Which, Abigail realized with acute embarrassment, were inspecting her just as thoroughly, and with a very disturbing glint in them. More disconcerting, though, was the small frown that creased his brow. He was the one who looked disconcerted, she suddenly realized, as though for some reason she had taken him by surprise and he didn't like the sensation.
She did her best to gaze coolly back at him, although she was certain some color had crept into her cheeks. She couldn't remember the last time a man had looked at her with such blatant awareness. Especially one who made her own blood race. The timing was lousy, though. She was a professional woman doing her job, with her clients standing at her elbow, for heaven's sake. And here she was blushing like a teenager and nervously smoothing tendrils of her curly dark hair back from her face.
Only seconds had passed, although Abigail had the disquieting sensation that she and the man had been staring at each other for minutes instead. Neither of the Petersons had said anything, although when Abigail pulled her gaze away from that dark-gray one, she saw that middle-aged Mrs. Peterson was eyeing him with appreciation as well.
He broke the silence with that unnervingly sexy voice. "Enjoying the view out back?" The question sounded innocent enough, but he was suppressing a smile that showed in his eyes.
That was all it took for Abigail to identify one of the reasons for her strong reaction to him. The moment he'd appeared in the doorway there had been an undercurrent, even before his eyes met hers.
On the surface, his expression had been all it should be, but beneath that facade, she was quite sure he had been hiding amusement.
Even more exasperating, he appeared impervious to the extremely unpleasant odor that had to be filling his nostrils. Abigail gritted her teeth and smiled through them. "Hello, I'm Abigail McLeod. I believe I spoke to you this morning?"
"Yes, I'm Nate Taggart." His expression cleared in an instant, leaving her to wonder if she could possibly have imagined the laughter in his eyes, or the spark. The small frown remained, although he continued blandly, "Sorry about the mess. And the..." he cleared his throat, "er, aroma. It's just a little problem, really nothing to worry about, even though it doesn't smell like it."
"You mean it's not a real plumbing problem?" Abigail’s hopes lifted feeble heads. Please, please, bail me out, she begged silently.
But, not looking at her, he gestured vaguely with the wrench. "Well, I didn't say that."
"But the plumbing is all new!" she wailed, suddenly not caring what she sounded like.
Nate's dark brows rose. "Is it?"
Abigail sensed the cold look Mr. Peterson gave her, and knew damn well what he was thinking. "What do you mean, is it?" she demanded. "Of course it is! Ed Phillips had every pipe in the house replaced! If you know enough to work on it, can't you tell?"
He glanced from her to Mr. Peterson in apparent confusion, although Abigail, suspicious, thought that glint of laughter was back in his eyes. He shrugged. "Maybe it is. I guess, if you say so, it must be. Anyway, like I said, it's not a real serious problem. You know what these old houses are like. They just take a little patching up every once in a while. I'm only sorry you got caught in the draft." Apparently enjoying his own pun, he gave a little chuckle. "So go right ahead and look upstairs. I don't think it's as bad up there."
Abigail tried very hard to sound pleasant. "I'm sorry you didn't give me a call. I could have showed the house another time."
"Maybe it's just as well," Mr. Peterson interjected brusquely. "I had reservations about the idea of buying an old house, anyway. I think Mr. Taggart here is quite right about them. If you're not handy with a wrench and a hammer, you don't belong in one."
"Mr. Phillips assured me," Abigail began, cursing how feeble she sounded, "that—"
The older man interrupted again without apology. "Do you have any other houses to show us?"
Abigail supposed she should be grateful that he was willing to give her another chance. It wouldn't have been surprising if he had come to the conclusion that she'd been trying to pull a fast one on him. "Yes, several," she said, forcing a smile. "The Heights have some beautiful new homes with spectacular views of the Cascade Mountains."
Normally she might have gone on with her sales pitch, but this time she decided to reserve it for the drive. She was much too conscious of Nate Taggart standing there listening with bright-eyed interest. All she wanted to do was escape. The sooner she could forget this last half hour, in which she'd managed to combine abject failure and reawakened adolescent hormones, the happier she'd be.
