Abigail looked at him in surprise. "That's funny. I was just thinking that this morning."
He gave her a crooked smile over his shoulder. "What else were you thinking? That you'd like to have me strung up by my thumbs?"
There was a telling pause before Abigail said stiffly, without noticeable conviction, "Not at all. Yesterday wasn't your fault. Although I wish you'd caught me at the office before I brought the Petersons out."
Nate opened his mouth to lie, then closed it. He was stretching his integrity far enough these days without that. He contented himself with, "Sorry. What're your plans now? Do you expect to have trouble selling the place?"
"Yes," she said baldly. "The house has a ballroom, for crying out loud. Do you know how few people want a ballroom anymore?"
"None?" he ventured.
"None," she agreed with a sigh.
"I like it," Nate said. "It's wonderful up there at night, with the chandeliers lit. Echoing, with ghosts gliding through a waltz. You'd like it, too."
Abigail looked away from him. Suddenly she'd pictured herself in his arms, twirling around that huge shining floor with the glitter of crystal chandeliers turning the night to magic. Just the two of them, and the ghosts. The music would stop, and he would arch her back over his arm, then kiss her, his lips soft but demanding, his hand....
Good Lord. Her cheeks heated instantly and she cleared her throat, although her voice still croaked as she said, "Yes. I'm sure I would."
As though he could read her mind, his mouth quirked into that devilish smile, deepening the creases in his cheeks, and his gray eyes narrowed and seemed to darken as they lingered on her face. A band of sunlight from the window spotlighted him, gilding the dark blond of his hair and accentuating the sharp angles of his face. Abigail's breath caught in her throat as she stared up at him. Just like that, the air between them was charged, dangerous, with a current so strong it prickled the tiny hairs on her forearms. Abigail licked her suddenly dry lips.
Nate's gaze, in which the amusement had at some point been supplanted by unmistakable hunger, lowered to her mouth. Abigail's lips involuntarily parted in response, as warmth unfurled inside. What sanity she had was screaming that this was crazy. But another side of her didn't care, wanted nothing so much as to have him kiss her. She didn't think she could bear it if he didn't.
The sensual intensity of his gaze never wavered from her as he took one long stride, then another one. The desk was the only barrier between them. But Abigail never knew what she might have done, or, for that matter, whether he really would have kissed her. The sound of the front door opening, of feminine laughter, came distantly to her at first, then with the force of a splash of cold water on her cheeks.
"Abby? You here?"
She wrenched her gaze from Nate's, squeezing her fingers together into a painful knot. "I'm here," she managed. "In my office." She didn't sound entirely natural, but better than she deserved.
Nate's mouth tightened and his eyes flared with some emotion, then he turned sharply to stare at the wall again, his back to Abigail. The atmosphere must still have been heavy with overtones, however, because when Meg appeared in the doorway she stopped, looking startled. Her gaze moved to Nate, before, with raised brows, she looked again at Abigail, who'd forced herself up on shaky legs and was coming around the desk.
Abigail managed a smile. "Meg, I'd like you to meet Nate Taggart. He's an architect. He's also...." she paused infinitesimally, "renting the Irving House."
"Really."
Abigail glared at her partner, a tall, dark-haired woman in her fifties. Meg blandly ignored the message.
"Abigail mentioned you," she observed.
Nate was facing her now with a faint smile, appearing totally relaxed and at ease but for the fists shoved in his pockets. "Yeah, I'll bet she did," he agreed. "She denies having any particular punishment in mind for me, though."
"Oh, Abigail always gives everyone a second chance," Meg said cheerfully.
Nate almost groaned at the idea. What the hell was he going to do if that second chance arose? Damn, a minute ago he'd been ready to ravish her right here on the desk. He wanted her. Was he going to have to choose between her and the house?
Whoa, boy, down, he told himself. He didn't even know yet if she was married. Although if she was, she had no business letting that dreamy passion creep into her eyes when she looked at him. One minute they'd been talking, the next she'd gone off somewhere. A powerful instinct had told him that he had something to do with her reverie. It had lit his fuse, that was for sure.
