by Laura Moore
The chime of the doorbell interrupted her next sentence. “Okay, guys,” she said, closing the book. “You sit tight while I answer the door. I’ll be right back.”
“Who is it, Mommy?” Kate asked, scooting onto her knees to accompany her to the door.
“Probably the DHL man with an envelope for Aunt Margot.”
Her answer had Kate flopping back down onto the stuffed animal–littered floor. The kids were more than used to the comings and goings of the DHL man delivering envelopes and picking up signed contracts.
“Will he have pictures of her?”
“I imagine so.” Earlier in the week, Margot had flown to New York for two whirlwind days of photo shoots for Marc Jacobs. “But we’ll have to wait until later to look at them, when we’re all done riding and Aunt Margot’s finished with her work at the barn.”
The doorbell rang again.
“Back in a sec,” she promised. Crawling through the tent’s flaps, she got to her feet and hurried to the door.
Opening it, she was greeted by a riot of lush pinks and lavenders with bright spots of yellow.
“Oh!” she gasped at the enormous bouquet, which arced in a profusion of pink peonies, purple lilacs, tuberoses, sweet pea, and brilliant yellow freesia. “How beautiful.” Her gaze swept down to note black-trousered legs and polished loafers. She looked up again to find Owen Gage gazing back at her.
Every muscle in Jordan’s face tightened.
“Oh.” The exclamation was toneless this time. After what she’d done earlier today, he was the last man she had thought or hoped to see again.
“Here, a peace offering.”
When she made no move to take the flowers, he extended them a fraction more, and she caught a hint of their heady fragrance. She inhaled again.
“Come on, show a little mercy. I really am sorry.” The corner of his mouth lifted in the beginning of one of those compelling smiles that for some reason never failed to make her insides do a little flip-flop.
She narrowed her eyes. “What exactly are you apologizing for?”
“I’m not sure,” he admitted, unabashed. “Though I’m assuming it has something to do with Nonie Harrison and her blasted cottage.”
“You took my ideas for the interior and are using them on the cottage,” she accused flatly.
The slight tightening of his lips was the only outward sign that her comment stung. His voice remained calm. “My interior designer has been offering her own suggestions for the cottage, but Nonie’s apparently quite taken with your ideas. So far she seems bent on following through with your every recommendation. Believe me, I’m not happy about the situation, and obviously I’d like her to be more receptive to Emily’s ideas because she’s got a terrific eye. But there’s not a lot we can do when a client’s mind is set. For what it’s worth, I am truly sorry about the entire business.”
Jordan refused to be mollified. “Nonie’s going around telling people that you’re the one who came up with the design ideas.”
“Ahh. Well, I can promise you that while we may be doing the work on the cottage’s interior, no one at Gage and Associates is claiming credit for the interior design. Emily has plenty of other projects that demonstrate her talent. So you’ll have to go and pour iced tea on Nonie if you want to avenge yourself for that particular wrong.”
Color rushed to her cheeks. She knew it was her turn now to apologize for having dumped her drink on him. She wished she didn’t have to. She wished, too, that his explanation of the events wasn’t so reasonable. Of course Owen wasn’t going around claiming her ideas for himself. He didn’t need to. Any interior designer who worked for Gage & Associates would be top-notch. It would be churlish to hold this situation with Nonie Harrison against him, when it was clear who the guilty party was. The thought of marching up to Nonie and tossing iced tea into her botoxed face made the corners of Jordan’s mouth lift in a reluctant smile.
Taking a breath, she straightened her shoulders. “I apologize for losing my, um, temper. I don’t usually do that sort of thing. I’d be happy to pay the dry-cleaning bill if I stained your shirt.”
He inclined his head. “Apology accepted,” he said simply. “And I pay for my own dry cleaning. Now, are you going to accept my humble peace offering?” He took a step forward so that the blooms of the massive bouquet were tantalizingly close.
The man was dangerously clever. He knew that the flowers were too beautiful to resist. A bouquet like this must have cost him a tidy bundle. If this was his idea of a humble peace offering, she wondered what he did when he really screwed up.
