by Dani Wade
The sound of typing as she walked back past his office distracted her from her gloomy thoughts for a moment. Tate’s bad attitude didn’t seem to have affected his work. But the fact that she still didn’t know what that work entailed only irked her further...
She carried the laundry down into the basement, none too eager to get any of her chores done today. The main drawback to living in was that her job didn’t end. And she had a very difficult time justifying spending a couple of hours in bed with a good book when her boss could clearly see she wasn’t working.
What she needed was a good night out with her sisters. Margaritas, chips and salsa, and lots of juicy gossip. That sounded like heaven right about now.
Especially after the brief, brittle conversation she’d had with Tate yesterday. She’d been cleaning up after dinner, looking forward to a night spent reading her newest novel once Tate retired to the isolation of his office, when she’d felt him pause behind her in the kitchen.
“Did you take it?”
Willow didn’t pretend not to know what he was talking about, even though his question was short to the point of rudeness. He had a right to know.
“Yes.”
To her surprise, he went still instead of immediately walking away. She turned to him, feeling that he wanted to say something more. It was an ethereal connection, as if they both wanted to acknowledge what had happened but didn’t have the words to reach out to each other.
Then he left.
Willow sorted her loads and got the washing machine started, then shuffled her way back toward the stairs. Enthusiasm for the mundane tasks of her job had completely fled at this point. She couldn’t quite figure out a way to resurrect it, except to continue her exploration of the house that had proved to be even more full of surprises than she’d anticipated. It just refused to give her the one piece of information she, and Ivy, desperately needed right now.
As she paused beside the door to the mythical underground cave—she refused to believe it was actually real until Tate let her see it in person—Willow leaned against the door and tried to let go of the unusual exhaustion that plagued her. The sound of the rushing waves soothed her. A swim would be nice, but she couldn’t bring herself to do that to Tate right now.
Despite her current irritation.
As much as she resented his attitude the other night, she realized a lot of it was born of pain. He’d settled into a cocooned way of life that allowed him to keep the memories and emotions at bay. Until she’d started digging all that stuff out, dragging it into the open and forcing him to acknowledge it once more. That couldn’t be comfortable. Some days she wondered if it was even safe. If she’d opened a Pandora’s box she should have left alone.
But there wasn’t anyone here to give her an answer to that. So she had to make her best guesstimate and move on. As much as she might resent his attitude, knowing where it came from made her want to stay, to see whatever this was through to the end.
She’d never been a quitter just because things got difficult.
Opening her eyes after long minutes of simply standing, breathing and listening to the waves, Willow was surprised to see a door toward the far end of the corridor that she’d never noticed before. Not all the way on the end, which she would have seen each time she entered the hallway. This was a slim door about three-quarters of the way down that occupied a shadowy area, in contrast to a bright patch of sunlight let in by the window right before it.
Sabatini House was full of all kinds of cool nooks and crannies. She’d found odd closets, weirdly shaped rooms and all kinds of architectural goodies that either came original to the house or had been modernized over the last few generations. So as she walked down the hallway, excitement lightened her step for just a moment. Even if it was just an empty room with a couple of spiderwebs, it would be interesting to see and speculate on its use.
Except, as she should have come to expect by now, the door was locked. She knew where the downstairs keys were and had never been officially told these rooms were off-limits. She huffed a little laugh as she ran upstairs to the utility room for the keys. She ran back down and in no time was turning the handle to get inside.
At first glance, the little room served as straight storage. Slightly larger than a walk-in closet, it was over three-quarters full of plain brown boxes, all uniform in size. That, in and of itself, struck her as odd. The house had a few rooms that housed old furniture and odds and ends. Her glimpse into the third floor had shown lots of trunks and cabinets and such. Even the nursery’s contents were either covered with tarps or stored inside drawers.
But so far she hadn’t seen uniform packing boxes like this anywhere else in the house.
So what made the contents of these so special? Taking a few steps closer, she could see that some had the tape broken on the top, but most of them had never been opened. Definitely odd. Willow reached for the nearest open box and pulled back the flaps.
Granted, the one lighting fixture in the small room didn’t do a fantastic job, but even then she wasn’t sure she was trusting her eyesight. Because all she could see was books.
Actually, multiple copies of the same book. The Secret Child by Adam Tate.
Willow wasn’t sure how long she stood staring, trying to resolve what she was seeing with the truth it had to represent. No one was enough of a fan to have twenty-five copies of the same book. Publishers had those...and authors.
How could he have kept this a secret from her?
Just to make sure, she sped from box to box, checking to see that they were all the same. The Red Light. The Encroaching Sea. The Third Floor. All Adam Tate books. And with each title she read, excitement and irritation grew inside her. Finally she ran out into the hall, leaving the door open behind her. She rushed up the stairs and down the passage until she reached Tate’s office door.
