by Arlene James
It was eminently fair, provided he put up enough money. “What if I’m not satisfied with the sum you’re willing to spend?”
“Then I’ll look elsewhere,” he said simply. “But I think you’ll approve. And just for the record, the way I see it, I’m buying your expertise. That means you are in charge of everything that has to do with refurbishing, repairing and redecorating the house. Everything.”
“Except you’ll be checking up on me,” she pointed out.
“Just to be sure I’m getting my money’s worth,” he clarified. “I won’t be second-guessing you. You are the expert here, aren’t you?”
His directness, like everything else about him, unsettled her. She was used to tiptoeing around certain issues, to employing great diplomacy and tact in swaying her clients to allow her to act for them. She said, with a little more asperity than she intended, “You bet I am.”
He grinned, the wretch. “I’m banking on it, not that it’s much of a gamble. I happen to know that, in addition to your degree in architecture and design, you have a good deal of experience in restoration and the attendant construction disciplines. In fact, I’m told that you have actual on the-job experience in trim carpentry, plumbing and masonry.”
He actually knew about the summers she’d spent working in the trades with her brothers! She didn’t know whether to be offended or impressed. The former felt safer. “Then why did you ask?” she snapped.
He chuckled unrepentantly. “Just to see how you’d respond. I dislike false modesty.”
“And I dislike arrogance.”
He laughed outright. “Is it arrogant to do your homework? To be sure someone’s up to the job?”
She couldn’t really argue with that, but she didn’t have to like it. Folding her arms huffily, she said with heavy sarcasm, “I suppose you think you’re a better business person than I am, because I’ve never gone to such lengths to check out anyone I’ve contracted with.”
“But then you aren’t the one ponying up a million dollars.”
Her mouth fell open. It was almost twice what she’d expected, and she’d been prepared to fight, wheedle, beg and wrangle for that! She swallowed her mental exclamations and got her mouth wrapped around a sensible reply. Eventually. “Uh, that…I can definitely work with that.”
He chuckled. “I should hope so.” He straightened and extended a hand toward her. “So then, are we agreed?”
She’d have been insane to balk at that point. “Absolutely.” She put her hand in his. Lightning shot up her arm and down her spine. What was it about him that did this to her?
“I’ll have the contract in your office tomorrow morning,” he said, then, releasing her, he rose smoothly from the corner of the desk and swept his arm toward the door. “Now, shall we finish our inspection?”
She slipped by him untouched, but she was well aware that he was amused by her reluctance to come into physical contact with him again. She only wished that she could be amused about it. The fact was, it troubled her greatly. Men did not affect her this way; she didn’t allow it, and she didn’t like it one bit that she seemed to have no control over the matter where Brodie Todd was concerned. It left her little recourse except to restrict her attentions solely to the business at hand and ignore everything else.
He took her through his own Spartan, dreary bedchamber, several empty ones, three cramped, outmoded bathrooms, and Viola’s slightly more personable suite. He pointed out every element of Seth’s rooms, from the corner cabinet filled with toys in the playroom to the narrow bookcase crammed with reading material in the bedchamber. Brodie was especially concerned about the lack of amenities available for guests, explaining that he often entertained influential people, even foreign dignitaries on occasion, but he emphasized that the family rooms must come first. They were just leaving another nondescript room when a small body hurtled around the corner and flung itself at Brodie’s knees, exclaiming, “Daddy, I see Mama!”
Brodie looked up as Viola came into view, huffing slightly from trying to keep up with the boy. “How is she?” he asked. “Anything new?”
Viola shook her head. “She seems completely unchanged to me, and Brown says she’s seen nothing beyond the usual eye flutters and twitches.”
Brodie sighed and nodded. Viola stroked his arm consolingly. “Poor thing,” she said. “I know you want her to improve.”
“I want her to damned well wake up,” he muttered fiercely, but before anything else could be said, Seth loudly demanded, “Twucks now, Gramuma!”