When she made no immediate move to take it, he added cajolingly, “I had the florist cut the stems. They’ll need to be put in water very soon.”
Right. If she wasn’t going to get a commission any time soon, she might as well console herself with a truly gorgeous floral arrangement. Meeting his gaze defiantly, she reached out to relieve him of the flowers only to realize she was still holding on to the flashlight and book.
“Here, take these,” she said, handing them to him in exchange for the cellophane and raffia–wrapped bouquet. His startled expression gave her a sweet sense of satisfaction. How nice to see the smooth Owen Gage caught off balance.
“Come on inside,” she said, stepping back into the foyer. “Feel free to take a look around while I go find a vase—I know that seeing Rosewood’s a principal reason why you’re here.”
Jordan sorely underestimated her own appeal if she believed that, Owen thought. She’d been on his mind far too often these past two weeks, and somehow every encounter with her left him more intrigued. This despite the warning signs that with any other woman would have had him staying very much away.
He told himself that he kept ignoring all his well-honed instincts because she was uncommonly beautiful.
That was true. Even now he found his eyes fixed on her retreating form. She was barefoot of all things, with her long legs encased in black breeches that ended mid-calf. She looked as fine walking away from him as she had staring up at him with her wide blue eyes. He could now add the fact that she possessed a very lovely ass to the growing list of attractions he’d compiled about her. With her hair pulled into a casual ponytail and her torso hugged by a snug-fitting top, she looked far too young to be the mother of three … far too sexy as well.
He eyed the book in his hand. Charming title. Had she been reading it as a sermon? The book obviously meant the kids must be lurking somewhere in the house. But what the hell was the flashlight for? he wondered as he stepped across the threshold into the foyer.
But then he beheld the majestic circular staircase with the stained-glass oculus centered above it, and the architect in Owen took over, crowding out the specter of fighting and biting rugrats and the puzzle of what one used flashlights for in the middle of the day.
One didn’t have to be an architect to get lost in the beauty of the house. Its exquisite details hearkened back to a golden age of craftsmanship and design. The examples were everywhere—from the inlaid star pattern in the center of the foyer’s parquet floor to the intricate carving of the door surrounds—and as he looked about he couldn’t help but feel awed. Stepping into the rooms was like stepping back in time.
To his right was the double parlor, its length divided by a screen of slender Corinthian columns, and in the center of each space hung matching crystal chandeliers. Sheer white curtains covered the windows, and where the windows had been thrown open to let in the fresh air, they billowed and shifted like ghosts coming home. Though he wasn’t into whimsy or Ouija boards, he found Rosewood the type of place to inspire thoughts of ancestors who roamed the rooms. The ghosts would be happy here, their spirits at rest in a place so lovingly preserved.
To be honest, he hadn’t really expected the interior to be as fine as the exterior, with its soaring columns and wide porches and magnificent presence. So many generations had lived in the house, it was reasonable to assume that some kind of architectural butchery would have
been committed along the way. It was rather amazing that the family had had the sense not to destroy the place in the name of modernization, and that where they had updated—installing central heating, for instance—the alterations were as discreet as possible.
It was impossible not to get lost in the beauty of the space as he moved about this first room, soaking up the details of cornices and flutes. He only wished that instead of shoving a flashlight into his hand, Jordan had handed him a measuring tape and notepad so he could jot down proportions, sketch a detail of the ceiling’s moldings.
And, God, the antiques. He knew people at Christie’s and Sotheby’s who would cheerfully commit murder to get their hands on some of these pieces. That the furniture was being used daily by Jordan’s family, rather than cordoned off or stuck inside a glass case, would probably kill them, though. Auction house people got uptight about original Duncan Phyfes. Owen, however, liked seeing the fuchsia iPod resting on the marble-topped side table and the open laptop on a tall, clawfoot secretary. He even liked the kitschier details of the décor: the lamps whose bases were made from what looked like trophies—horse trophies, he assumed—and the porcelain statuettes of hunting dogs pointing at an unseen quarry. All these prevented the room from feeling like a museum, or worse, a mausoleum.
