching winter night. The sun had set, and the room was filled with blue shadows reflecting off the snow. There was a bright sliver of moon already in evidence, casting eerie shadows of bare limbs onto the wide oak floor, across Noah’s face, reaching out ghostly fingers to touch Anne’s restless body.

  “I should start dinner,” she said, not moving, and her voice came out low and breathless.

  He ignored her inane comment. “Are you afraid of me, Annie love?” His voice was low and beguiling. “I wouldn’t hurt you, you know.”

  “Wouldn’t you?” she found herself saying caustically, then gave herself a mental and physical shake. “And why should you? This is an entirely ridiculous conversation, Noah. You’re not in a position to hurt me.”

  “Aren’t I?”

  “No!” Her voice was stubborn and a little too loud in the quiet room. “And I think we’d better retire to the kitchen before Holly comes back and slits our throats.”

  “Not Wilson? Isn’t he the protective type any more than Ashley?” Slowly, casually, Noah rose to his full height, stretching his lean, lithe body indolently.

  “Wilson, as you’ll soon discover, is eminently civilized. Holly’s more emotional.” A frown crossed her face. “And surprisingly jealous.”

  “Maybe I bring out the worst in her,” Noah offered lightly. “Though I never fancied myself as irresistible.”

  Anne let that pass. “No, it’s been going on longer than that. She’s been edgy around me and Wilson for the past eighteen months, and I can’t imagine why.”

  “Past eighteen months?” Noah echoed, suddenly very curious. “How long have you been engaged?”

  Anne looked at him without batting an eye, daring him to mock her. “Eighteen months,” she replied briefly.

  “Don’t give me that fierce look, Annie love. It’s none of my business if your fiancé is a little slow on the uptake,” he murmured. Before she could protest he caught her hand, pulling her off the bed to stand beside him, and for a moment Anne could smell the faint trace of spicy after-shave he used, mixed with the coffee. She took a sudden step away from him, toward the door, and he laughed.

  “And I wouldn’t worry about Holly doing us in,” he said, following her out into the kitchen. “I think I’ve finally found the perfect distraction for her. She lit up when she heard your fiancé on the phone.”

  “Holly and Wilson?” Anne dumped her coffee mug in the sink and headed for the refrigerator. “Don’t be ridiculous. She thinks he’s a stick-in-the-mud and he thinks she’s an impertinent baby. He calls her ‘brat.’”

  “How endearing. Maybe that’s what Holly needs.” Noah deftly removed the salad fixings from her hands and headed toward the chopping board.

  The sudden temper that had been plaguing her of late flared once more. “Well, that’s too bad for her. She’s not going to have him, too.”

  “Too?” he echoed, fascinated. “Who else has she commandeered? Or did you mean because of her obviously favored position in the household? Your father does seem to dote on her.”

  “Yes, he does, and I learned long ago not to let that bother me,” she said frankly. “A lot of men prefer their women to be charmingly scatterbrained and helpless. Gives them a sense of superiority. Holly’s very good at appearing helpless, when actually she’s capable of just about anything she puts her mind to. She wouldn’t be where she is in her profession if she couldn’t. Brilliant talent isn’t enough. You need discipline, determination, ruthlessness….”

  “And that selfishness we talked about earlier,” Noah added, shredding the lettuce in large, capable hands before tossing it in the bird’s-eye maple salad bowl. “Selfish with their time, their energy, their emotions, their love.”

  “Not to mention their money,” Anne added wryly, remembering the cost of the cognac. “You sound like you’ve been through it before. Have you known many artists?”

  “I was married to one.” The words were short, clipped, the expression on his face shuttered. Anne stared at him for a long, silent moment, trying to still the absurd rush of jealousy that had swept over her at his terse words. There was no doubt in her mind that he didn’t care to talk about his marriage, no doubt that if she did pursue it he would abandon her in the kitchen. And even if that was a very sensible idea, she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

  “Well, then, you know as well as I do what it’s like. And it’s even worse growing up with them,” she said easily, slicing onions. “I hope you like carbonnades à la Flammande?”

  “What kind of beer do you have to go with it?”

  “German and Dutch. I wanted to find some Flemish beer but I couldn’t think of any.”

  “I can’t either.” There was still a note of strain in his voice, and he whirled on her suddenly, his lean, strong body taut. “Do you know what the definition of blemish is?”

  He looked so very serious, the smile wiped from his dark face, and all sorts of things ran through her mind. The scarring of a bad marriage, the wounds left by petty jealousy? “No, what?” she questioned, her voice as tense as his.

  “The language they speak in Felgium.”

  “Damn you!” She collapsed against the sink, weak with laughter.

  “I thought you’d like that,” he said with a smirk. “Do you know how they torture seasoned criminals?”

