by Eclipse Bay
In the dark months after the death of their parents, Mitchell had taken his two grandsons into the garden a lot. The three of them had spent countless hours there. Mitchell had shown Rafe and Gabe how to prepare the ground, water the tomatoes, and trim rosebushes. They hadn’t talked much, but Rafe knew that they had all found some solace in the work of growing things.
Mitchell had lived a turbulent life by anyone’s standards. The years had seen the financial and personal devastation brought on by the destruction of Harte-Madison and the ensuing feud with his old army buddy, Sullivan Harte. The turmoil of four divorces and the breakup of innumerable affairs had taken a toll. The loss of his only son, Sinclair, had been a cruel blow. Rafe knew that the unexpected burden of raising two grandsons had come as a shock to a man who, until then, had not worried overmuch about his family responsibilities. But through it all, Mitchell had never lost his interest in gardening.
Gardening was Mitchell’s passion. As everyone knew, when it came to a Madison and his passion, nothing was allowed to stand in the way.
Rafe went down the steps. “How’d you meet Octavia Brightwell?” he asked, partly out of curiosity and partly in a bid to find a neutral topic. Conversations between himself and Mitchell were fraught with problems.
For as long as he could remember, he had been at odds with his grandfather. In recent years they had achieved a prickly détente, but that was only because both of them had tacitly abandoned the open warfare that had characterized so much of their earlier communication. Some would say that they had matured, Rafe thought. But he and Mitchell knew the truth. They had both given up butting heads for the most part because it had become obvious that it was a pointless exercise. Which was not to say that they did not occasionally engage in the activity from time to time, just to stay in practice.
They had both been on their best behavior throughout dinner this evening, he reflected. True, things had been a little tense for a few minutes after he walked in the front door with Hannah, but to his credit, Mitchell had recovered quickly. Rafe’s theory was that the older man was determined to play the genial host in front of his new girlfriend.
Octavia Brightwell was, indeed, young enough to be Mitchell’s granddaughter. She came as a surprise to Rafe. She had proved to be warm, friendly, and intelligent. He could tell that Hannah had liked her on sight. During the course of the conversation at dinner Octavia had explained that the gallery she had opened in Eclipse Bay was her second. The first was in Portland. This summer she had divided her time between the two locations.
“She stuck her head over my garden fence one morning at the beginning of summer and told me that I was handling my roses all wrong.” Mitchell snorted. “Told her I’d been dealing with roses since before she was born. She brought me a book on how to grow roses. Told me to read a few pages. I told her the author of the book was a damn fool. You might say we just hit it off.”
“I see.” Rafe watched Mitchell pause to remove a dead bloom from a rosebush.
Something twisted deep inside him at the sight of his grandfather’s hawklike profile. It hit him that the old warrior with whom he had fought so many battles would not be around forever. It was difficult to imagine the world without Mitchell.
The tough, irascible Mitchell had the usual Madison flaws, Rafe thought, but he had been the one solid anchor in his grandsons’ lives since the day their father’s motorcycle had collided with a truck.
Rafe thought about the mysterious weekly trips to Portland. If there was something seriously wrong, it did not show. Mitchell used a cane, but he still looked strong and fit. He could have passed for a man fifteen years younger. There was a sharp glint in his slightly faded green eyes. The hard lines of his face had softened little with age. There was a slight stoop to his shoulders these days, and he had lost some muscle with the years, but the physical changes were well concealed by his undiminished will and determination to control his world and everyone in it.
“I take it you and Octavia spend a lot of time together,” Rafe said as casually as possible.
“Some.” Mitchell nipped off another dead rose.
This was not going to work, Rafe decided. If Mitchell did not want to discuss his relationship with Octavia Brightwell, that was the end of the matter. His grandfather had never talked much about his affairs and liaisons over the years. When it came to women, he lived by an old-fashioned code. A man did not kiss and tell. He had drilled that same cardinal rule into both Rafe and Gabe.
Rafe went down the steps and came to a halt on the path beside Mitchell, who was examining a cluster of ferns.
“I understand you’ve been going into Portland on a regular basis,” Rafe said. “To see Octavia?”
“Nope.” Mitchell snapped off another dead flower.
Rafe knew that was the end of that conversation. Gabe would have been better at this, he thought
Mitchell squinted at him. “What the hell are you and Hannah Harte going to do with that damned house?”
“We haven’t decided.”
“Huh. Just like Isabel to do something crazy like this in her will. She had some romantic notion about you and Hannah patching up the old feud. Told her she was an idiot.”
“Telling her that she was an idiot was probably not real helpful.”
Mitchell grunted again. “Nobody more contrary than a Harte.”
“Except a Madison.”
Mitchell didn’t deny it. “You look pretty friendly with Hannah.”
“I wouldn’t say we’ve reached the friendly stage, but her dog likes me. That’s a start.”
“Heard she built herself a nice little business in Portland. Organizes weddings or some such nonsense.”
“Yeah. She says she gets a lot of repeat clients.”
