Portraits of her parents on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary and silver-framed graduation pictures of Jill and her stared down at her from the mantel. Her family would have liked Randolph Trent.
He inspected the stone fireplace that covered one wall. “How about a fire? I assume you still build them the same way, unless you have some magic gadget that does it for you.”
“A fire would be perfect, and we still build them the old-fashioned way, one log at a time.”
She wondered if they’d had gas logs in his day as she curled her legs beneath her in the corner of the sofa, luxuriating in the comfort of the book-lined room with its overstuffed chairs and wall of French doors that overlooked the garden. She hadn’t spent any time there since before her parents died. It had seemed so desolate without them. How could she have forgotten its reassuring, homey ambience?
Rand knelt by the elevated stone hearth, placing logs and kindling across the andirons. His jeans tightened across the hardness of his thighs and, as he reached to light the paper beneath the kindling, the muscles of his back and shoulders drew taut under his knitted pullover. When the kindling caught and fire licked the oak logs, he turned, flashing a megawatt smile that left her breathless.
He accepted the mug of coffee she handed him and settled into the opposite corner of the sofa. “This house—it’s different.”
Her breathing returned to normal, but a pleasurable warmth suffused her. “Other than electricity and modern appliances, it can’t be that different from what you’re used to. It was built in 1880.”
The space between his dark brows creased thoughtfully as he surveyed the room, then turned his probing gaze to her. “It’s not its age. More a question of atmosphere.”
She ducked her head toward her mug, blocking out the leaping flames reflected in his eyes but unable to smother the corresponding heat spreading deep inside her. She gulped the hot coffee, which seemed tepid compared to the glow spreading outward from her body’s core to her fingertips. If the atmosphere heated up any more, her whole body would go into meltdown.
She refilled her mug, hoping the caffeine would counteract whatever the wine had done to her senses. “Tell me about your home in Chicago.”
The light died in his eyes. “It’s more like a museum than a home. High ceilings, cold marble floors, Regency furniture.”
She pictured an orphaned little boy wandering the lonely corridors. “Surely as a child you had a nursery, a playroom?”
“My uncle didn’t believe in play.”
“Then what did you do for fun?”
“My uncle didn’t believe in fun, either.”
“What did your uncle believe in?” She regretted that his uncle was long dead, because she’d have loved to give the old miser a piece of her mind for depriving Rand of childhood pleasures.
“Uncle Cyrus believed in hard work—and the money that resulted from it. He taught me himself, filling my days with mathematics and languages. For entertainment we studied the financial pages. He’d give me small sums to invest and every week we’d chart my progress.”
Poor little kid. “But what about Christmas? Didn’t you believe in Santa Claus? Didn’t your uncle give you toys?”
He shook his head. “He gave the servants Christmas Day off, so we’d have a cold supper on our own.” Sadness etched his face. “But he always gave me a larger sum for investing as a Christmas present.”
His uncle sounded like a character straight from the pen of Charles Dickens. No wonder Rand thought of nothing but money. “Didn’t you miss toys and the kinds of games other children played?”
He shrugged, acting as if it hadn’t mattered. “You don’t miss what you’ve never had.”
But when she looked into the deep gray of his eyes, she read the wistfulness there. As she recalled Christmases spent in that room—the tall Scotch pine decorated with golden ornaments and red velvet bows, flickering bayberry candles, presents and laughter, hugs and kisses, and the aroma of turkey and sweet-potato pie wafting in from the kitchen—she longed to share those experiences with the man across from her.
Somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind, thoughts clamored to be released, fleeting recollections of her dependent mother and her Money Man campaign, but she couldn’t capture them through the comfortable buzz the wine had created in her head. Relaxing in the romantic glow of the fire and Rand’s stimulating presence, she rose and turned on the sound system.
Rand followed her, circling his arms around her waist from behind as she twisted a dial on the machine. He buried his face in the softness of her hair, scented like a sultry summer night. “You’re a remarkable woman, Victoria Caswell.”
Strains of music flooded the room. She turned in his arms and lifted her face to his with a shake of her head. “Just your typical female of the nineties.”
He pulled her closer, swaying to the music. “Even in these extraordinary times, I’m certain you’re different from other women.”
She laid her head against his shoulder, muffling her voice against his sweater. “What a lovely thing to say.”
As her body pressed the length of his, desire rolled through him like a tidal surge, accompanied by an overwhelming tenderness. He tightened one hand against the small of her back and smoothed her silky hair with the other.
Suddenly she pulled away and gazed at him, mischief glittering in her eyes. “What do you think is so remarkable about me?”
He resisted the impulse to kiss the tip of her upturned nose. “Fishing for compliments?”
“You started this, remember?”
He tucked her head against his shoulder and moved to the music once more. “I’ll give you a list of your attributes. Will that satisfy you?”
“Yes,” she mumbled, nestling closer.
A distant part of his mind rattled at his consciousness, berating his inappropriate behavior and neglect of business, needling him with memories of Selena, but a cheerful buzzing in his brain, probably caused by the wine, soon drowned out the unwanted thoughts. He turned his attention completely to the woman in his arms.