A duet of voices, Viola’s and Brodie’s, instantly instructed the child in the art of courtesy, and he rewarded them with compliance, changing his demand to a plea. “We pway twucks now pwease?”
When Chey and Brodie left the room, Viola was on her hands and knees on the floor unrolling a mat with a scale drawing of a highway system on it while Seth pulled out an entire carton full of toy trucks.
“I really should hire a nanny,” Brodie said once the door was closed. “Caring for a small child is too much for Grandmama.”
“Why don’t you then?” Chey asked, curious despite her better judgment. Silently she was wondering why the child’s mother didn’t just step in.
Brodie grimaced. “I don’t want my son raised by servants. It might be different if his mother could devote a little attention to him.”
“Why can’t she?” Chey heard herself asking.
For the first time, Brodie’s control seemed to slip. His handsome face hardened, and his hands tightened into fists. “See for yourself.” Abruptly, he led Chey down a hallway toward the last of the rooms, saying, “I don’t want her disturbed any more than necessary, for reasons you’ll understand, I’m sure. I’ve already seen to her needs as best I can. In fact, I doubt it’s necessary or even desirable that you do much with her suite, but I thought you ought to see it, at least.” With that he opened the door of what seemed a combination sitting and hospital room. The walls had been plastered and painted coral pink. A ruffled sofa and chair stood around a plush rug and a delicate table over-flowing with a large vase of fresh flowers. The rest of the furnishings were strictly utilitarian, however, from the hospital bed to the monitors and intravenous pole. A small metal cart bearing a tabletop television and stereo was parked at the foot of the bed. Music played softly.
A tall, husky woman with short, tightly curled gray hair stood up from a comfortable chair as they entered the room. Chey nodded, but Brodie ignored the other woman, moving instead to the bed. The big woman’s mouth turned down at both ends, but it struck Chey as her usual expression rather than one of present disapproval. Chey approached the bed more out of curiosity than anything else and watched silently as Brodie sat down beside the small figure lying there. He picked up a slender, manicured hand and held it cupped in his own, speaking softly, telling the other person who Chey was and why she was there. Carefully, Chey sidled toward the foot of the bed, desperately wanting to see the person to whom he was speaking. What she saw shocked her deeply for two reasons.
The first was that the woman appeared to be comatose. The second was that hers was the face of an angel framed by bright, strawberry blond hair flowing over her shoulders and frilly white lace nightgown. Someone had made up her face, adding subtle color and shadow, but the angel herself slept on unaware. Indeed, only the gentle rise and fall of her chest gave any indication at all that she actually lived. Chey felt slightly sick to her stomach and told herself that it was compassion for the poor thing upon the bed, as well as her husband and son. It was at least partly that, but it was also more, and Chey was, at bottom, honest enough to admit to herself that she felt a twinge of pure envy as she watched Brodie reach up and gently cup, then pat one rosy, angelic cheek before rising to his feet once more and joining her at the foot of the bed.
“The doctors say it’s best to keep familiar things around her, so we brought her own furniture with us. We painted the walls her favorite color and set up the room exactly as it was in Dallas.” He nod
ded at the large woman standing to one side. “As her nurse, Brown came with us.” Finally, he addressed the older woman. “This is Miss Simmons, Brown. She’s going to transform the house, bring it all up to form for us. If you or Janey have need of changes in your rooms, Miss Simmons is the one to consult.”
“I could use some fresh paint on my walls,” Brown stated matter-of-factly, “and the toilet in the bathroom runs all the time. I don’t need nothing else.”
“And Janey?” Brodie asked. “What about her?”
Nurse Brown bristled. “I take care of her needs.”
A muscle flexed in Brodie’s jaw. “I realize that,” he said tightly. “I meant, do you need any changes to make your job easier?” The woman shook her head. Chey couldn’t help noticing that her eyes were as cold and steely a gray as her hair. Brodie tilted his head. “Fine. If you think of anything later, just let me know.” With that he turned toward the hall door, motioning for Chey to follow. He pulled the door closed behind them, muttering, “Hateful old sow.” He glanced at Chey and said, “Sorry. But that woman rubs me the wrong way.”