"Why don't we go on out the back door?" she said to the Petersons. "At least we can enjoy the spring weather."
They didn't need to be asked twice. A polite nod at Nate Taggart and the older couple was gone. Abigail took only the time for a very faint smile. She didn't trust herself to say anything. Although she wasn't sure why. It wasn't his fault that the plumbing or septic tank had decided to erupt at a particularly inopportune moment.
Abigail had to step carefully in her heels on the overgrown brick path that meandered around the house. Just before she reached the corner that would put the kitchen wing between her and the utility-room door, Abigail glanced back. She couldn't help herself.
He was standing on the top step, watching her with an inscrutable gaze. When her eyes met his, he grinned, the grooves in his cheeks deepening. "It was a real pleasure to meet you, Ms. McLeod," he said.
Abigail forced another smile, then hastily put the building between herself and Nate Taggart. Either the guy was remarkably insensitive to atmosphere, or he was slightly sadistic. At the moment, she leaned toward the sadistic explanation.
*****
Nate Taggart propped one shoulder against the wall in the front parlor and crossed his arms. He watched through the small-paned window as the trio walked across the front lawn, the only part of the grounds he'd succeeded in taming, and, with a production, opened the doors of the bright-red Honda and at last climbed in. He could see their mouths moving, and several telling gestures, but couldn't hear what was being said. It was like watching a silent movie. Or being a peeping Tom, lurking in the shadows. His mouth tightened with annoyance at himself as the small car made the circle and departed down the lane. A cloud of dust lingered long after the Honda had disappeared.
He ought to feel triumphant, or at least pleased with himself. Instead, he felt guilty. It had nothing to do with Ed Phillips. That bastard deserved anything he had coming. The woman, though, Abigail.... He startled himself by saying her name aloud, savoring the old-fashioned sound. He liked her name, and he liked her looks. She was tall, with remarkably fine bones and subtle curves in just the right places. He had a suspicion that the soft, wavy dark hair she'd had pinned up so primly would be perfect to tangle his fingers in. And her eyes were glorious, a foresty green-brown that could turn a man poetic. In fact, for just a minute she'd stunned him, and that didn't happen often.
So now he felt guilty for her sake. She'd been upset, and he couldn't blame her. He wished he could explain how important this was to him. Already, though, his defenses were kicking in, and he told himself it wasn't that big a deal. She'd been embarrassed in front of a couple of clients; so what? Any adult would have done that to themselves a few times.
The odds were that the people she was showing the house to weren't even serious. They were probably Lookie Lou's, out for a fun weekend of seeing how the other half lived. Chances were it would be weeks before Abigail McLeod found any other buyers even interested in seeing this old white elephant. By that time, his own problem might be solved.
In the meantime, he'd better get to work airing the place out, if he wanted to be able to eat breakfast here in the morning. Forget dinner. Once he had all the windows open, he'd grab a hamburger out, maybe go watch the baseball game at John's house.
And tomorrow.... He shoved his hands in his pockets and smiled. Tomorrow he just might drop into the real-estate offices of McLeod and James and see if Ms. McLeod was any friendl
ier than she'd been today. Maybe she'd like to have lunch with him, once she found out he really was a respectable guy. If it turned out she was married, well, with a little effort he could forget those magnificent eyes and long, slender legs.
He took one more reminiscent look down the drive, on which the dust had long since settled, then sighed and pushed himself away from the wall with his shoulder. Too bad he didn't have a gas mask. Next time—if there was one—he'd go a little easier on the stuff. Or maybe try something different. Yeah, there ought to be an easier way. He grimaced and plunged back into the noisome depths of the house.
CHAPTER 2
Abigail slipped off her shoes, wriggling and stretching her toes, then leaned back in her creaking oak office chair and stared into space. The wall directly in front of her was handsomely decorated by pen and ink drawings of famous American houses, including a couple that might more accurately be called castles. Maybe it was those pictures that had set her off, as the Irving House, similarly rendered, would fit in very well on that wall.
