by Nora Roberts
She could hardly wait to see what the rest of the day would bring.
Kate fixed herself coffee and toast, and ended up scalding one and burning the other. She opened the casements and set off to search out Agatha’s journals while the smoke cleared.
The shelves of the library were filled with an assortment of books jostling for space: mysteries, romantic intrigue, fantasies, and other popular fiction stood cheek by jowl with volumes of history, poetry, and classical literature. There was no sign of the journals she sought among them.
On her way through the house, Kate discovered a door she hadn’t noticed before, leading off the great hall. It was set so cleverly into the paneled wall that she wouldn’t have seen it, except that it stood slightly ajar.
She pushed it open and found herself in a narrow passageway that ended in a charming room with a stone fireplace and thick rounds of bull’s-eye glass in the windows. Kate realized that this ancient room with its wide-planked flooring and serene air was part of the original Tudor house. She stepped closer to read the letters carved above the hearth: HEART’S HOME.
A long table at one end served a single chair pulled up in the center. A leather tray held a neat stack of papers to one side and an old-fashioned ink stand of gilded brass and cut glass sparkled in the light.
She knew that this was where all the Trixie Pickering books had been written.
She admired the satiny wood of the Welsh cupboard, which was familiar to her from the books’ illustrations, and took down a tall china cup. There was a folded scrap of paper inside. She opened it and scanned the sentence written there:
“This is where Pixie Jack hid from the children in the first of the Hedgehog books.”
She unlatched the casement window and looked out. The view framed in the window was familiar from the Fairy Garden series. Kate leaned over the sill. And yes…she broke into a smile. “There’s the bronze sundial where the little lost fairies sunned themselves.”
Kate hadn’t known that the places in the famous books were taken from real life. She doubted that anyone had.
She knew then that she had found her life’s work. Not only would she edit the journals, she would have the privilege of writing the definitive biography of Trixie Pickering, one of the world’s most beloved storytellers.
In her mind’s eye, she saw a fabulous book that she would put together, with Trixie Pickering’s luminous illustrations set side by side with photographs of the actual places that had inspired them.
She knew that she could never, ever, sell Frogsmere. Of all the places on the face of the earth, this was where she was meant to be.
Heart’s Home.
Kate was nervous as she waited for her ride to King’s Meadow. She’d changed her clothes three times, but nothing she’d brought with her seemed suitable. She’d finally gone with pale gray slacks and matching jacket and a red silk shell, hoping it struck the right balance of informal chic. A pair of strappy Italian sandals had won out over the others she’d brought in her suitcase, but she was still rethinking them when she saw the flash of a silver BMW through the drawing room windows.
She was surprised to see Michael Bellamy get out from behind the wheel. He was dressed in beautifully tailored slacks and a crisp white shirt and carried a leather aviator’s jacket slung over his shoulder.
There was approval in his face when he saw her. “You look lovely,” he said. “And you’re prompt. I was expecting to cool my heels a bit.”
She raked a hand through her smooth, straight hair, and it swung back into place. “Foolproof hair,” she told him. “Something every career woman should have.”
He escorted her out to the BMW. “You’re an editor of children’s books, I understand.”
“I was with Hartland Press for six years. Unfortunately the company ceased to exist three weeks ago.”
“That’s too bad,” he told Kate. “I’m truly sorry to hear it.”
And yet, she thought, he doesn’t seem particularly sorry.
In fact, for a fraction of a second his smile had widened before he’d caught himself. She was woman enough to hope that meant he was interested in her, and looking forward to her staying on at Frogsmere for a while.
They arrived at King’s Meadow as the sun was setting in a wash of golden light. It was an impressive time of day to view the estate, with long shadows stretching away and every window seemingly on fire.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, awed by the impressive facade.
“Not as old as Frogsmere, but it has its charms.”
“Frogsmere could be dropped into it three or four times, with room to spare,” she said.
“Yes, it’s far too much space for a bachelor like myself,” he admitted, answering the question uppermost in her mind.
The inside of King’s Meadow was as well proportioned and beautifully cared for, all mellow wood and muted colors, with antique furnishings polished to a satin sheen. The Oriental rugs and cozy chairs in the drawing room had the comfortable shabbiness that comes with long and loving use.
“Your home is very lovely,” she said. “I can’t imagine what it must be like, to live in such a beautiful place, surrounded by so many family heirlooms.”
“I spent fifteen years on a sheep station in the Outback,” he answered. “That helps me keep a sense of proportion. King’s Meadow will, presumably, be standing here another three hundred years, when I am nothing but a name in the family Bible. I remind myself every day that it has only been loaned to me, in trust.”
Kate was so busy taking it all in while he poured her a glass of wine that it took her a minute to realize there were no signs of other guests.
“Where is everyone?”
His green eyes danced with mischief. “If you must know, I decided I would rather have you all to myself on your first visit to King’s Meadow. There will be plenty of time to meet them in the days ahead.”
Kate regarded him over the rim of her glass. “I don’t know if I should be flattered or annoyed that you lured me here under false pretenses.”