She felt vaguely surprised that the door wasn’t locked, but couldn’t stop long enough to analyze why that might be. Bursting through, she ran in a few steps before skidding to a stop before his large black desk. Tate stared at her in shock, mouth open, eyes wide. The same emotions echoed in her own mind, but she couldn’t focus on him. Behind the desk were gorgeous floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that covered the entire wall. Light from the large, arched windows shone across the beloved titles that took front-and-center stage. If she wasn’t mistaken, the shelves contained every Adam Tate title ever written, along with many other books by her favorite authors, what looked like nonfiction research books and several rows of white binders.
Her gaze swept across all of it in an instant, then back to the man who looked like he was still trying to process her presence.
“You jerk. Why wouldn’t you tell me that you’re Adam Tate?”
* * *
In shock, Tate reverted to his natural response. “What are you doing in my office?”
“Answer my question.”
Her hands-on-hips stance did not bode well for brushing her off. “Willow—”
“We aren’t talking about just any author here. You knew how I felt about those stories. You talked to me about his—your—books and just decided that it wasn’t worth mentioning that you wrote them? Seriously?”
Frustration tightened Tate’s muscles. Shutting down his computer screen, he shoved back his chair to pace around the room, pulling at hair that was way past the need for a haircut.
The sudden breeze reminded him of his open button-down shirt. He glanced at Willow, only to see her force her gaze from his abs back to the books.
“Tate, this is incredible,” she said, waving her hand at the overflowing shelves. “Why would you keep this a secret?”
That had him raising a brow. “I’m a little bit of a privacy nut.”
Her expression told him she was fully aware of that.
“Look, I’m not even sure how people found out I was an author. I never wanted it
to be known. Making up stories is my escape. I don’t want the recognition.”
Willow shook her head. “But...you’re Adam Tate. I’m a fan. I live here. Why keep this a secret from me? I mean, you know I’m not gonna turn into a creepy stalker, right?”
Looking up, he realized the true issues underlying this conversation. The point was not his secrecy, nor secrecy in general. The point was how he viewed her.
Tate had given her mixed signals since she first came to Sabatini House. A lot of them were twisted up in his own idiosyncrasies, as he fought against all the things she made him feel. She deserved better than that.
Now that he was truly looking, he could see the hurt dulling those gorgeous green eyes. It shouldn’t be there. He’d done his best to keep her at arm’s length, but pulling her close was too damn tempting...and he was too damn weak.
They’d shared too much, more than he ever had with anyone else.
Oh, he and Murdoch talked, but unless they were both drunk the conversations were at best on the surface—just the way men liked it. The few serious discussions he could remember involved his parents’ deaths and Tate’s decision to clear out their stuff.
He and his editor were friendly, would have a meal together outside the office when Tate was in New York, but the conversation was either business or story, which they could discuss for days on end without tiring of the subjects. That was the way book nerds were. That was their bond. Neither of them attempted to bridge that gap, because that was how Tate wanted it.
But with Willow? They’d gone deeply personal. Fast. He’d not only shared his body with her, but his nightmares, his brother, his fears.
Now this.
As he watched her, there was no getting around the stubborn set to that tiny pointed chin, or the determined look in her eyes. He’d learned that much by now. He might as well fess up. Otherwise she’d find a way to drag it out of him.
That might not be pretty for either of them.
“Honestly, I’d never told anyone before. I very rarely meet new people who are interested in discussing what I do for a living. I’m not even sure how to bring it up.”
And that was the God’s honest truth.
Willow cocked her head to the side. “Well, it’s time you got some practice.”
Tate almost laughed. Leave it to Willow to be practical rather than sentimental.
“You’re not a typical sympathetic kind of girl, are you?”
Willow shrugged, but lowered her lashes as she tried to hide her reaction. Tate had a feeling he’d hit a nerve.
“I feel just as much sympathy as anyone else,” she said softly. “But sometimes that isn’t what the situation calls for. I grew up in a house full of women. There’s always been enough emotion to drown us all in it. Somebody has to be practical if we’re gonna actually get moving.”
Why did that attitude frustrate him while making him want to kiss her at the same time?
Tate was more than aware that she challenged him, was moving him away from his comfortable status quo to a new level. He shouldn’t like her—should push her far away. Fire her, even.
So why was he still aching to do the opposite?
He watched as she circled the desk, her body moving with unconscious sensual grace that hit him right in the gut. It took everything in him to keep from reaching out.
Her long, delicate fingers stroked over the books’ spines. “So who did you base the woman on in The Train? She was seriously creepy,” Willow asked.
“No one,” he answered automatically. “She’s made up, though the story idea came from an article I read.”
“Cool. About what?”
The conversation started just like that. Tate was honestly amazed at how easy it was to suddenly talk about his work. He’d never done it with anyone but his agent and editor before today. Why didn’t he resent her intrusion? Rebuff her questions?
Because the whole thing fascinated him. He had to admit, her observations were insightful. Even as they moved on from his books to others on the shelf, Willow brought up points about the stories he’d never even thought of before today. Her brain worked in fascinating ways.