“She’s a Harte, and that’s not an easy fact to overlook. But I’ve got to admit that she’s got gumption.” A thoughtful expression gleamed in Mitchell’s eyes. “Never forgot what she did eight years ago. Always felt like we owed her something for the way she backed you up.”
“I know.”
“There was some nasty talk around town for a while. The folks who believed her when she said she’d been with you on the beach that night assumed you’d seduced her just to score some points against the Hartes.”
“I heard that.”
Mitchell tapped his cane absently against the base of the sundial. “There are still one or two who think Hannah Harte flat out lied for you that night. They think you really did push Kaitlin Sadler off that cliff.”
Rafe felt the tension knot deep inside him. He’d always wondered if Mitchell had been one of those who secretly believed that he had been responsible for Kaitlin’s fall.
“Bottom line,” Mitchell continued, “is that we’re beholden to Hannah Harte.”
“Yeah.”
“Hate being beholden to a Harte,” Mitchell sighed.
“Like a bur under a saddle.”
Rafe looked at him. “Didn’t know it bothered you all this time.”
“It did.”
“It’s not your problem. It’s mine.”
“You can say that again.” Mitchell narrowed his eyes. “What are you going to do about it? Give up your half of Isabel’s house?”
“No.”
“Didn’t think so.” Mitchell started off in the direction of the greenhouse. “Come on. I’ll show you my new hybrids.”
Rafe glanced back at the screen door. There was no sign of rescue. Reluctantly he trailed after Mitchell.
“I talked to Gabe a few days ago,” Mitchell said.
Rafe steeled himself. “Did you?”
“He said he could find a place for you at Madison Commercial.” There was not a lot of hope in Mitchell’s voice.
“Give me a break. Would you work for Gabe?”
“Hell, no.” Mitchell’s brows bristled. “He expects everyone to jump when he gives an order.”
“That pretty much sums up my problem with him, too.”
Mitchell grunted
. “Well, it was worth a try.”
They walked the length of the garden in silence. Just before they reached the greenhouse, Mitchell launched a salvo in an entirely new direction.
“Don’t you think it’s about time you got married?” he said.
Rafe felt as if he’d been hit in the head with a ball peen hammer. It took him several seconds to recover. He spent the intervening time with his mouth open.
“Married?” he finally managed. “Are you out of your mind? I tried it once, remember? It didn’t work.”
“You’re going to have to bite that bullet again, sooner or later. You’ve put it off long enough. If you wait too much longer you’ll be so set in your ways you won’t be able to adjust to marriage.”
“Since when did you become an expert on marriage?”
“I’ve had some experience.”
“You can say that again,” Rafe muttered. “For your information, I’m already set in my ways.”
“Bullshit. You’re still young enough to be flexible.”
The door on the back porch opened. Both men spun around so quickly that Rafe was sure they looked guilty of something.
An ethereal-looking woman with a mane of fiery red curls stood in the opening.
“Coffee’s ready,” Octavia Brightwell called cheerfully.
Rafe did not hesitate. He noticed that Mitchell didn’t pause either. He figured his grandfather was just as relieved by the timely interruption as he was.
Side by side, they went swiftly back along the path toward the house.
Hannah slid her key into the front-door lock. “Not that you’ve got any reason to consider my opinion on the subject, but I liked Octavia.”
Beside her Rafe shrugged. “So did I. So what? She’s still way too young for him. Gabe’s right. It’s embarrassing.”
Hannah was amused. “That’s almost funny, coming from a Madison. No offense, but the men of your family aren’t known for feeling shy or awkward about their sex lives.”
“It’s different when it’s your grandfather’s sex life,” Rafe said glumly.
Hannah listened to the sound of dog claws prancing madly on the hardwood floor on the other side of the door. “Well, if it’s any consolation to you, Octavia told me that she and your grandfather are just friends. I believe her.”
“Yeah?”
She gave him a quick, searching glance as she opened the door. He had been in a strange mood since returning from the after-dinner walk in the garden. Rafe had never been an easy man to read, but now there was a dark, brooding aura emanating from him that had not been present earlier in the evening. She wondered what had been said between him and his grandfather.
Winston bounced through the open door, torn as always, between the demands of professional dignity and blatant emotionalism.
“Such a handsome dog.” She bent down to pat him. “The finest specimen of Schnauzerhood in the known universe.”
Winston glowed.
Rafe watched them with an expression of morbid interest. “He actually believes you when you say that, you know.”
“So what? It’s true.” She stood back to allow Winston to trot across the porch and down the steps. The dog paused briefly to thrust his nose into Rafe’s hand, and then he disappeared discreetly into some bushes.
Hannah reached around the edge of the door and flipped a light switch. “I’m probably going to kick myself for getting involved, but I feel compelled to ask. Did things go okay between you and your grandfather out there in the garden?”
“Sure.” Rafe glided, uninvited, through the opening into the front hall.
“I see.” She was not quite certain what to do with him now that he was inside her house.