To her friend he said with a certain amount of restraint, "I'm glad to hear that. I hope that means she's still planning to come to lunch with me."
He wasn't going to be surprised if she suddenly remembered an appointment. He wasn't even sure he'd blame her. What subtlety he possessed where the opposite sex was concerned certainly hadn't been on display where Abigail McLeod could see it. He was going to have to work at it. If, that is, she gave him the chance.
The actual state of her thoughts would have surprised him. Abigail was too honest with herself to be annoyed at Nate. She knew darn well that what had passed between them had taken two. She'd wanted to kiss him as badly as he had obviously wanted to kiss her.
Not that one sexually charged moment was going to alter Abigail's reservations where Nate Taggart was concerned. If anything, it accentuated them. Still, she was willing to admit she was flattered. It had been a long time since a man had looked at her quite like that. She was very sure she had never been so aroused by just a look. Attraction between a man and a woman usually awakened gently, showing its possibilities in a slow unfurling. That was the way it had happened to Abigail before. But this was explosive, exciting, even frightening. And she didn't want to spend the rest of her life running away from her emotions.
"Meg," she said, her voice collected, "I'm going to lunch now with Mr. Taggart. If Pete Johnson calls about seeing that apartment house, would you suggest three o'clock?"
Meg looked delighted. "You bet. Have a good time."
A moment later, they were out in the sunshine. The blue pickup truck Abigail had seen the day before waited at the curb.
"Is there a special place you'd like to go?" Nate asked.
"Anything is fine," Abigail said.
They agreed on the Monte Cristo Cafe, a casual, deli-type restaurant at the other end of town that served great sandwiches and salads. Once in the pickup, the silence was constrained.
Finally Abigail asked politely, "Where's your office?"
"I'll drive you past it." Nate put on the turn signal. "I work at home a lot, though."
Abigail relaxed enough to tease, "In the ballroom?"
He shot her one of those devastating smiles that deepened the groove in his cheek to a near dimple. "Not a bad idea. Me and the ghosts. Actually, I've set up an office in one of the second-floor bedrooms that has a balcony. There's plenty of light, I can look out, even open the doors, weather permitting."
"You sound like you'll miss the house when it sells."
There was a peculiar silence. "Maybe," he said finally. "There's our office. Not too prepossessing, is it?"
With professional interest Abigail surveyed the narrow, false-fronted building as they passed. Huge tubs containing small trees and masses of pansies sat out in front on the sidewalk. Through the small-paned front windows she caught an impression of brilliance: white walls, a painting or woven hanging in daring reds and purples, a drafter's slanted table.
"I wouldn't say that," she countered. "It's charming. Not very big, though, is it?"
"We're cramped," he admitted.
Abigail couldn't resist the opening. "If you decide to move...."
"Naturally, you'll be the first to know." He smiled wryly. "But don't hold your breath. Business is picking up, but not quite on that scale yet. Although we have some exciting plans, if we can get the city to back down on this sewer ban. We could use a little more capital, too. Now, if we could
win the contract to build the new elementary school...."
"You mentioned that before." Abigail looked at him curiously. "It'd mean a lot to your business, wouldn't it?"
"Yes," he agreed, adding after a moment, "And to me personally."
She waited for him to elaborate. When he didn't, she confessed, "The Irving House is like that for me. Selling it could mean a real breakthrough for our agency. And its success is...important to me."
Nate didn't comment, which struck Abigail as strange. When she glanced at him, she was puzzled by the look on his face. He was frowning, and his mouth had tightened, as though she'd said something that had triggered an unpleasant thought. Since he was preoccupied at the same time by backing the truck into a tight spot along the curb, she told herself she was imagining things. Abigail half expected him to bring the subject up again once they were seated in the restaurant, and was further perplexed when he didn't.
Instead, over sandwiches and cups of homemade vegetable soup, Nate asked if she'd seen a new thriller that was currently playing at the town's small theater.
