The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 4

by Nora Roberts

  “Come on up a little. The steps are fine.” He took her hand, drew her up. “Structurally it’s in pretty good shape. Some this, some that. But mostly it’s cosmetic.”

  “It’s going to take a lot of Max Factor, Duncan.”

  “Max…right, right. Got it. Yeah, it needs a lot of makeup, but I’ve got ideas about that. One of them’s about curb appeal, you could say. Your place—Mac Namara House?—it’s got excellent curb appeal. I hear you do all the gardening around there.”

  “Most of it.” She pulled a bottle of water out of her purse, offered it.

  “You carry water in your purse?”

  “I could open a small sundry shop with what I carry in my purse. I have no idea how you men get along with just pockets. Would you like it? I have two.”

  “No. Thanks. I’m good. Ah…gardening. Your gardening.”

  “Mmm.” Taking a sip of water, Ava noted the tangled mess of the front lawn, and the viciously healthy bindweed that dominated. “Essie putters a little. Phoebe barely has time to do more than yank a few weeds now and then. I enjoy it most, so I do the most.”

  “I like to garden.”

  “Do you?” Now she looked at him with a smile.

  “Found it out when I started fooling around with the house I—the house I live in. I’m not too bad. You’re a whole lot better. So I thought maybe you might be able to help me out here.”

  “Here?”

  “I’m thinking we’ll have to start pretty much from scratch. Mostly what’s here has gone woody, or it’s dead, except for the weeds, of course. They need a good killing. We’d want some new foundation plants for sure and something splashy. Maybe a dwarf blooming something—little weeper maybe—on the side there. A trailing vine up the trellis.”

  Baffled, Ava studied the sorrowful house. “What trellis?”

  “The one I think we should put up. Or an arbor. I got a fondness for arbors.” Imagining, he jiggled the change in his pockets. “Then there’s pots and window boxes. A lot of big—and let’s go splashy again—pots and window boxes. And there’s a space around the back? It’s small, and I’m thinking a little patio with a pretty little table and chairs, that kind of thing. Needs a couple of beds to frame it in. Potted trees, so on so on. So, think you can help me out?”

  “I’m confused. You want me to help you landscape this place?”

  “I’m looking to hire you to landscape this place.”

  Because the breath stuck in her throat, Ava took a long drink to clear it. “Duncan…Why would you think I could take on a project like this? I’m not a landscaper. I just do some gardening.”

  He did a little gardening, Duncan thought. What Ava did was what Essie did with hook and yarn. She created art. “I don’t want a landscaper here, exactly. Nothing against them, not a thing. I want something homey, but a little dramatic. Individual. I like what you’ve done to the Jones Street place. That’s what I’m looking for here. I’ve got pictures.”

  He pulled a folder from a briefcase on the steps, pushed them at her. “Of the house, the grounds—such as they are, the verandas, so on. And I worked up some of the basic ideas I have in mind. Not set in stone, but ideas. And the budget I was thinking of.”

  Curiosity got the best of her, so she opened the folder, paged through until she got to the budget. “I’m going to sit down here on these steps.”

  “Okay.” He sat down with her. He did love sitting on a step or a stoop in the city and just watching life go by. So he was content enough to do just that as she was silent for several moments.

  “Duncan, I think you must be an awfully sweet man, but you may have a mental problem.” When he laughed, she shook her head. “You don’t offer a major project like this to someone who isn’t proven.”

  “Well, major’s relative. I have a major project elsewhere, which maybe we’ll talk about some other time. I want this to look like a home.” He wanted the life that went by to see it as one. “That’s how I see what you’ve done. I know something about gardening, and—”

  She snorted, jabbed a finger. “Tell me half a dozen of the plants you’ve seen at Mac Namara house.”

  “Well, you’ve got that one urn thing on the veranda with heliotrope and that dark red phlox, with the lobelia and the sweet alyssum.” He moved on to another pot, on to the shrubs and beds in the front.

