by Laura Moore
Not exactly her style.
Still, the house represented an important example of Warburg’s rich architectural history. Jordan loved the eclectic character of her hometown, and, without question, the over-the-top showiness definitely appealed to some.
Jordan pulled the Rover up next to a silver Mercedes, killed the engine, and checked her reflection in the rearview mirror. She quickly retouched her lipstick and smoothed a stray lock away from her face. Drawing a deep breath, she climbed out of the car. It was time to charm the dragon lady.
A MAID in a gray, white-aproned uniform opened the door and led Jordan to the living room. Nonie Harrison, seated on a raspberry-and-gold-striped sofa, rose when Jordan was announced and came around the sofa to press her too-taut cheek fleetingly against Jordan’s—Warburg’s interpretation of a welcoming kiss.
“Jordan, dear, how good of you to come. It’s been ages since we’ve seen each other.”
“How well you look, Nonie. That color blue is wonderful on you.”
“Thank you. I picked it up at Worth when I was in New York last week.” She fingered the raw silk tunic that she’d paired with dark gold palazzo pants. Addressing the maid she said, “Sonia, please bring us some champagne.”
The maid nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Harrison.” And she left the room.
“Come sit by me so I can take a look at you.” She patted the sofa with a manicured hand, then turned toward her as Jordan obliged. “Well, who wouldn’t have a few extra lines after the horrors you’ve been through this year? But you really must try and take better care of yourself. The seaweed masque at True Beauty works wonders. And ask for Trina. She’s marvelous.”
“Thank you.” Jordan managed to keep her smile in place, knowing that this was only the first of many such digs she would receive during the course of their lunch. Nonie was never one to worry about others’ feelings, and no subject was off-limits to Nonie, no matter how private or painful.
“And how are the children holding up? Are they very miserable, the poor darlings?”
Case in point. “How kind of you to ask. They’re doing very well. Olivia’s getting bigger every day, and Kate and Max are very happy at their preschool. All three adore their aunts Margot and Jade. And like all Radcliffes, they’ve become horse mad. Jade is teaching Max and Kate to ride. And now Olivia’s starting to get rides, too.”
“You are so good to trust Jade with your precious angels. It shocks me how wild and unpredictable teens are these days. And Jade with that hair! It must be such a trial for you, wondering what she’ll do next.”
Had she not needed this decorating commission, she would have thoroughly enjoyed giving Nonie a piece of her mind. But starting a business in this economy was no easy task. At this stage she couldn’t pick her clients, and alienating Nonie would be tantamount to professional suicide. While she might not be able to retaliate, she didn’t intend to roll over for her, either.
“You’re absolutely right. Jade is always surprising us—and with more than her hair color. Margot and I were bowled over when Mr. Farkas, the high school principal, told us that she’d scored so high on her achievement tests that she’d qualified for a National Merit Scholarship. With that and her riding, I think she’ll have a nice pick of colleges to choose from next year.”
Nonie’s lips pursed ever so slightly.
Jordan had only a moment to savor her successful parry, for Sonia entered the living room, balancing a tray laden with a bottle of champagne and cut-crystal champagne flutes. Then she noticed the tall, dark-haired man who’d followed Sonia into the living room and the fact that there were three glasses set on the tray.
Had someone else been invited? She’d been led to believe that this lunch—champagne notwithstanding—would be very much an interview for the job.
Nonie, too, had spied the newcomer. She stood with an exclamation of delight. “Owen, darling! You made it! How good of you to make room for me in your busy day.”
Trotting over to him, she gave this Owen person an enthusiastic smooch, laughing coquettishly at the geranium-red smudge she left on his lean cheek. Nonie was more than happy to dispense with arid cheek presses when a handsome man was involved.
And handsome he was, even when wiping lipstick traces off his face with a pocket handkerchief, she conceded. Well-dressed, too, in dark gray flannels and a blue blazer that were both impeccably tailored; the dark brown leather shoes that peeked from beneath his trouser cuffs were polished and buffed. It took only a second more for her to catalog his thick, closely cropped hair, the strong line of his profile, and the confidence of his bearing to understand why Nonie was gushing over him.