“Take your pick—although I’d prefer you to feel flattered. I meant it as a compliment.” Again that flash of amusement came and went. “I admit it was selfish of me—but I can only listen to so much talk of potsherds and soil disturbances and f-stops without going mad.”
“I see. You provide the dinner and I provide the entertainment?” Her smile softened the words.
“Something like that,” he agreed. “And just in the nick of time, before you can relay the poor opinion you’ve formed of me, here is Martindale to announce dinner.”
She looked up and saw a silver-haired butler standing just inside the door. “As you say, sir,” the man intoned. “Everything is in readiness.”
He withdrew discreetly and with a distinct air of disapproval.
Kate glanced at Michael Bellamy. The butler’s steely response hadn’t fazed her host one bit.
“Your butler doesn’t like me,” she commented.
“It’s not you. Mansfield lets me know at least once a day that I’m much too informal and undignified to suit him. We’re still feeling our way to some sort of truce.”
“How long did it take you to get used to being addressed as Sir Michael? Or is that an impertinent question?”
“Five minutes, to answer the first,” he said. “And no, to answer the second.”
Michael was glad she’d accepted his invitation. He liked her quick wit and ready smile, and those violet eyes did serious damage to his personal armor. If he wasn’t careful he might make a mistake that would cost him more than he was willing to give.
Taking her elbow, he escorted her down a side hall to a pretty parlor, where a candlelit table was set up before the marble hearth. The low flames burnished the heavy sterling flatware and darted in points of light from the cut-crystal goblets and the bond of fragrant roses.
“Do you always dine so splendidly?” she asked. “Even when you’re alone?”
She was teasing him and he knew it, but h
is answer was serious. “Only when I’m trying to impress a guest.”
Tension flickered between them, like tiny flames. Kate could feel the heat of it against her skin. She tried to defuse the situation. “I suppose this is my cue to ask why you want to impress me—and then you can tell me that this time I am being impertinent.”
“Something like that,” he said, smiling.
The strain vanished in their mutual laughter, and they sat down to enjoy the meal. The talk was easy throughout the meal, and Kate couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so relaxed with any man. Michael Bellamy was well read and a clever conversationalist. They loved the same authors and seemed to share a similar philosophy of life. Not to mention the same type of subversive humor.
The evening flew by, and he seemed as reluctant as she to end it. “Thank you for your company tonight, Kate,” he said as he escorted her to her door.
“Thank you for inviting me. Dinner was lovely, and so is King’s Meadow.”
“And so are you.” This time it was right to say it.
For a moment they stood still in the moonlight, staring into one another’s eyes. Even the chorus of frogs ceased. In the sudden stillness, elfin music drifted on the summer breeze, faint and far away.
He leaned down and touched his mouth to hers. It was entirely unplanned, and he knew it might ruin everything. But the moment his lips touched hers, he couldn’t think of anything but kissing her again. And thoroughly.
A shiver ran through Kate. Half surprise, half sudden awareness that the spark of his kiss had ignited a flame. It burned in the pit of her stomach and spread out along her limbs until she was burning with need.
Her arms wound around his neck, and he pulled her tight against him, feeling the softness of her mold against his hard muscles, feeling the fire burst out between them in a flare of desire. He realized that he’d wanted this moment all evening, and that he wanted far more.
Kate lost herself in the kiss, in the iron circle of his embrace. He kissed like an expert, and she knew he would make love the same way. She wanted him to prove her right, but she fought against her own desires, cursing herself for a fool while she did.
The moment she pushed against him he released her. The only thing he could think of to salvage the moment was to make light of it. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I never kiss on the first date.”
She gave a husky little laugh at his joke, and he joined in. They laughed so hard they clung to one another for support. The next thing they knew, the laughter was gone, and the passion was back, hotter than before.
This time he moved away first. His eyes were heavy with need. “Sleep well, Kate.”
“And you, Michael.”
She stood in the open doorway and watched him drive away. She knew that if he came back she wouldn’t shut the door on him. It shocked her to realize that. And yet—it had felt so right to be in his arms, as if she belonged there and always had. Kate was certain that he felt the same.
She saw the taillights of his car slow and stop when he reached the lane. He sat there for two or three minutes, and she waited. When he pulled away toward King’s Meadow, she didn’t know if she was more relieved or frustrated.
For all her romanticism, Kate was cautious where her heart was concerned. She valued herself and knew she didn’t need a man to validate her existence. She didn’t want a physical relationship with him or with any man just yet. Plus, moving too fast could jeopardize their chance of friendship and anything deeper that might develop in the future.
But she knew that if he kissed her again and the same fire bloomed between them, they would become lovers.
10
KATE WAS PULLED up from dreams by someone pounding on the front door. She slipped her robe on and padded down in her bare feet. Mrs. Bean must have forgotten her key.
“I’m coming,” she called as another series of knocks sounded.
Left on her own, she probably would have slept until noon. She’d lain awake most of the night thinking of Michael Bellamy, wondering where their attraction to one another would lead them, and then she’d finally fallen into a heavy sleep just before dawn. Mr. Plunkett had called sometime in the interim, to say that he was not coming down until the afternoon, and Kate had rolled over and gone back into her dreams.