Abigail was alone in the office; her partner, Meg James, and their receptionist/secretary, Lisa, had taken an early lunch together. Abigail was using the time to plan—and to stew just a little. The Petersons had been perfect, darn it. The house had bowled them over, she knew it had. If only the renter had called her, and she'd been able to put off the visit…. But that was water under the bridge. Why there'd been a plumbing problem at all was what she'd like to know. She wasn't going to call Ed Phillips about it, though. Whining wasn't very professional. If, as the owner, he needed to know about the problem, that was up to his renter.
Her mind hurried right over that thought. She didn't want to contemplate the renter. It made her uncomfortable, reacting that strongly to a man. Especially to one who was so wildly inappropriate. Abigail didn't know Nate Taggart, but she'd seen that smug grin and the sensual charm he used so easily. He was a dangerous man to a woman determined not to surrender too much of herself.
Suddenly Abigail laughed. The man probably gave every moderately eligible woman the same kind of once-over. It didn't mean a thing. He wasn't going to show up on her doorstep begging for the chance to just once kiss her dewy lips.
"So drop it," she ordered herself. "Concentrate on selling the Irving House."
She pulled out the sheet that had gone to the multiple listing service and studied it for the hundredth time. Seven thousand plus square feet. Heating bills she hoped nobody would ever ask about. Six bedrooms, not to mention the servants' quarters, and a ballroom. Who on earth needed, or wanted, or even would consider, a house that had a ballroom? Especially when there was no denying that said house required a little updating. She'd idly peeled a strip of wallpaper off in the dining room yesterday, noting how the roses were fading into the yellowing background. If the place were hers, she'd have all the woodwork stripped, too, and refinished or painted; the rooms were too dark.
So. What should she put in the newspaper advertisement she ought to be writing? How about honesty? Wanted: one family with five children, four horses (to fill the stables), a million dollars, and a passion for resurrecting old houses.
Maybe she could suggest that the ballroom would be perfect for a rec room. A rock band could practice there while the parents were holding a party on the first floor, and neither would know the other was there.
She sighed. Better yet, maybe she should forget the Irving House for a while, and concentrate on the Petersons. They'd looked interested in one of the houses she had shown them yesterday; chances were they'd be back. What she should be doing, instead of sitting here sulking, was making a push to be sure they were.
Galvanized by her own pep talk, Abigail sat up in her chair and grabbed the phone.
Mrs. Peterson answered, sounding cautious.
"Mrs. Peterson, this is Abigail McLeod. I just wanted to apologize again for that disaster at the Irving House yesterday. I never would have taken you there if I'd had any idea! I don't want you to think...."
Mrs. Peterson assured her that she didn't. What Mr. Peterson thought was left unspoken.
"I wondered if you and Mr. Peterson had talked any more about the Allen house. Are you interested in taking another look at it?"
"Well, we're not sure it's quite big enough. Although I keep telling Bob that the girls will be gone in just a few years, and we don't want to be in a house we're swimming in! I'd hate to move again so soon. Marie is sixteen, you know, and Jennifer almost fifteen. But privacy is so important to them now, and Bob hates the music they like to listen to. So a family room separate from the rest of the house is important to us. And that house yesterday, it was beautiful, but so open. I think we'd like a little more traditional layout."
Abigail jumped in. "I have a new listing here that might be just the thing. It's nearly four thousand square feet, wonderful for entertaining, but...."
Ten minutes later, she hung up with a promise from Mrs. Peterson that they would take a look at the house in question. Abigail genuinely thought they might like it. She wished the listing belonged to McLeod and James, instead of to Real Estate World, the big multi-office agency that she and Meg often competed with. Still, if they were to do nothing but sell their own listings, they'd go broke in no time. The two of them had yet to convince the community that the new act in town would put forth more effort to sell for them.