Abigail wrinkled her nose. "This one sounds too gory for me. Have you seen it?"
The conversation veered easily into a discussion of books both had read. Not surprisingly, Nate was interested in history, and Abigail found herself very curious to see one of the houses he had designed. She was going to be disillusioned if they were all angles and glass and beams.
When she asked him, he looked thoughtful. "Actually, I am interested in houses in their historical context. I have a number of the old pattern books, and use some of those elements. On the other hand, I'm not interested in copying, however gracefully the original was done. Besides, people's needs have changed. The trick is to employ what is functional and decoratively exciting from the past in a fully modern house."
As he talked, Abigail became conscious of the way he gestured with his hands. She watched with fascination the images he drew in the air. As he continued to talk she listened, but all the while she covertly studied his hands. They were large and tanned, with a few noticeable calluses. Still, despite their size and obvious strength, they didn't look as though they belonged to a workingman. Although blunt-tipped, his fingers were too long and sensitive, the skin too smooth. She pictured him holding a pen, but that innocent image was overlaid by one of his hands caressing her. She had a feeling that those hands would be as compelling as his voice, rough but soft, both gentle and strong.
Abigail drew a very slow, very deep breath and deliberately blanked out her thoughts. She could only pray they hadn't been visible on her face. When the waitress chose then to refill their coffee cups, she was grateful.
The woman retreated, and Abigail took a long sip of the hot coffee. She'd successfully recovered her poise until she looked at Nate. He was watching her very thoughtfully. There was a knowing look in his eyes that told her he'd sensed her mood. A careful stillness about the way he held himself made her suspect he shared it.
But his words were conventional enough, if double-edged. "I hope I haven't been boring you."
Abigail's cheeks warmed. "No. No, of course not. I enjoyed listening to you talk." She ignored the fluttering in her stomach and went on chattily. "We have a lot in common, you know. I don't think I'm very creative, but I love houses. I've read quite a bit about architectural history, so I'm not totally at sea with what you're saying. I've sold some truly fascinating houses. In fact, I was jealous of the buyer in a few cases!" A random thought struck her. "I wonder if I've ever sold any of yours?"
His shoulders moved in a dismissive gesture. "Who knows? Have you been working for Ed Phillips for long?"
She blinked. "No. What does that have to do with anything?"
"Oh, I worked for him for a while." He sounded vague. "Would you like dessert?"
Abigail's brow crinkled as she studied Nate. Why the lightning-quick changes of subject? Was he just rambling, asking anything that popped into his head, or was there some object to this? Well, two could play that game.
"No, thank you." She took one last sip of her coffee and smiled. "Tell me, Nate. I'm curious. Why are you renting? I'd think you'd want to design a house for yourself."
There was a flicker in his dark-gray eyes, and then they narrowed and became opaque. The wariness she sensed didn't sound in his carefully casual answer, however. "Oh, I just haven't gotten around to it yet. Besides, I like old houses. I might restore one someday, instead of building my own. Hey, what would I do without a ballroom?"
She wrinkled her nose. "Save money on your heating bills?"
This time his chuckle was genuine. "There is that. On the other hand, some things are worth the price you have to pay for them."
"True enough," she agreed. "But I happen to know exactly what those heating bills run a month. That's a pretty steep price."
He just smiled. Abigail recognized defeat when she met it. For some reason the subject of the Irving House was a touchy one where Nate Taggart was concerned. She couldn't imagine why, except that perhaps he wasn't eager to have to move out. Although that left unexplained Ed Phillips's curious reaction the time she had asked about the house's occupant. It wasn't her business, though, and she wasn't going to prod about it.
Not that she was likely to have a chance to, she realized with an odd feeling of deflation. Lunch was over, and their conversation had remained casual. Nate couldn't have missed being aware that she was attracted to him, just as she knew he was to her. But that didn't necessarily mean much. It was beginning to look as though all he'd wanted was his stated purpose, making a business connection with her. Abigail told herself firmly that she ought to be relieved.