Dreams of walking beside Michael Bellamy along the shore of a lake as black as glass. She couldn’t recall much. There’d been an island in the center of the lake, with a splendid castle. And then there was that odd bit about the frogs in the meadow below the garden. They’d covered the ground like a biblical plague, hopping and milling about, and singing so loudly that the low sound vibrated through her bones.
Like a bizarre choir afflicted with severe laryngitis, she thought.
She opened the door to golden morning light and Michael Bellamy on the doorstep. He was dazzling in the sunbeams, and she turned her face away from the brilliance.
“Wait. Please!” He thrust out a florist’s cone of flowers. It was amazing what old Jenkins was selling these days. “A small act of contrition for my ungentlemanly behavior last night.”
Kate pushed her hair out of her eyes and took the flowers. It was an old-fashioned bouquet of pansies, violets, and miniature roses framed by a lace paper doily and all of it tied up in blue satin ribbons. She inhaled their fragrance—and once again felt prickles, as if she’d inhaled champagne bubbles.
“I don’t have anything to give you to apologize for mine,” she mumbled. “I don’t exactly remember you forcing me to kiss you back.”
His smile was blinding. “Then give me a cup of coffee and we’ll call it even?”
“All right.” She stepped inside, still half asleep. “I’m afraid the conversation won’t be very stimulating. I was up most of the night. I don’t know why…”
“Don’t you?” Michael looked down at her, with her hair all tousled and her mouth soft with sleep. “I didn’t sleep either,” he said quietly. “I doubt I’ll sleep tonight again. All I could think of was you. How you look and move and talk. How it felt to hold you in my arms.”
“Things are moving too fast,” she said.
Or not fast enough, her body told her. Beneath the silky robe and skimpy gown, her flesh warmed to him. She felt her breasts tingle and her loins contract. No man had ever had such an effect on her.
When she’d read books and manuscripts in which people felt and acted in the heat of impulse, she hadn’t quite believed it. Now she knew it was true. She wanted his mouth on hers, his hands on her body, with such a fever she felt she would soon burst into flame.
He ached for her with a fierce desperation. His voice was still low, but fueled with passion and need. “I want to make love to you, Kate. But only when you’re ready. I’ll wait as long as it takes.”
“I might never be,” she said. “I’m not the kind of woman who can take a hour’s pleasure and walk away without a backward glance. I don’t pass myself around like a plate of hors d’oeuvres.”
“I didn’t think so.” The laughter in his eyes replaced the dark desire she’d seen there only a moment earlier. But it still pulsed in the air between them. “But if you did…”
He willed her to him and her body swayed. He held his arms out, and she took another step toward him. He wanted to sweep her up in his arms and kiss her face, her white swan’s throat, the succulent curve of her breasts. Wanted her so much he was shaking with the need of it.
Kate closed her eyes and stepped into his arms.
He felt the heat of her breasts against his chest, smelled the musky woman scent of her, and was lost. His mouth was hot and urgent, and she responded to him without reserve. Whatever power it was that he held over her, she surrendered to it eagerly.
He filled his fists with her hair and kissed her senseless, then nibbled a line of exquisite sensation along her jaw and throat. She curved against him, and he felt a pull deep inside that sent every thought pinwheeling out of his mind. Nothing existed but the two of them, the fire of th
eir passion, and the spiraling need to be consumed.
The phone rang three times before either of them noticed.
“Shall I get it, Miss?” a voice called from the kitchen.
“Mrs. Bean!” Kate stepped away reluctantly. “I didn’t know she was here.”
Michael swore, kissed her again, and swore some more.
“Dinner tonight?” he whispered in her ear.
Kate thought a moment. “Only,” she said, “in a very public place.” After he was gone she couldn’t believe the way she’d fallen apart when he touched her. The way she’d fallen apart when he stopped.
She could feel every imprint of his hand on her body, as if the sensual pleasure of it had seared her skin.
She damned Mrs. Bean to perdition: they’d been one scene away from Rhett Butler sweeping Scarlett O’Hara up in his arms and carrying her up the stairs.
“Why do I react so strongly to him?” she wondered aloud as she climbed up to her room. Was it hero worship, or the attraction of a sophisticated man of the world? The lure of potent pheromones? Or plain old physical lust?
Michael was wondering the same thing as he drove down the coast to meet the developers. This was the third meeting that had been set up between them, and the first one he was keeping.
There’d been less room in his mind for everything else from the moment he’d set eyes on Kate. She was smart and funny and pretty and nice—but so were a hundred other women of his acquaintance. What was it about her that had suddenly turned him into a mass of raving hormones, as if he were a boy of sixteen again?
No, it was more than just hormones. It went deeper than that.
Which made Kate Singleton a very dangerous woman.
The bell on the door of the little flower shop tinkled as a young couple went out with six pots of violets. “Only a handful of blossoms left,” the woman Kate knew as Miss Golunka said with satisfaction. “It’s been a very successful day. And Mr. Jenkins wants more pots of flowers for his shop.”
“It was clever of you to think of this, Sophie,” Mr. Plunkett said. “And such a nice little apartment above. I’ve grown quite fond of it.”