And that was how Tate found himself falling in love with the woman he should never want.
Before he had time to absorb the realization and panic, the house phone rang. Tate gratefully crossed to answer it.
“Hey there, young man,” a familiar voice said. “How’s today treating you?”
Murdoch’s standard greeting was never more welcome. The familiar words had kept Tate grounded and focused on the present for years. Tate needed them now more than ever. “Good as always. And you?”
Tate’s ears tuned in to Murdoch’s tales of meeting his daughter as an adult, the new grandbaby and this whole new family he had found, but Tate’s gaze couldn’t be torn away from Willow, who took the liberty to explore his office while he was distracted. He should stop her from invading this last vestige of private space left to him, but her expressive face and the way she reached out to touch everything captured his imagination.
So much so that he lost the flow of the conversation. “I’m sorry, Murdoch. What did you say?” he asked, trying to catch up.
“I said, I hate to do this, boy, but I’m not coming back.”
Eleven
Willow wasn’t sure what the sound was that caught her attention, but she turned back from the window in the office to find Tate white-knuckling the phone. His normal olive skin was pale beneath the color. Willow had the distinct impression that his sheer will was the only thing keeping him upright.
She took a tentative step toward him. Then another. Tate wouldn’t want sympathy, but she had the urge to hug him, just the same.
What was wrong?
When his eyes opened, even they seemed paler versions of themselves. He held out the phone.
“Murdoch wants to talk to you.”
Though eager to catch up with her friend, Willow couldn’t forget Tate’s look, even after he turned away. With no answers from that corner, she jumped into the conversation headfirst.
“What’s wrong?” she asked Murdoch.
A long sigh met her over the airwaves. “I’m sorry, Willow. I’d hoped this would be easier, but I couldn’t wait much longer to tell him.”
“Tell him what?” Willow’s heart pounded in her ears while she waited for his answer.
“I’m not returning. My place is here, with the family I’ve finally found.”
There was a long pause as Willow tried to muster a response. In the background of the call she heard the faint sound of a baby starting to cry.
“I have no idea how much time I have left, so I need as much time with them now as I can get,” Murdoch continued. “I let my daughter down. I won’t do it again...to her or the little one.”
Willow certainly understood. From the first day she’d met him, she’d sensed the utter loneliness inside Murdoch. Finding out he had family out there, especially a daughter starting a family of her own, wasn’t something he would turn his back on. She should have realized that as soon as he’d offered her this job.
“I know this is a shock to Tate, but I have to do it,” Murdoch said.
At the mention of his name, Willow turned to see how Tate was doing, only to find herself alone in the room.
“Oh, Murdoch. What is he going to do?” She sighed, free to ask anything now that she was alone. That didn’t stop her from worrying.
“I know this will be hard,” Murdoch admitted. “But I’ve devoted my life to the Kingston family. Tate, in particular. He’s the only one of them who deserved it, in my opinion.” He paused, sighing. “But it’s time to devote myself elsewhere, Willow.”
She could sense he was trying to convince himself as much as he was her. Bless his heart. “I understand that, Murdoch. It’s what you need to do...what you should
do. It will just be hard here.”
“I was hoping having you there would make it easier.”
Huh? “By giving me a summer job?”
“Is it just a summer job?”
Willow could hardly wrap her brain around what he was saying, but was actually surprised she hadn’t suspected this before. After all, Murdoch could have easily hired a man for this position, since he knew all of Tate’s issues firsthand.
“Murdoch, did you set me up?”
“Not you so much as Tate.”
“You could have at least given a girl some warning.” So Murdoch had had this in mind all along. Had he known the difficulties it would cause both of them when he’d played matchmaker? She wanted to ask if he was aware Tate didn’t keep condoms on hand...but even she didn’t have the gall to say that.
“Willow, you’re the smartest, most insightful woman I know. Granted, I don’t know many, but sometimes you just know things about a person. I knew without a doubt that if anyone could break Tate out of his self-imposed prison, it would be a woman like you.” Silence filtered down the line for a moment. The baby wasn’t crying anymore. “He needs you,” Murdoch finally said.
No joke. Willow had known that from the beginning, though she hadn’t been prepared for what breaking him out of his shell would entail. “But that doesn’t mean he’s ready for it, Murdoch.”
“Or that it will be easy,” he agreed. “I’m fully aware that Tate has some unhealthy boundaries in place. Hell, I stood to the side while he planted the line and dug in deep. But he needs to let go. You can do that for him, Willow.”
“No, I can’t. Only Tate can make those changes for himself.”
Murdoch wasn’t budging an inch. “But he never will with no one to challenge him.”
That got her ruff up a bit. “So you sent me here because you thought I would be difficult to live with?”
“In your own way.” He chuckled. “Tell me you haven’t shaken things up already.”
“More than you know,” she mumbled before she thought about the implications of letting that out into the open.