And though the room had a lived-in feel to it, the Radcliffes were obviously taking pains to care for the antique furniture. Every piece gleamed softly, polished and dust-free. The pieces in the second parlor must require special care; they’d been covered with sheets for extra protection.
He crossed the center of the room, admiring the carved capitals of the columns. A low whistle of appreciation escaped him when he saw the grand piano tucked into the corner of the second parlor. He had a sudden vision of women in white and men in cutaways, cognac snifters in hand, as the notes of the piano floated through, as clear as the crystal teardrops of the chandeliers. Okay, this place was really something, but it was time to cut out the ghostly fantasies, he told himself.
The muffled giggle behind him had the hair on the back of his neck standing straight up.
He spun around and saw no one—no Jordan, vastly entertained by his architect’s awestruck expression for what to her was simply her family home. So who the hell had made the noise?
The laughter came again, this time followed by an equally loud “Shhhh!” and his eyes zeroed in on the sheet-draped furniture.
They were in there. The kids. Damn. He’d have preferred a few moldy ghosts.
He really didn’t do kids. Perhaps if he was quiet they’d leave him alone.
No such luck. The sheet twitched like a live thing. Three little faces appeared in the vee where two sheets, draped over the backs of chairs, met.
They were staring at him. Six round eyes unblinking. The two older ones had on jodhpurs, long-sleeved polo shirts, and socks. The littlest one, about two feet tall, wore elastic-waisted blue jeans and a pink shirt.
“Uh, hi.”
“Who are you?” The largest one, a girl, asked.
“I’m Owen.”
There was a silence as they digested that piece of information.
One of them was a boy, with hair Jordan’s deep russet color. His eyes, however, were a greenish brown. Across his nose and cheeks there was a liberal smattering of freckles, which Owen knew many would find the height of adorableness. But he was too preoccupied by the weird, bright orange smear across the kid’s face to feel any softening of the heart. It looked like the boy had been drawing on his face with a marker. Then he opened his mouth and Owen saw the stuff crusted on his teeth.
“Are you here to weed?” the boy demanded.
Did he look like a gardener? “No.”
“That’s my sister’s book.” His stubby index finger pointed accusingly. “Are you going to weed to us?”
“Oh, right, read, not weed—no,” he said hastily. “I’m not here to read. I came to see Jord—uh, your mom.”
“Are you a friend of Mommy’s?”
He hesitated. That was a tough one. How to answer? “I guess so.”
“Do you want to sit in our tent?”
He didn’t know which was more unnerving, the questions the boy kept firing at him or the steady blue stare of the other two kids.
“I think I’m too big.” There was no way he was getting in there with them.
With no warning, the littlest one started to lurch toward him. This set off the others: they advanced in single file behind her. As they neared, he took a step backward and bumped into the piano bench with his calf.
“You know, I wonder where your mom is. Maybe you guys should go find her—ooof!” The littlest one, moving in that downright frightening half-walk, half-lurch, had collided into his legs with surprising force.
Dropping the book and flashlight onto the piano bench, he reached down to steady her—Christ, the last thing he wanted was for the kid to get hurt and start to cry—and that seemed to be some kind of signal for her to climb into his arms. Agile as a blond-haired monkey, she hung about his neck and somehow he just knew she wasn’t going to release him without a hell of a good reason.
Then she started talking, a rush of gibberish of which he couldn’t understand a syllable. Whatever it was she was saying, though, she seemed really happy about it, pumping her legs up and down against his gut in ecstatic punctuation.
“Can either of you translate? Does she need to go to the bathroom?”
The question prompted peals of laughter from the little boy, while his older sister continued to stare at him with her deep blue eyes. Meanwhile the babbling and leg-pumping continued unabated. He was getting seriously worried; he’d already gotten drenched with iced tea today. No way was he going to tolerate leaking tots. “Really,” he said with a touch of desperation. “What is she saying?”
“Olivia’s telling you that she’s going riding with her aunt Jade after Kate and Max have their lessons.”