She held the door open for Winston. He pranced across the porch and into the hall. He headed straight for Rafe.
Hannah closed the door and leaned back against it. Rafe crouched to scratch the dog’s ears. Winston promptly sat down and assumed a blissful expression.
“There was the usual stuff,” Rafe said after a moment.
“The usual stuff?”
Rafe kept his attention on Winston, who was clearly ready, willing, and able to absorb an unlimited amount of it. “Mitchell reminded me that it wasn’t too late to join Madison Commercial.”
“Ah, yes. The usual.” She straightened away from the door and walked into the kitchen. When in doubt, make a cup of tea. “And you gave him the usual response, no doubt.”
“Well, sure. That’s how Mitchell and I communicate. He tells me what I should do, and I tell him I won’t do it. We understand each other perfectly.”
“Aunt Isabel always said that you and your grandfather had problems from the day you hit puberty because the two of you were so much alike.” She filled the kettle and set it on the stove.
“I’ve heard that theory before.” Rafe gave Winston one last pat, got to his feet, and came to stand in the arched doorway. He propped one shoulder against the frame and crossed his arms. “Neither Mitchell nor I believes it.”
She was intensely aware of him taking up space in the kitchen. She could feel his disturbing gaze following her every move as she went about the business of preparing a pot of tea.
“It’s true, you know,” she said gently. “You’re both strong-willed, arrogant, independent, and downright bullheaded at times. The two of you probably have the same motto.”
“What’s that?”
“Never apologize, never explain.”
He contrived to look hurt. “Had it occurred to you that I might have something in common with your dog?”
“Such as?”
He smiled humorlessly. “I might actually believe you when you tell me what you really think about me.”
She raised her brows at that. “I can’t see you giving much credence to anyone else’s opinions.”
“Shows how much you know. I’m only human.”
“Got proof of that?”
“Okay, I’ll accept strong-willed, arrogant, and independent.” He gave her a derisive look. “But I object to the last part. What makes you say I’m bullheaded?”
She smiled with cool triumph. “Your refusal to talk about how we’re going to deal with the problem of Dreamscape.”
“Huh. That.”
“Yes, that.”
He raised one shoulder very casually. “Well, hell, nobody’s perfect.”
“Except Winston, of course,” she added swiftly, in case Winston had overhead the remark and had started to worry.
There was a short silence.
“Mitchell said something else while we were in the garden,” Rafe said eventually.
She glanced at him over her shoulder as she dropped a large pinch of tea into the pot. “What was that?”
He watched her with shuttered eyes. “He told me it was about time I got married.”
For some reason her stomach tightened. She hoped it wasn’t the grilled salmon they’d had at dinner. It had tasted so good going down, but fish could be tricky.
“Well,” she said. “Talk about pressure.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sure you responded by telling him to stay out of your personal affairs.” She concentrated hard on the teakettle, willing it to boil quickly.
Rafe said nothing.
A tiny shriek rose from the kettle. Close enough, she decided. Grateful for the small distraction, she hastily poured the hot water into the pot.
It was okay, she thought a moment later. She was cool now. But when she turned around with her most polished smile firmly in place, she discovered that Rafe had left the doorway and was now standing less than two feet away.
Much too close.
“I didn’t come straight out and say it in so many words.” Rafe’s eyes never left her face. “But you’re right. I made it clear that I’d do what I wanted to do.”
“As usual.”
“Yeah.”
She tried to think of something clever to say in response to that. She wound up clearing her throat
instead.
“And what do you want to do?”
“Right now I want to kiss you.”
chapter 7
She went very still. The really scary part, she realized, was that she wanted the same thing. She had a hunch that he could see it in her eyes.
She licked her lips and asked the only question that mattered. “Why?”
“Does there have to be a reason?”
“Yes.” She could feel the counter pressing against her lower back. She put her arms out on either side and gripped the curved tile edge. “Yes, I think so. Especially given the situation here.”
“Situation?”
“You. Me. Dreamscape.”
“What happens if I can’t come up with any reason except the fact that I want to kiss you?”
“The important thing,” she explained very carefully, “the really crucial thing, is that the reason, whatever it is, must have nothing to do with Dreamscape.”
He raised his hands and slowly folded them around the nape of her neck. His palms were warm and heavy against her skin. She could feel the strength in him but sensed the control. The combination was electrifying.
His thumbs moved gently just behind her ears. He eased her head back slightly and lowered his mouth to hers.
“This has nothing to do with the mansion,” he said against her lips. “You have my word on it.”
The kiss was a real one this time, not the chaste, meaningless little brush of the lips he had bestowed on her that night when he had walked her home. And it was just exactly what she had always suspected it would be: devastating.
Excitement sparked along every nerve ending. The effect was not unlike touching a match to extremely dry kindling. The flames erupted without warning, fierce and intense. A liquid heat welled somewhere in the region below her stomach. She was aware of the beat of her own heart. The breathless sensation would probably have warranted a trip to the emergency room under other circumstances.