  She studied him now, her eyes narrowed behind shaded lenses. “Did you write all that down?”

  “I notice things, especially if they interest me. You could think about it. I’ve got a couple weeks before I have to lock this in. Maybe you’ll come up with some ideas, and we can kick them around. I could…” He glanced at his watch, winced. “But I’ve gotta get on. Phoebe’s coming for dinner in a couple hours so I’ve got to…”

  “Get on,” Ava murmured. “I think I’ll just sit here a bit longer, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Sure, poke around.” He rose, turned and studied the house again. “I’d really like to bring her back. Just give it some thought, all right?”

  “I’ll give it some thought.”

  She sat, after he’d gotten into his car and pulled away. She sat, thinking he must be a crazy man. Then she stood, studied the house, walked carefully around the sagging veranda.

  She thought of the yard she’d had in that tidy subdivision in West Chatham. How she’d loved turning it into a showpiece. How she’d hauled soil, fertilizer, peat moss. How she’d dug, and planted, and sweated and weeded. Making her home, she remembered. Making it picture perfect, without a clue that there was a snake in her garden. Not a clue that she’d have to walk away from the dreamscape she’d imagined and worked so hard to create.

  Wouldn’t it be something if she could do this? If she could scrape away all the dead, all the ugly, and make something beautiful here? For no reason other than the beauty.

  Yes, she decided. It was something to think about.

  15

  She’d nearly talked herself out of going to Duncan’s. Which, of course, would be insane. She wanted to go. She really,really wanted to finish what they’d started on his veranda a few nights before.

  But Sensible Phoebe elected to debate with Needy Phoebe—and damn her, had made some very valid points on the way home from work, during the change-for-date process and even now on the drive to the island portion of the evening.

  They should get to know each other better. He was, no question, an appealing, interesting man. But what was the rush? Wouldn’t it be more rational—read: safer—to have a few more dates in public venues before haring off to his house when and where the end result was inevitable?

  She could argue with that, and did. She liked him, she enjoyed him, she was strongly attracted to him physically. She was thirty-three.

  But really, what did she know about him—under the surface of things? For all she knew he might be the type who used that affability of his like a weapon and knocked susceptible females over on a weekly basis. He could be the male version of Celene’s mother, busily juggling. Did she want to be one of his balls in the air?

  What the hell difference did it make? Couldn’t she date a man—couldn’t she sleep with a man—without demanding or expecting absolute exclusivity? She deserved some fun and some companionship—and some goddamn sex—in her personal life.

  So shut the hell up.

  He meddled. At least it could be construed as meddling by someone with her twin antennae of cynicism and suspicion humming. An outlet for her mother’s needlework, a gardening job for Ava. What was next? Would he offer to buy a shoe store for Carly?

  Of course that was ridiculous. It was overreacting. It was overprotective. Certainly neither her mother nor Ava considered the opportunities offered meddling. And it wasn’t as if they weren’t particularly skilled at the arts and crafts he’d provided a channel for.

  The problem was she could twist his actions, this relationship, the entire mass of it all into any of several forms. If she were going to be obsessive and picky about it.
Instead of just taking a chance, enjoying the moment.

  Besides, she was too close to his house now to turn back like some nervous idiot and bolt for home.

  They’d talk, they’d simply talk about what was going on, about what this business with Ava was really about. They’d eat some pizza, maybe drink some wine, and have a mature, adult conversation about where—if anywhere—they might be going.

  If Sensible Phoebe wasn’t satisfied with that, she could get the hell out of the car and walk home.

  It occurred to her as she turned into Duncan’s drive that the first time she’d seen his house she’d been traumatized. The second time it had been after dusk. Seeing it now, in full light, with all her wits about her, was a different experience.

  It was gorgeous, all those tall windows with the carved white trim against the pale, beachy blue of the wood. The sweep of terraces and verandas. And, of course, the sturdy elegance of the portico with its white columns. Where they’d very nearly taken an action that would have turned her recent debate to dust.