“Jordan, do come here and meet my darling Owen.”
With an inward sigh, Jordan stood and approached Nonie and her “darling” Owen, aware that with every step she advanced, the man’s chiseled good looks came into sharper relief. It occurred to her that with the exception of Travis, her brother-in-law, she hadn’t been exposed to a really handsome man in months. No great loss, however. Thanks to Richard, Jordan was immune to men.
“Owen, this is Jordan Ste—”
“Radcliffe,” she corrected automatically.
“Yes, of course,” she said with a tiny smile. “This is Jordan Radcliffe. She’s starting her very own interior design company and is here to give me some ideas for the cottage. Jordan, this is Owen Gage.”
The name threw her. Owen Gage? Surely not—oh, Lord, it must be. Hadn’t the buzz a while back been that Nonie had hired Gage & Associates to do the renovations on the guest house? Of course Jordan had heard of him. She made a point of buying Antique House and Architectural Digest whenever his restoration and design projects were featured.
But why had Nonie invited him today? Dumb question. Although Owen Gage must be twenty years her junior, Nonie had always been a fool for good-looking men.
“Hello, Miss Radcliffe.” His tenor had a gravelly rumble to it, as textured as his gold-flecked brown eyes.
“How do you do?” She must have put her hand out for him to shake, for suddenly it was wrapped in his own. An unwelcome jolt of surprise coursed through her at the feel of his warm skin pressed against hers. For what should be a strictly formal gesture, the sensation struck her as far too intimate. She tensed, only just managing to stifle the urge to snatch her hand away.
At the flash of amusement in his deep-set eyes, she knew he’d felt her instinctive reaction to his touch. His firm lips curled and a dimple appeared by the corner of his mouth. “I’m very well, thank you,” he replied, only then freeing her hand.
Owen Gage might be an excellent architect and builder, capable of exceptionally fine restorations, but he was a shade too cocky for her taste. He obviously believed he was God’s gift to women. She returned his smile with a cool, unimpressed look before fixing her attention on her hostess.
“When Owen mentioned he’d be in town today, I couldn’t resist asking him to lunch,” Nonie told her brightly. “He did such a marvelous job on the guest cottage. You have heard of Owen, haven’t you, Jordan?”
“Of course.” As if she could claim to be a decorator and not know that his restoration projects had won awards from preservation societies in the D.C. and Virginia areas. “I’m a great admirer of your work, Mr. Gage.”
“Thank you. It’s always good to know my neighbors appreciate my firm’s work.”
Neighbor? What was he talking about?
At her frown of confusion, he clarified, “I recently bought Hawk Hill. I’m hoping to bring the house back to its original glory.”
“You personally bought the house?” Nonie asked.
“Yes, whenever I happen upon a house that’s on the market and interests me in terms of the period or design, I buy it, restore it, and then sell it. It’s something I do on the side. A hobby.”
“Quite a profitable one I’m sure,” Nonie cooed.
Owen Gage shrugged. “It’s a chance to do the restoration work exactly as I choose.”
Jorda
n was silent, busy absorbing the fact that she was looking at her new, albeit temporary, neighbor. She hadn’t realized the Barrons had managed to sell Hawk Hill. Not that her ignorance was a big surprise, considering how preoccupied she’d been making sure Kate and Max were adjusting to their new lives at Rosewood, as well as coming to terms with the idea that the man she’d loved for nine years had been willing to destroy their marriage.
Hawk Hill must be in a rather sad state. The house had been sitting empty for more than a year now, the Barrons having been forced to move into an assisted-living community after John was paralyzed by a severe stroke. Though it would have been nice to hear from their closest neighbors that they’d sold their property, Jordan could hardly blame Nancy Barron, a quiet and reclusive woman, for not telephoning. If they were ever forced to sell Rosewood, Jordan couldn’t imagine being eager to share the painful news with others. And Hawk Hill was just as old and fine a property as Rosewood.
“I can’t wait to see it when you’re finished. I know you’ll do a superb job, Owen,” Nonie said.