“Where were we?” he asked.
“The list.”
The music soared and he twirled her around the room, holding her closer with each turn. “Compassion would be at the top.”
“Compassion?” She stopped and gazed at him with puzzlement.
“Who else would have taken in a perfect stranger so readily and with such kindness? I bet you’re a sucker for stray animals.”
“You call it compassion.” Her eyes filled with laughter. “I call it insanity.”
“Whatever it is—” he brushed his lips across her forehead “—it’s irresistible.”
He caught the flush that colored her cheeks before she hid her face against his chest once more.
“Is that all?” her muffled voice teased him.
The sharp intake of his breath whistled between his teeth. “Would you like me to kiss you again?”
“I’ll take the fifth on that question. I was referring to the list. You can’t have a real list with only one word.” She moved her hands along his shoulders until cool fingers stroked the back of his neck.
He struggled to concentrate on her words. “A glutton for praise, eh?”
“One can never receive too much praise. It’s like being too rich or too thin.”
He spanned her midriff with his hands. “You’re not too thin.”
She glanced at him with eyes that reminded him of sunlight dancing on water, then playfully swatted his shoulder. “In this day and age that is not a compliment.”
Her rosy lips parted slightly with laughter, revealing small white teeth. Mesmerized, he lowered his lips, hesitantly at first. Then he crushed his mouth to hers at the welcome pressure of her response. With searching hands, he unclasped the gold barrette at her nape and buried his fingers in her flowing hair.
Tory twined her arms tighter around his neck, drawing him closer. Her knees weakened at the hot sweetness of his kiss, and
she swayed dizzily against him, gripping his shoulders to keep from falling, losing herself in the pleasurable sensations his lips ignited.
The heat of his body scorched the length of her, and his heart hammered against her breasts. Passion and desire inflamed her senses, drowning her reason in a sea of yearning.
The loud, harsh ring of the telephone broke the spell.
He drew back, gazing at her with eyes of swirling smoke. His voice seemed to come at her from a distance as she broke the surface of desire.
“What’s that?” His voice was hoarse with emotion.
Still trembling from the effects of his kiss, she pushed her hair off her face. “The telephone.”
He released her, and for a second she feared her unstable legs would collapse. She teetered to the sofa and sank into its deep cushions, waiting for her swirling senses to steady.
“Shouldn’t you answer it?”
She brushed the back of her hand across her swollen lips. “The answering machine will get it.”
“Answering machine?”
At his look of disbelief, she pulled to her feet, took him by the hand and led him into the hallway. On the maple table against the stairwell, the recorder whirred to life.
“Sorry I can’t take your call now. Please leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you,” her recorded voice announced.
“That’s you.” His eyebrows shot up in surprise.
The machine beeped and an aluminum siding salesman began his pitch. She quickly lifted the receiver and replaced it, and the obnoxious voice ceased.
Rand scratched his head as he watched her erase and rewind the tape. “Every time I think I’m becoming accustomed to modern living, I encounter a new invention. How much else is there?”
“You’ve only scratched the surface.”
His gaze burned into her. “I look forward to exploring more deeply.”
She started as the grandfather clock in the hallway struck eleven o’clock and turned away from his uncomfortable scrutiny. “We have to make an early start in the morning if we’re to meet with Smallwood at eleven. If you’ll bring up the bags, I’ll show you to your room.”
Every nerve in her body quivered with his nearness as she mounted the stairs before him. At the top, she paused. “Set my bag here, please. Your room’s in the other direction.”
Without speaking, he deposited her luggage, then followed her to the far end of the hall, where she threw open the door of the guest room.
“You should be comfortable here. I asked Nellie to put fresh linens on the bed and in the adjoining bath.”
She pointed to the bathroom door, avoiding his eyes. If only she could make it to her room and close the door before she made a total fool of herself and fell into his arms again.
He placed his bag atop the blanket chest at the foot of the bed, then turned to her. “About earlier—”
“If there’s anything else you need, my room’s at the other end of the hall.” She smiled weakly, hoping her words hadn’t sounded like an invitation, then hurried out of the room before he could respond.
She picked up her bag at the head of the stairs and lugged it into her room, throwing it onto the bed.
What was the matter with her? She’d behaved like a lovesick puppy, or worse, a love-starved woman.
Well? an inner voice taunted.
“Shut up,” she growled and went into the bathroom to throw cold water on her overheated face.
Then she removed her clothes, dressed in a brushed flannel gown, set her alarm for five o’clock and crawled between the smooth sheets of her poster bed. She’d driven over four hundred miles and her body ached with fatigue. When her head hit the pillow, she drifted off into sleep.
* * *
SHE AWOKE SUDDENLY, shivering with cold. The red digits of her alarm winked two o’clock, but she couldn’t get back to sleep with the cold draft permeating the room. Nellie must have left a window open. She rolled to the other side of the bed, threw back the covers and sat up. Her body froze at the sight before her.
Glowing in the early morning darkness, the ghost of Angelina Fairchild stood at her door.
Chapter Seven
Victoria’s scream jerked Rand from a dreamless sleep. He bolted blindly down the unlighted hallway to her room and flung open the door. Pausing on the threshold, he peered into the unbroken darkness.