  The charm of that widow’s walk where she could easily imagine standing to look out at marsh and salt flat, at garden, at river.

  And, of course, the gardens. The heaps and flows, the spikes and trails. She had to concede the man knew gardens, or hired a fleet of people who did. Which was one and the same, really. A man didn’t have to dig and plant, to prune and weed, to appreciate the power of a lovely landscape.

  The result was a gorgeous little slice of island living, sun and shade, bloom and fragrance, green and color all swirling around a house that managed to be grand and homey at the same time.

  It took vision, she supposed, to pull that off.

  She strolled along the walk, enjoying the dreamy, romantic sensation, and hoped they’d have that wine, that pizza and conversation, out on the veranda with the warm, moist air and those heady fragrances stirred up by the breeze.

  He opened the door before she reached it, stood framed by that white trim, watching her walk toward him.

  “I feel like I should be wearing a flowing white gown,” she called out, “and a wide-brimmed hat—like this dead-ringer-for-Julia-Roberts transvestite I had a nice chat with yesterday. Only my hat should be trimmed with violets, I think—tucked into the band, and ribbons trailing.”

  “You look pretty perfect just the way you are, even if you aren’t—far as I know—a transvestite.”

  “She might’ve been a transsexual. I didn’t like to ask on so short an acquaintance.”

  “Either way. I like the dress.”

  “Thanks.” It might have been something she often hauled out for PTA meetings, but at the moment the simple cotton felt pretty perfect. “You’ve had a busy day.”

  “It’s all relative.” He held out a hand to take hers, to bring her inside.

  She didn’t see it coming. So much, she’d think later, for instincts—cop or woman. But right at that moment, with her back up against the door and his mouth hot on hers, thinking wasn’t part of the equation.

  She might’ve put her hands on his shoulders in a gesture of whoa there, wait a minute pal, but they slid right up until her arms were locked around his neck.

  And waiting was done.

  His hands dove into her hair, skimmed over her shoulders, molded down her body with such purpose and skill that any idea ofwhoa went straight out the window, and kept on flying.

  Sensible Phoebe didn’t have a prayer.

  Hesmelled so good, and felt even better—hard and tough and male. With her mouth under assault and her blood flashing from comfortably warm to desperately hot, her body ruled the moment.

  He might have stopped—if she’d pulled out a gun and held it to his head, he might’ve stopped. But he heard, in some dim part of his brain, her purse hit the floor with a single hard thump.

  Then she locked around him, those strong bare arms, and her teeth nipped and gnawed on his bottom lip. She moaned; she quivered. And her scent seemed to rise from light, teasing invitation to will-snapping opiate.

  He slid her dress up, up, up those gorgeous legs, ran his hand over warm flesh, over the thin lacy bit that covered her. Under it.

  Not warm here, but hot. Hot and wet and open. Her hips pumped, pressed, and she came on a low, feral groan that shot straight to his belly. Her fingers dug in, a hard bite on his shoulders.

  Then they were pushing between their bodies, tugging at the button of his fly.

  Now, now, now. Right this minute. Oh God! She didn’t know if she said it out loud or just thought it. The sensations careening inside her flew too fast, too high for any kind of resistance, any hope of sanity. She wasn’t entirely sure she could survive another ten seconds if he wasn’t inside her.

  And when he was, when he drove into her, she didn’t give a damn about survival.

  Fast, right on the edge of violent, thrust after thrust. It filled up places she’d forgotten had been empty, fired up places she’d forgotten had gone cool. It was an onslaught, and thank God for it.

  Nothing strapped down now, nothing sensible. He had her arms over her head, wrists cuffed with his hand, her skirt hiked to her waist. He battered her against the front door until the orgasm simply shredded her to pieces.

  And with his own release his breath was ragged in her ear. He braced her against the door. She realized when her head cleared a little it was as much to keep his own balance as to hold her up.

  “Thanks,” she managed.

  “It was at least fifty percent my pleasure.”

  When she wheezed out a laugh, he eased back, studying her face as he brushed her hair aside. “I had a different order of business in mind. Initially.”