“I hope Miss Radcliffe will think so, too.”
“I’m sure the renovation will be very impressive, Mr. Gage,” she returned politely.
“Do let’s dispense with this stuffy ‘Mr.’ and ‘Miss,’ which Jordan isn’t any longer. Though I hope you’re not calling yourself ‘Ms.’ now. I’ve always considered that beyond hideous-sounding! Besides, if we’re drinking champagne, we should all be on a first-name basis. It’s so much more deliciously intimate. N’est-ce pas, Owen?”
Jordan suppressed a gag at Nonie’s overt flirting.
If Owen Gage was bothered by their hostess’s manner, he didn’t show it. He merely inclined his dark head and said, “Absolutely, Nonie.”
But when he turned to her with a smile, she once again detected an unholy spark of amusement in his brown eyes. “Since we’re now officially on a first-name basis, Jordan, may I coax an invitation from you to visit Rosewood?”
“Oh, yes, Jordan, you simply must have Owen over! He’s a treasure trove of information when it comes to these old houses.”
Jordan managed an anemic smile. As proud as she was of Rosewood, it was completely illogical of her to wish that she could ban Owen Gage from stepping foot inside her beautiful home. But right now she couldn’t care less that he was widely praised for the meticulous attention he gave to restoring historic homes. The man made her hackles rise. Just knowing that he’d occasionally have to be at Hawk Hill in order to supervise the restoration work was irksome. Hawk Hill, a mere trail ride through the woods from Rosewood, was far too close.
“My family and I would be pleased to have you visit Rosewood, Mr. Gage.” Dear Lord, how many lies would she utter for the sake of politeness before this lunch was over? And how infuriating that he seemed to see through her dissembling, as if he’d known her forever instead of five minutes.
“Owen,” he reminded her with that dimpled, too charming smile. “I’ll hold you to that invitation, Jordan.”
Terrific.
Just then Sonia returned to announce that lunch was served, and she once again found herself having to ignore the warmth of his touch when he wrapped his hand about her elbow to escort her and Nonie into the dining room.
She could thank him for one thing. Whereas previously she had been nervous about having to pitch her ideas to Nonie, now she couldn’t wait to get through lunch and begin discussing how best to decorate the guest cottage. Then at least she’d have the satisfaction of saying good-bye to him.
The lunch verged on inedible. The poached salmon was rubbery, the asparagus drastically overcooked, and one bite of the cloyingly sweet key lime pie that Nonie served for dessert had made Owen’s teeth ache. Just as syrupy and distasteful had been Nonie’s “dear” and “darling” every time she addressed him.
Yet surprisingly Owen was enjoying himself. The chance to sit across the china-and-silver-laden table from Jordan Radcliffe more than made up for the meal’s deficiencies.
Owen studied the woman seated across from him. A man who appreciated contrasts, he could not help finding her fascinating. Such a curious mix of social poise and palpable hostility. And for a woman with more prickle than a cactus, she had the smoothest, silkiest skin imaginable. She also happened to live in one of the finest houses in Virginia. This fact alone made Ms. Jordan Radcliffe extremely worthy of his attention.
Guessing what a lunch at Nonie Harrison’s would be like, he’d made every attempt to avoid it. But then she dangled the promise of Jordan Radcliffe’s presence. He would dutifully eat an entire platter of overboiled asparagus for the chance to step inside Rosewood. The house was rumored to be a near-pristine example of Greek Revival architecture in Virginia, passed down through generations of Radcliffes. The family had apparently never deemed it necessary to alter the home built by their ancestor, the storied Francis Radcliffe. To the architectural historian in Owen, visiting a house like Rosewood was like mining the mother lode.
He’d seen a few tantalizing glimpses of the house in a Vogue photo spread that an assistant had brought into his Alexandria office to show him. One of the Radcliffe sisters was a fashion model and had agreed to a photo shoot in the ancestral home. Now he remembered seeing in the spread a picture of Jordan, as well. That he should have noticed her at all was nothing less than remarkable. He’d been scouring the photographs for details of her ancestral home, not for images of its owners.