That's why the Irving House was so important. If Abigail could impress Ed Phillips, he might list whole developments with them. Their financial success would be assured, and she would know, once and for all, that she could stand on her own two feet.
Engrossed in her familiar worries, it took Abigail a second to respond to the sound of the front door opening.
"Anyone here?"
She gave a tiny squeak of surprise on hearing that very distinctive voice and started to leap to her feet. Remembering that she'd taken her shoes off, she sat back down, calling, "In here."
Nate Taggart promptly appeared in her doorway, dressed a little more respectably than the day before, if still not fashionably, in brown cords and a loose-fitting, slightly saggy brown tweed sport coat that still managed to emphasize the breadth of his shoulders. He lounged there in the opening, deep-set dark-gray eyes appraising her with that discomforting hint of amusement in them. "Busy?" he asked.
"No. No, not really." Abigail made herself smile with reasonable cordiality as her feet groped for those wretched shoes. She'd managed to kick one of them under the desk altogether. "Damn," she said, giving up. "Just a minute, I lost a shoe." With that, she bent over head first, and disappeared behind the desk.
Nate grinned, ambling a little farther into the room and craning his neck in an ungentlemanly fashion. But, hell, the sight of her nicely rounded derriere was one calculated to warm any man's heart. What a greeting.
He planted his fists on her desk and waited until her flushed face reappeared. "Can I help?" he asked, the quirk of his mouth giving him away.
There was a flash in those lovely eyes, and he could tell that Abigail was contemplating freezing up. But then, to his surprise and delight, she chuckled instead, a warm, delicious sound.
"Mission accomplished, thank you. That'll teach me. Now...." Her smile cooled as she succeeded in restoring her businesslike veneer, although her cheeks were still washed with pink. "What can I do for you?"
Nate knew better than to tell her, although he was speechless for a moment as the possibilities flashed in his mind. Damn. His imagination didn't usually get away from him like that. The problem was, he couldn't remember the last time he'd wanted a woman the way he suddenly wanted this one. Maybe never.
"I'd like you to have lunch with me," he said, taking a strategic step back from her desk. Nate had a suspicion that giving her a chance to make a snap response wouldn't be a good idea. So, before she could open her mouth, he turned casually to look at the pictures on the wall. "Hey, there's Gore Place," he observed. "Do you know some people think Charles Bulfinch is responsible for it? Fascinating design.
Suggests classical detail without actually using it. Beautiful." Out of the corner of his eyes he saw her mixed astonishment and indecision. He turned back to her with raised brows. "Did Ed mention that I'm an architect? No? Well, we're in the same boat, trying to get new businesses off the ground. I have a partner who's a contractor, we work together and separately. Put a bid in on that new elementary school, as a matter of fact. Anyway, that's why I dropped by. I thought maybe we could talk over lunch. I could use some business sent my way if people ask for a recommendation, and I might be able to steer a few clients to you. I get ones looking for a design before they've actually picked out the lot. So what do you say?"
He'd calculated her response to a nicety. Abigail's first, compelling reaction had been to turn him down. But he hadn't given her a chance, rambling on that way. Besides, he'd turned off the sexy smile and bedroom look, leaving her, just like yesterday, wondering if she'd imagined it. Was he that smooth, or was it all in her mind? Maybe his features were just put together in the perfect way to stir her hormones. He'd probably be astonished to know that for a second there she hadn't been sure she'd even be able to stand up, the way her legs had weakened.
"Um..." She hesitated still, before giving in to temptation. No, that wasn't it, she told herself with masterly self-denial. She was just being businesslike, because he was right; an architect was a good contact for her to make. "I'd like that," she agreed at last, "if you can wait for a few minutes. I can't leave the office empty, but my partner ought to be back anytime."
"No problem," he said easily. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his sport coat, pulling the fabric taut over his back and shoulders as he again turned to studying the drawings on the wall, mumbling to himself. "The Otis House. Too blocky. Better looking here than it is in real life." He raised his voice a little. "You should have a picture done of the Irving House to add to these."
All Through The House Page 2