Nate took care of the bill over her polite protest, and they strolled out to the pickup. He held open the passenger door for her and waited for her to climb in. Feeling self-conscious, Abigail scrambled up to the high seat. She was well aware of the view he must have had from behind. But when he gave the door a hard slam, his face was unreadable.
They'd circled the block and were on the way back to her office before he spoke again, abruptly. "I'd like you to have dinner with me some night. I'm assuming you're not married."
Abigail felt a twinge of excitement. Still, curiosity made her ask, "Any special reason?"
"Why I want to have dinner with you?" His gravelly voice held amusement.
She didn't back down. "No. Why are you assuming I'm not married?"
"You haven't mentioned anybody. Women usually do."
"But not men?" Abigail retorted. When he only grinned, she admitted, "I've been divorced for three years. But I have a daughter." She waited with some apprehension. He wouldn't be the first man who'd lost interest in a woman once he found out she had children.
His voice was neutral, however, when he asked, "How old?"
"Four and a half."
He frowned. "That must have been rough. Did you leave him, or...?"
"It was my decision," Abigail said with composure. "And it was rough at first. If I'd found the strength sooner.... But I didn't. Anyway, I wouldn't give up having Kate for anything."
"Does he visit your daughter?"
"No." Abigail shook her head. "He wasn't interested. I was glad. Someday Kate may feel differently, but.... Well, when the time comes, she's welcome to seek him out. Who knows, maybe he'll have changed by then."
Nate growled something under his breath. He swung the pickup truck into the curb in front of Abigail's office, then turned to look at her, laying one arm on the back of the seat. Abigail's neck tingled, so close were his fingers to her.
"So how about dinner?"
She didn't even hesitate. "I'd like that. When did you have in mind?"
"Friday?"
"Fine," she agreed briskly. "My address is in the phone book."
"Six o'clock?"
She nodded, glancing over her shoulder. A car had pulled in just behind the pickup. The Petersons were climbing out.
Nate's gaze in the mirror followed hers. His mouth had a rueful twis
t when their eyes met again. "I wanted to kiss you."
Just like that, the air thickened. The breath Abigail drew felt shallow, unsatisfying. "I'm sorry," she said, inanely.
Again that hot light flared in the storm-cloud gray of his eyes. Before Abigail could move, his big hand settled on the back of her neck. The touch was electrifying, almost painful. But the next instant, he'd released her, balling his fingers into a fist. His knuckles grazed the curve of her neck gently, sending a shiver through her. She was sure he could feel it as his hand brushed with the delicacy of air against her dark curls.
Then she was fumbling for the door handle with clumsy fingers, concentrating on the task of getting out of the high cab without landing on her face.
"I'll see you Friday," she said, without quite looking at Nate again.
"Friday," he repeated, his low, husky voice holding a promise as intoxicating as his touch. The next instant, the pickup had accelerated away from the curb, leaving Abigail to face the Petersons.
CHAPTER 3
"You could see the roof of the house from here if it weren't for the rain," Abigail told her passengers, making an effort to sound cheery and positive.
The two men peered ahead through the semicircles in the windshield that the steadily moving wipers kept clear. The gray, slanting rain obscured even the old orchard, however, and Abigail slowed the car still more to be sure not to miss the drive.
She was pleased to be showing the Irving House again so soon; of course, she was. The ad had appeared in yesterday's newspaper for the first time, and already this morning there had been a couple of calls. One hadn't led to anything, but these two men were obviously serious. That would have made her day but for two things.
One, of course, was the weather. She hated showing houses when it was like this, unless the exterior of the building was better unscrutinized, anyway. But so much of the attraction of the elegant Victorian mansion they were on their way to see was its exterior, the nooks and balconies and exquisite gingerbread. Despite the neglect of the landscaping, the yard didn't hurt, either. The layout of the century-old formal gardens was still clear, and with summer, so many flowers were in bloom. But today, nobody was going to pause to take that in. The three of them would doubtless pull up their collars and dash for the porch.
All Through The House Page 3