  “They make them listen to your jokes?”

  “No, Annie love. They torture seasoned criminals on a spice rack.”

  “Oh, no,” she moaned. “Go away. I’d rather do the sala
d myself.”

  “Sorry, but I haven’t found a willing victim for a long time. I was almost kicked out of law school for that last one.”

  “I’m not surprised. You should be ashamed of yourself, Mr. Grant.”

  “I can’t help myself, Ms. Kirkland. It comes over me sometimes, this dreadful compulsion to tell bad jokes. I need help.”

  “You do indeed. I think you should corner Holly and tell her. Then she’d leave you alone for certain.”

  “And then I could spend the rest of the weekend backing you into dark corners.” There was a dangerous gleam in his eyes. “That sounds like an excellent idea.”

  “On second thought, maybe you’d better spare Holly the disillusionment. She told me you were the sexiest man alive—I’d hate to see her illusions shattered so completely.”

  “You think telling bad jokes diminishes my sexuality?”

  She paused midway through her third onion. “It quite effectively unmans you,” she said, gesturing with her knife for emphasis.

  “If you didn’t have that knife around I could very easily prove you wrong,” he murmured, the gleam in his eyes more pronounced. “That’s not a challenge I can let pass by.”

  “Too bad. I’ll defend my virtue at all costs.”

  “Then I’ll have to wait until I can catch you without a knife,” he replied, undaunted.

  “And when Wilson and Holly are out of the picture, and when I’m as addled as I was last night and this morning,” she added sternly. “That’s a tall order, and one I don’t think fate is likely to fill.”

  “Addled, were you?” he queried, much interested. “I wonder why?”

  “How could I help it with the sexiest man in the world bent on adding me to his list of conquests?” Anne replied, her voice wry.

  He started to say something, then changed his mind. “I don’t have a list of conquests,” he said quietly.

  “That’s not what Holly said.” She was concentrating very hard on the onions, but she could feel those mesmerizing blue eyes watching her, feel the heat from him as he moved closer to her slender body by the sink.

  “I’m not a monk,” he said finally. “I have normal, healthy urges that I try to fill in normal, healthy ways. And having to bed every woman in sight isn’t a healthy, normal way as far as I’m concerned.” Abruptly he changed the subject. “Why don’t you have a food processor? Any cook as good as you deserves one.” Reaching deftly around her knife, he took half-a-dozen onions with him to aid in her slicing.

  “Don’t I know it.” She sighed covetously. “At this point we can’t afford it. Every penny goes into this old house.” She looked around her with mingled exasperation and affection. “I’m afraid a new roof is going to have to come first. I only wish we could afford to replace the slate.”

  “It must be rather expensive—the upkeep of a house this size,” he observed casually.

  “It’s like pouring money into a hole in the ground that never gets filled,” she admitted. “But I love it—I don’t begrudge a penny of it.”

  “Do the others feel that way?”

  Anne shrugged. “Not really. But then, very little of their money ever makes it to New Jersey. Their life-styles eat up almost every cent they make.”

  “So who supports the house?”

  “I do. Proffy’s half-salary just about covers food and gas—most of it goes into his retirement fund. And then there have been the medical bills this year, not to mention that the foundation is crumbling.” She gave herself a tiny shake. “So no food processors for me for the time being. Let’s talk about something more cheerful for a change. Do you think we’ll get more snow?”

  “Some people wouldn’t find that so cheerful—especially the road crews and people who have long commutes to work. But yes, I think we’re going to get some more tonight, and then with any luck the storm will move up the East Coast and dump a foot or two on New England.”

  “Won’t the road crews and commuters dislike it there, too?”

  “I’m sure they’ll hate it. But the skiers will be in seventh heaven.”

  “And that includes you?”

  “That includes me. Why? Don’t you approve?”

  “I think it’s insane. Why would anyone want to slide down a mountainside on two sticks? It’s beyond my comprehension.”

  “I guess I’ll have to change your mind.” He dumped the chopped onions into the bowl with hers, and Anne wrinkled her nose.

  “I don’t see why. I’ve made it to the advanced age of thirty-four without liking skiing—I imagine I can get through another thirty-four or so the same way.”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

  “God save me from a missionary,” Anne said, sighing. “Damn.”

  “Damn?” Noah echoed.

  “These onions were so mild I thought they wouldn’t get to my eyes. I’m afraid this last one was more than I could take.” Laughing, she lifted watery, reddened eyes to his, the tears streaming down her face.

  He moved swiftly toward her, placing one strong, warm hand on her shoulder as he lifted the other to her tearstained cheek. His smile was wary.