“Victoria?”
Pale light flooded the room as she switched on a lamp by her bed and sat huddled against the headboard, hugging her knees to her chest beneath a flowing azure gown that matched her startled eyes.
Emotions washed over him, stronger than he’d believed possible. Foremost arose the desire to protect her, to insure that harm never touched one golden hair of her head.
“What’s wrong?” His voice, thick with sleep, sounded strange in his ears.
“Angelina was here.”
The sharp chill of the room bit into his bare chest, and he couldn’t tell if she shivered from cold or fright. “Are you certain? Maybe it was only a dream.”
She shook her head. “I was awake, and she disappeared when I screamed.”
In two long strides he crossed the room and gathered her into his arms, pulling her tightly against him to ease her shaking. Smoothing her tawny hair, he rocked her gently, like a child. “She can’t harm you. She’s only a spirit.”
“I know. But she scared the living daylights out of me. I never expected to see her here, not in my own room.” She nestled closer in his embrace, and the contact of her cheek against his bare chest sent his blood thundering through his veins.
Most women he’d known would have fainted dead away at the appearance of such a terrifying specter, but not Victoria. His admiration for her courage grew as his senses surrendered to her seductive perfume, the brightness in her eyes and the soft curves of her body pressing against him. Fighting to control the tide of passion surging through him, he lifted a finger and traced the line of her cheek.
“We have a long journey tomorrow. You need your rest.” Tenderness weighted his voice.
She stirred and stretched, glancing at the clock. “I could really use a few hours more sleep, but I can’t close my eyes now. Every time I do, I see the terrible despair on her face.”
He noted the heaviness of her eyelids and the weariness of her movements. “You’re the one who’s driving tomorrow. Go back to sleep while I keep watch.”
He stood, intending to pass the rest of the night in the chair by her bed, but she grasped his hand. “No need for both of us to lose sleep. Stay here with me.”
“Are you sure?” He searched her face for a sign of desire that matched his own and discovered only fatigue and a lingering trace of fright.
Immediately she curled on her side away from him and closed her eyes, squelching any of his lingering amorous hopes. He lifted the covers and slid in beside her, sculpting his body to hers. He slipped one arm around her narrow waist, drawing her close, hoping in her drowsy state she wouldn’t notice the hard evidence of the effect she had on him.
Slumbering, she placed her hand over his and continued the deep, steady breathing of sleep. He held her, marveling at the pleasure she brought him, contemplating her presence in his bed each night and resigning himself to storing memories of her, molded against his body like a spoon within a spoon.
His heart and head argued, the first tempting him with the possibility of spending the rest of his nights with Victoria in his arms, the latter reminding him of the importance of his meeting with Jason Phiswick and the perfidy of women.
His internal argument and Victoria’s tantalizing presence banished all possibility of sleep. A few minutes before five, he quietly left her bed and returned to his room to dress.
* * *
TORY EXITED the Atlanta bypass and entered the stream of traffic on Interstate 85 that would carry them east toward Charlotte and Raleigh. The rising sun glimmered just below the horizon of a rosy sky washed clean by yesterday’s rain.
&n
bsp; Since awakening that morning she’d avoided mentioning the past night. As she recalled Rand’s kiss, a glow crept up her cheeks, and she pledged to give up alcohol. It made her do and think too many crazy things.
But most of all, she remembered his bursting into her room after Angelina’s unexpected visit, standing beside her bed wearing only the pants of his pajamas. His thick, tangled hair had tumbled over his broad forehead, and his eyes, heavy with sleep, had glowed silver in the lamplight. The instant his arms had encircled her, her distress had vanished and she’d fallen asleep feeling secure, protected.
Past that point her recollections wavered. He hadn’t been there when she awoke. Had he really climbed into her bed and held her against him while she slept? Had she dreamed the pressure of his hard arousal searing through her flannel gown?
She thrust aside the memories and glanced at him, dozing in the seat beside her. Returning her attention to the morning traffic, she recalled the ghost of Angelina. Her scream at Angelina’s appearance had been one of surprise, not fear. She’d felt no threat from the unhappy young woman.
Rand stirred and stretched. “Where are we?”
“Almost to Greenville. There’s an exit soon. Are you ready for some coffee?”
“Sounds good. And a bite to eat.”
She repressed a smile. His idea of a snack would feed a family of four. “I’m glad you could catch up on your sleep. Sorry I awakened you in the middle of the night.”
“I’m not,” he stated bluntly. He fiddled with the radio until he captured the signal of a country music station. The sounds of dueling banjos filled the car. “Why do you think Angelina’s ghost followed you to Atlanta?”
She shrugged. “The first time I encountered her, she was searching for her lost love. Maybe she believes I can help her find him.”
“But by now he’s as dead as she is.”
“Angelina doesn’t know that. I’ve read about spirits who haunt places because of some unresolved emotional turmoil right before their deaths.”
“What places?”
“The South is full of them—houses, railroad crossings, bridges, even mountains. When I was a little girl, I once read an entire book just on North Carolina’s ghosts.”
It's About Time Page 9