“Then why keep her on?”
He grimaced. “Because she’s devoted to Janey. They knew each other before, you see. Brown was, is, a friend of the family. Janey’s mother died when she was small, and I guess for that reason Janey’s always depended on Brown. After the accident, Brown wouldn’t leave her side, and since the doctors think that if Janey wakes up again, it will help to have familiar faces and things around, I’ve kept her on.” He sighed, fingered his short, thick goatee and said, “I wouldn’t have moved Janey at all, frankly, but my grandfather died six months ago, and Seth and I are all the family my grandmother has left, so I decided to move everyone home to New Orleans, and that meant bringing Janey, and therefore, Brown with us.”
Chey nodded her understanding, then ventured carefully, “Exactly what is Janey’s condition, if you don’t mind my asking?”
He shook his head and moved once more down the hallway toward the stairs. Chey fell in beside him as he spoke. “She’s in a coma, obviously. The doctors don’t know exactly why, some sort of trauma to the brain. She was drinking that night. It was March, Seth’s first birthday, as a matter of fact. Anyway, she fell into a nearly empty swimming pool. It’s a miracle she didn’t drown, but I sometimes wonder if that wouldn’t have been kinder.”
Chey stopped and waited for him to turn to face her. “I’m sorry,” she told him sincerely. “Two years of watching your wife languish in a coma must have been very difficult.”
“Ex-wife,” he corrected.
Chey blinked at him, the air fixed in her lungs. He wasn’t married! Not that she should care. Better if he were. But surely he hadn’t divorced his wife after she’d been injured. In Chey’s opinion, that would have been despicable. It wasn’t, however, any of her business.
He folded his arms and tucked in his chin, looking down at her, his blue eyes holding hers as surely as any physical touch. “We should get up to the third floor now,” he said, changing the subject.
She nodded, and he moved down the hallway once more. As he led her toward the upper and final story of the house, he talked about the changes he had made to accommodate the couple who cooked and cleaned for him. He’d had everything updated to their personal specifications, including the plumbing and wiring. Obviously, he considered it their private domain. The attics, however, were of prime interest to her, and she was right about the treasures hiding there.
Though dusty and disorganized, the place was crammed with enough antiques to keep an antique-lover happily busy for days just cataloging and investigating, exactly what she determined to do. At first glance it looked as if she could furnish the entire house with what she found there. It was an absolute treasure trove, and though she wasn’t dressed for it, Chey could not resist digging through the most easily accessible portion. Before she realized it, she was absorbed in her discovery. She forgot about the pristine condition of her suit and everything else. It was one magnificent find after another, and the next thing she knew, Brodie was pushing hair out of her face, hair that should have been confined in its usual sleek twist. She looked up at him, shocked speechless to find him so close. He wound a golden-blond strand around his forefinger and tugged gently. She felt it all the way to the soles of her feet.
“I thought Wonderland was the temples of Malaysia or the rivers of India,” he told her softly, “but I see that for you it’s a musty old room full of used furniture.”
Her heart, which seemed to have leapt up and lodged in her throat, was beating so hard she could barely speak, but somehow she managed to form the words, “Not used, antique.”
His smile spread all the way across his face. “Antique,” he conceded. Then she realized that his face was descending toward hers, that he meant to kiss her. She tilted her chin up, but at the first electric brush of his lips against hers, she yelped and hopped away, bumping her upper thigh on a sharp corner. Dumbly, she looked down and recognized a walnut sugar chest, probably built about 1840. One part of her mind spun out an assessment. A plantation piece from the days when sugar was a precious commodity kept under lock and key, it was not found much north of the Mason-Dixon line and would make an excellent occasional table. Another inner voice screamed that she should run before something awful happened, something that would change her life forever, something for which she was not prepared.