Damn, but he was happy to see Jordan. The arrival of her mother had the blond monkey scrambling out of his arms with a finally intelligible cry of, “Mommy!”
Her other two children switched their focus, as well.
“Those are really pretty flowers, Mommy,” said the older girl—Kate, that was her name.
Jordan put down the flowers, which she’d arranged in a large blue and white Chinese vase. “Yes, they are. Mr. Gage gave them to me.”
“Is that Mr. Gage?” The boy pointed to him.
“No pointing, Max. And yes, that’s Mr. Gage. Now—”
“Owen,” he interjected. “You can call me Owen.” Being addressed as “Mr. Gage” by someone less than three feet tall made him feel about ninety years old.
Jordan paused fractionally, the only sign that she’d heard him. “You guys better run to the bathroom before Aunt Jade gets home or you’ll be late for your lesson.”
“Is Owen going to watch us wide?” piped up the boy again, and while Owen was remembering to translate “wide” into “ride,” the tot began babbling wildly again.
Even the older girl, the quiet, watchful one, spoke up. “I’m going to be trotting on the rail all by myself today.”
“And that’s a huge accomplishment, sweetie, but I’m not sure Mr. Gage—Owen,” she corrected at his pointed cough, “will be able to stay long enough to watch.”
So she wanted him gone already, and his five minutes’ exposure had definitely exceeded his tolerance limit to kids. But her answer had the perverse effect of making him actually consider sticking around.
“I’d be delighted to watch you—” He was going to say her name but damned if he hadn’t forgotten it. Jordan didn’t look any too pleased by the news, but the little girl gave him a shy smile. At least he could win over some females.
“You’d best get ready then, Kate. Max, your face needs a good wash. No way will Aunt Jade let you ride looking like that. And please take Olivia with you so she can clean her hands.”
Olivia, however, didn’t seem inclined to follow
the program. Wrapping her arms about Jordan’s legs, she buried her face against her knees and began stomping her feet with surprising force.
Certain she was going to blow, he tensed. Maybe he should get out of here. Toddler tantrums were definitely outside his comfort zone. Taking a cautious step sideways, he caught the flash of what looked like a smile on Jordan’s face. But then she was bending over and scooping up her child and planting a quick kiss just beneath her ear. Setting her back down on the ground, she dropped to one knee. “Go on, Olivia, so you’ll be all ready for Aunt Jade. If you’re a very good girl, she might let you help groom Doc.”
The kid blurted out a long response. Owen felt as if he were watching a foreign movie with no subtitles, straining to catch an intelligible word.
But Jordan merely nodded and said, “Yes, I’m sure he’d love to meet Cookie Monster someday.”
“Come on, ’Livia.” The older girl walked up and took one of the toddler’s hands.
“Yeah, come on, Wiv,” Max said, grabbing hold of the other.
Orderly as soldiers, the three of them marched from the room.
He looked at Jordan with renewed admiration. She obviously had untold gifts, able to interpret sounds that had, at best, only a tenuous connection to language, able to quell impending riots with a simple kiss. Although now that he thought about it, he wasn’t so astonished by the latter. He was beginning to suspect that he might do a hell of a lot for one of her kisses.
The million-dollar question was, what exactly would it take for him to convince Jordan to kiss him back?
He realized how novel the question was, one that he’d never had to ask. The women he dated all knew the rules of the game and were expert players. He liked that, looked for it in a woman, so why was he even entertaining these thoughts about the highly inappropriate Jordan?
The problem was that he’d been working too hard lately. His fixation was his body’s way of telling him that he needed to get back to Alexandria this weekend.
He would ring Fiona Rorty, a lawyer he’d been dating for the past couple of months, and invite her out to dinner. Bright, sexy, and more committed to making partner in her corporate law firm than ensnaring him as a partner, Fiona was just to his taste. A night with her would be the perfect antidote to Jordan. Back to normal, he’d be able to look at Jordan without wanting to grab her and drag her like some caveman into her kids’ tent.