Indeed, if someone had asked Owen a mere hour ago which would hold greater interest, meeting a direct descendant of Francis Radcliffe, who’d commissioned Rosewood in 1840, or getting a chance to explore the mansion inside and out, his answer would have been immediate. I’ll take door number two.
But that was before he’d met Jordan. To say he found her intriguing was an understatement. When he’d shaken her hand earlier, he’d felt the slight trembling of her fingers clasped in his and caught the flash of feminine awareness in her wide blue eyes. Yet rather than acknowledge that they were two individuals who recognized a spark of attraction between them—he was always more than happy to admit any interest in a beautiful woman—she had abruptly gone all prickly on him.
Her dislike seemed a bit too determined when all they’d done was shake hands, and so to Owen she was that much more interesting. From Nonie’s pointed comment, he’d already figured out that she was divorced, so what was the big deal?
Owen didn’t consider himself particularly conceited, but he was rather accustomed to being liked by the opposite sex. He was decent-looking. He took care of his teeth and trimmed his nails. It wasn’t hard to keep in shape by supplementing the manual labor he put in on his renovation projects with visits to the gym. But most likely the reason women seemed to gravitate toward him was because he’d always been comfortable around them. It was a trait developed early, fostered by the long string of au pairs and nannies his parents hired to care for him as they traveled the world.
By the age of six, Owen had already tapped into the winning combination of using the right words and a few disarming grins to convince almost any woman to do his bidding. Back then, he’d basically been aiming for another slice of cake and an extra half-hour of playtime in the park. At thirty-six, his tastes had evolved, but he still greatly enjoyed playtime.
The women he dated did, too.
Jordan Radcliffe, of the flawless skin, fathomless blue eyes, auburn hair, and willowy figure, was doing everything she could to let him know she wasn’t remotely interested in engaging with him in any kind of activity, recreational or otherwise. Indeed, from the conspicuous lack of interest she displayed, she was letting him know that she considered him about as interesting as dry rot … actually, probably less.
Perhaps it was for the best. He made it a point to avoid women who fairly screamed complicated, no matter how petal-soft their skin. He preferred his affairs to be straightforward, mutually enjoyable, and brief. Brevity was key. Let a relationship continue too long and the woman developed an unfortunate ten
dency to make plans.
And the only plans that interested him were architectural. He’d worked his hide off to make Owen Gage & Associates one of the best architectural preservation firms in the area. While he liked contrasts and depth in art and architecture, he had no intention of making room in his life for a woman who had “complexity” written all over her.
A shame, because Jordan Radcliffe smelled really good. Owen was still trying to identify the beguiling scent he’d breathed in as he’d escorted her to the dining room and then held her chair for her. The fragrance was light and fresh and, well, he couldn’t pinpoint exactly what made it so different from the perfumes women generally favored, but he liked it.
He told himself he should be grateful that she’d made it abundantly clear she didn’t want him anywhere near her sweet-smelling self. Otherwise he might be tempted to ignore his established rules of engagement.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like another cup of coffee, Jordan?”
“No, thank you, Nonie. Lunch was absolutely delicious.”
Nonie immediately switched her attention back to him, and as he was seated opposite Jordan, he caught the sneak peek she gave her wristwatch. The tiny slip in manners made him grin. She’d been the epitome of politeness throughout the meal—a careful, formal etiquette that he suspected she used as a shield. The possibility that Jordan might be as bored as he by Nonie’s monopoly of the conversation made Owen wonder what else went on behind that perfect front.
“And you, Owen, darling? More coffee?” Nonie asked.
“Not for me either, thanks. I should be going—”
“Oh, but you must stay. I planned to take Jordan to the cottage and hear her ideas for how I might decorate it. I want you to come, too.”
The stunned look on Jordan’s face must have mirrored his own. He’d gotten to know Nonie Harrison fairly well over the months his team had worked on restoring her guest cottage, but she continued to amaze him. Was she really that ignorant of the basic notions of professional courtesy? Probably not, he concluded. A spoiled rich woman, she simply wanted what she wanted and never saw any reason why she shouldn’t have it.