Defensively, she grabbed a lamp and cradled it in front of her as a shield, babbling, “I have to get back to the office, but if you don’t mind I’d like to take some of these things with me for appraisal.”
He looked at her for a long moment as if trying to decide whether or not to remove the impediment and press the advance, but then one corner of his mouth kicked up in a wry smile and he nodded. “Just show me what you want, and I’ll carry it downstairs.”
Inwardly, she breathed a sigh of relief—and tried her best to ignore the underlying disappointment.
Brodie stood leaning against a pillar on the front porch, thoughtfully stroking his goatee as he watched Chey’s flashy little car roll down his drive toward the street, the almost nonexistent back seat crammed with several items he’d lugged down from the attics for her, among them the lamp she’d latched onto when he’d tried to kiss her. The lamp might be a priceless, once-in-a-lifetime find, but it was more likely that she’d latched onto it in pure self-defense, because he’d definitely scared her with that attempted kiss. What he didn’t understand is why the hell he’d done it.
Oh, she was a spectacularly attractive woman, and he’d fully meant to kiss her from the instant he’d laid eyes on her—starting with those small, slender feet and those long, slender legs and ending with that long, slender neck, pretty oval face and sleek, pale golden hair. He wanted to ruffle her cool exterior, pull down that hair, kiss off that pink lipstick, rip the buttons from that neat, tailored suit, watch those light green eyes darken with unregulated passion. He wanted to strip her naked and lay her down. But Brodie Todd was a pragmatic, if sometimes emotional, man, and he’d realized from the beginning that she wasn’t likely just to topple over and invite him to join her.
Unlike so very many women of his acquaintance, this one was going to take finesse. He accepted that as part of the challenge, a sort of enhancement. In her enthusiasm over the contents of the attic, she’d given him proof of the passion he’d suspected all along, and he’d lost sight of the big picture, the ultimate goal. She had gotten so caught up in her dusty, jumbled finds that she hadn’t even noticed when her stockings shredded and her bright hair began sliding free of its confinement. He had become so caught up in her that he’d forgotten to go slowly, to move cautiously—until she’d literally leapt away from him, and then it had taken all his control not to drag her back to him. He was surprised that she hadn’t bolted in that very instant, but she’d taken her time, pretended indifference by concentrating her attention and her enthusiasm on the things in the attic. Then she had run, and she was runni
ng still.
He wondered how far he would have to let her go before he could coax her back to him. He did not wonder why he was so damned certain that he was going to do it, not that he was at all certain that he should. It would be complicated. Chey Simmons was not some casual conquest to enjoy one night and forget the next morning. She was going to be around for a while, beginning Monday morning when she had promised to fax the formal designs for his approval. Unfortunately, his fax was going to be down on Monday morning. Yes, continued interaction with his family was guaranteed. Luckily, they had liked her. True, she hadn’t seemed particularly taken with Seth, but she’d handled him well. Then again, she ought to have, considering the size of her family.
Nine siblings. He was still surprised and a little awed by that. He wouldn’t have thought it would, but somehow the size of her family added a complex cachet to her persona. His only frame of reference was the closeness that he had shared with his younger brother. The idea of multiplying that by nine boggled the mind. For the first time, the thought occurred that if he’d had more siblings, he wouldn’t be so alone now. Then again, people couldn’t be replaced. His brother would still be gone, still be missed. He would still have a hole in his life and heart that could not be filled.
Pushing thoughts of his brother and the accident that had ended his life from mind, Brodie turned back into the house. He was relieved to find that, despite its dilapidation, the place was really starting to feel like home. Mostly it was his family, of course, and part of it was the city—the old queen had lost none of her allure—but a lot of it was the house itself. It spoke to him in the quiet, wordless whispers that only the heart could hear and understand. It fairly begged to be restored to its original and rightful splendor. Nevertheless, he’d dreaded the refurbishment—until now.