  “Very affecting,” he murmured. “I wish all women laughed when they cried.” His head bent slowly down, and she knew he was going to kiss her; and once more, like a besotted teenager, she was going to let him. Before his mouth met hers, however, he pulled back, slowly, without a trace of guilt. And directly behind her she heard the kitchen door open. Turning, she met the distinctly displeased and surprisingly similar expressions of her sister Holly and Wilson Engalls.

  IT WAS HARDLY an auspicious beginning for the evening, and things went steadily downhill from there. The instant antagonism that sprang up between Wilson and Noah, barely restrained, was bad enough. Holly’s intermittent bad temper and remorse only exacerbated the situation. But the absolutely crushing blow, the real stunner, the knockout punch, was when Anne looked up at Wilson’s tall, sturdy figure as she dusted the snow off his broad shoulders, broader than Noah’s lean strength, her eyes wandering over the strong, handsome face, the firm chin, warm brown eyes and finely molded mouth and realized she felt nothing more than sisterly affection.

  “Hello, darling,” he greeted her in his even, mellifluous voice, coming over to give her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. “How are you feeling? You look rather pale. Has Edmund been working you too hard?”

  “I’m fine.” Her voice came out slightly hoarse as she struggled to regain her composure. “You’ve met Holly’s friend, Noah Grant?”

  Holly had already claimed Noah’s arm, beaming up at him like a proud mother hen. The barely civil nods that passed between the two men didn’t aid the palpable tension in the kitchen.

  “Grant,” Wilson acknowledged coolly. “Holly’s been telling me a great deal about you. I imagine we have a fair amount in common.”

  “Really?” Noah murmured, his eyes sliding to Anne’s troubled face for a moment before meeting Wilson’s bland gaze. “I wouldn’t have thought so.” His brilliant smile took the offense out of the words, but Anne wasn’t fooled.

  Neither, apparently, was Wilson. He smiled thinly in response to that glorious smile. “Wouldn’t you?” Wilson wasn’t giving anything away, even his temper. “We’re both lawyers, both more than fond of a Kirkland.”

  Once more Noah’s blue eyes slid over Anne’s pale face, and she tensed, waiting for the next outrageous statement. When it came, however, it was relatively mild. “True enough,” he murmured, patting Holly’s hand, which rested on his arm with seemingly absent affection. “Do we have an appreciation of Scotch in common?”

  “It is about that time, isn’t it?” Wilson replied easily, and Anne felt the tension drain from her. No longer did the two men seem like dogs circling each other, their hackles raised. Their studious politeness might mask hostility, but Anne was suddenly secure that that hostility would stay under wraps. “I’d prefer bourbon, however. Can I bring you something, Anne?” he asked, ever the solicitous
gentleman.

  “No, thank you, Wilson. You three go on up. I’ll make do with the cooking sherry.” Her need to get them away from her bordered on desperation.

  “Or you could always start in on the beer,” Noah suggested in dulcet tones. “I think there’s a nice Blemish one in the refrigerator.”

  “Don’t you mean Flemish?” Holly questioned with a frown as Anne choked.

  “Of course.” Noah’s face was as blandly innocent as Wilson’s. “Let us know if we can help you, Annie.”

  “You’ve helped enough.” The slight edge to her voice was missed by two-thirds of her companions. Noah’s blue eyes gleamed appreciatively.

  “So tell me, brat, what have you been doing with yourself since I last saw you?” She could hear Wilson query as they disappeared up the narrow steps. Holly’s voice floated lightly back to her, and then she was alone.

  Her knees felt like water as she slowly sank to a chair by the oak table and dropped her head in her hands. What in heaven’s name was happening to her? And how could she ever have been so stupid, she demanded of herself. Had she been living in a complete fog for the past few years not to know the difference between affection and love? And she couldn’t even congratulate herself on finally coming to her senses—it had taken a man of Noah Grant’s considerable charms to make her see reason.

  She didn’t love Wilson Engalls, hadn’t ever loved Wilson Engalls except as a friend. He was handsome, kind, protective and slightly domineering in a manner that could be extremely comforting when one was overworked and overstressed and unable to make another decision. The few times they had made love had been pleasant though not earth-shattering experiences, and Anne had always felt genuinely comfortable with him. But comfort didn’t equal love, and she knew with a sudden depressing certainty that she would never marry Wilson Engalls, even if doing so would save her house for her.

  She also had to remember that lust didn’t equal love, either, even if she appeared to be suffering from an advanced case of it. Noah Grant was a very attractive, very appealing man who was two years younger than she, and he came fully equipped with a barely perceptible plate of armor around him. He was obviously used to life in the fast lane, to women like Holly. He’d proven more than useful in making her realize the idiocy of her arrangement with Wilson, but that was as far as it went.