  She could nearly focus again, and oh God, she loved the color of his eyes. “Order of business.”

  “You know, a couple of adult beverages on the veranda, or walking around the gardens. Some dinner with conversation. Then I realized I’d just be thinking about sex through all that, which would spoil my appetite.”

  He ran a hand up her leg as he spoke, had her quivering once more. And gently smoothed her skirts back into place. “That’s one thing,” he continued, “but I believed you might very well be in the same frame of mind. Here I’d be having you over for dinner and spoiling your appetite. That’s no way to treat a guest.”

  “I see. So am I to understand we just had at each other against your front door because you didn’t want to be rude?”

  He grinned at her. “Absolutely. Only reason. Steady yet?”

  “I think so.”

  He stepped back, glanced down. Bending he picked up her ripped panties. He said, “Oops.”

  She laughed. “I don’t know why I bothered to put on good underwear.”

  “They were momentarily appreciated. I could lend you a pair of boxers.”

  “I’ll pass on that, thanks all the same. I’ll just use the bathroom for a minute.”

  “Yeah, sure. Listen, Phoebe…” Absently he stuffed the torn panties in his back pocket. “Included in that original order of business was my intention to suit up a bit more formally.”

  She stared at him, a quizzical smile on her face. Then it sank in, the smile dropped away to a look of stunned realization. “Oh. Oh, God.”

  “I stopped thinking,” he began. “I’m—”

  “It was mutual, as much me as you.” Stunned, she rubbed the space between her breasts where her heart gave a couple of hard knocks. “I take the pill, but—”

  “But,” he said with a nod. “I can only tell you I’m habitually a hell of a lot more careful. We can exchange blood tests if you’re worried. I can tell you, too, that’s the first time that front door’s been used in such an interesting manner. I may have it bronzed, but meanwhile, I’m sorry, and I’m willing to sacrifice a vial of blood if it gives you peace of mind.”

  “Let’s just say we’ll be more careful from this point.”

  “Okay.”

  She picked up the purse she’d dropped. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
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br />   She got a good look at herself in the bathroom mirror. Flushed, the sleepy cat-that-gulped-a pint-of-cream eyes, hair tumbled. All well and good, she thought. And God knew ithad been good. But she wasn’t allowed to be that reckless, and couldn’t be again. Next date, she promised herself, there would be condoms in her purse.

  When she came out he wasn’t in the foyer, or the front parlor. She called out his name as she started to wander, then followed the answer to a room off the kitchen. Party room, she decided. A grand old bar, lots of cushy seating, framed posters of what she saw were reproductions of old magazine ads. All deco and stylized.

  There was a card table that looked to be an antique like the bar, and display cabinets filled with this and that. Some of the this, she noted with amusement, were Pez dispensers.

  “The gentlemen’s club,” she said.

  “Sort of.” He came around the bar with two glasses of wine. “Hungry?”

  “I think you already took care of that.”

  His grin was quick and pleased. “That’s good because I called in for the pizza, but I told them to bring it around in about an hour. Thought you might like to have a drink outside, maybe in the garden. Watch the sun go down.”

  “That’s exactly what I’d like.”

  She went with him through a set of French doors onto the back veranda. And there, scanning, she took a sip of wine. “Nice—the wine,” she qualified. “The rest? It’s like a little piece of fairyland, isn’t it?”

  “Lots of secret places. I got carried away with it once I really started.”

  “So…” She stepped down, crossed the patio. “Why aren’t you hiring whoever designed and created this to design and create the gardens you want at this shop you’re planning?”

  “You talked to Ava.”

  “She’s terrified and thrilled in equal measure.”

  “Well, here’s the thing. This? I sort of designed some of it. Not really designed, but fiddled around. I had help, and it’s kind of evolved and shifted and changed its original layout.”

  “Whatever the original, this suits you.” Phoebe turned a slow circle. “Fanciful, as I said, and its lack of formality enhances the charm.”