She tried desperately to cling to her sense of betrayal. She would not let herself be convinced only because Nate spoke so passionately. He had been willing to hurt anyone who stood in his way. She couldn't forget that.
"The past isn't a house," she said. "It's people. Would Josiah want you to lie to keep his house? If he'd wanted you to have it at any cost, wouldn't he have left it to you?"
A mask closed over Nate's face. After a moment, during which they stared at each other, he said with icy calm, "The only person I was hurting is Ed Phillips, and, by God, he deserves it."
"What about me?"
His calm abruptly deserted him and she saw anguish on his face. "I didn't know you," he said again. "If I could go back.... But I can't. Abigail, do you want me to pack my stuff and move out of here? Is that what it would take for you to forgive me?"
She didn't want to forgive him, she realized with a shock. She was afraid of him. Of his charm and his wicked smiles and his achingly sweet touch. Of the hope he had given her and Kate, who talked of little else. She wanted to hate him, because it would be safer.
"I trusted you," she said, her throat hurting. No, that was a lie. She had almost trusted him.
"I didn't know you," he repeated.
"Don't keep saying that!" she snapped.
"What the hell else should I say?" he demanded. He came around the chair in a couple of long strides. His hands closed on her shoulders and he yanked her against him. His voice was as rough as his childhood had been. "I want you, Abigail McLeod. I want you so badly, I'd torch this place if it was the only way to have you. Do you understand?"
She couldn't breathe. He was hard against her and his fingers bit almost painfully into her upper arms. She could see the dark spikes of his lashes around eyes almost black, his pupils were so dilated. Beneath starkly high cheekbones, his cheeks were shadowed with a faint growth of beard. His teeth were clenched, his mouth a compressed line.
Oh, yes, she understood that kind of wanting. She felt boneless, heat curling in her stomach. She needed him to kiss her as she had never needed anything in her life.
Abigail made a sound, a squeak that he must have taken for acquiescence, because he groaned deep in his throat and bent his head. His mouth captured hers in a kiss as desperate as she felt. Abigail whimpered and melted against him.
His kisses before had been practiced, as though he knew just what worked best. He'd kissed with pleasure and artistry, coaxing, teasing, seducing. Now he devoured her mouth with passion so out of control, her heart splintered into little pieces. With teeth and lips and tongue, Nate kissed her as though he wanted to consume her. His big hands lifted and pulled her into him, molding her to hard thighs and an erection that pressed against her stomach.
James had never lost control. Not once. He had played her like a musical instrument, strumming and caressing and fingering the notes he'd learned awakened the most pleasurable sound. He had controlled not only himself, but her. His sexual pleasure came from control, she had learned, not from her.
But Nate.... Nate kissed her as though he starved for her. For her alone. What defenses she had built came crashing down, and as feverishly as he devoured her mouth, she devoured his. Her arms closed around his waist and her breasts were pressed flat against his chest. She snatched a ragged breath when he lifted his mouth from hers to string heated kisses across her cheek to nip the soft flesh of her neck. Her head fell back and he wrenched the bow at her neck loose and tugged her blouse open so that his mouth, hot and damp and fierce, could slide along her collarbone and down her chest to the swell of breasts above her bra.
When he discovered her bra didn't open in the front, a groan made his chest vibrate. Hands that were no longer gentle shoved the straps of her bra along with her silky blouse down her arms, trapping them even as it freed her small breasts. First his hands took her breasts, engulfing them, testing the texture and squeezing until her nipples were hard and tight. Abigail struggled against the confining clothes. He kissed one breast as she found the hooks behind her back and her bra and blouse dropped to pool on the floor.
Oh, God, his mouth felt good. Sweet and painful and primal. She grabbed his shoulders and held on as he lowered her to the floor. Her legs twined with his and she pushed her hips upward until the pressure made her want more. Nate lifted his head. His face was almost unrecognizable. His eyes blazed and a flush ran along his cheekbones. His hair was damp, disarrayed. He was brazenly male to her female, and nothing else mattered right now.
He pulled his T-shirt over his head and threw it aside, kissed her, then worked on the buttons at the waist of her skirt. The Oriental rug beneath Abigail was soft when she moved one way, as rough as sandpaper when she moved the other. She was hardly aware of it.
Nate made a sound of satisfaction when he slid the zipper down. He inched her skirt and panties and pantyhose over her hips, gazing down at her with his face transformed by sexual hunger. She kicked her low-heeled pumps off herself so that he could peel the pantyhose off and throw them aside.
If she had been aroused before, his touch undid her. He was a little too rough, but that only made her frantic. With one leg she pulled him over her while her fingers tugged at the zipper of his jeans. When her hand curled around him, he growled and covered her mouth with his even as he bucked away to shove his jeans down.
Abigail was so desperate for him, she led the way. She parted her legs, guided him to her. With a convulsive movement he thrust deep and hard. For an instant, this hurt, too; it had been so long since she had made love with a man. No, she had never made love like this. Never so frantic, so rough, so out of control. He filled her, he lifted her hips, he ground his against her as he took her, one deep stroke after another. Pleasure swept over her in long waves, him in one convulsive thrust.
"Abigail!"
She had never heard her name like that, a groan, a plea, a benediction. She whispered his, but mostly she begged. For more, for less, for promises and hope.
In the shaken silence, Nate eased to his side at last, but he held her tightly. Her head on his shoulder, her arm laying across his sleek, sweat-slick chest, Abigail clung. She tried to absorb the moment. She wanted to remember the closeness, the sweetness of the pleasure, the gift of his desperate hunger. Just once in her life, she had longed to be wanted like that.
Time drifted. Sunlight came in the small-paned windows, lying across Nate and Abigail like an intricately stitched quilt. Tiny dust motes danced in the air. Abigail listened to the slow, solid thump of Nate's heart, felt his chest rise and fall with each breath. His lips brushed her hair and at last his arms relaxed around her.
She gradually became aware of how hard the floor was beneath her hip, of tender skin scraped on the rug, of sadness seeping into her joy. She began to feel the need to separate herself from Nate and become self-contained again. Biting her lip, Abigail sat up, almost sorry when Nate's arms fell away to let her go. His fingers traced down her spine, sending a delicious shiver in their path. She was tempted to turn back, to press a kiss to his rough cheek, to find his mouth with hers and sprawl atop his long body.
But cold reality had gained too firm a grip. How had she let him sweep her away so easily? He'd betrayed her, hurt her, and she'd reacted by docilely cooperating when he'd taken her right there on the floor. No, she had to be honest with herself. She hadn't been docile. She'd been passionate, even aggressive. She had wanted him, no matter what he had done to her.
Abigail clenched her teeth against a wave of terror. She had been so sure she was strong now, that no man could ever again do to her what James had. Did she have some fatal weakness for charming, manipulative men? Did she want to be smothered by a man who claimed to need her?
Out of the corner of her eye she was aware of Nate, who lay indolently naked on the floor, hands clasped behind his head as he watched her. She was self-conscious struggling into her pantyhose and bra. Dressing in front of someone was so undignified. She ought to have been able to snatch up her clothes
and retreat. Instead, she fought to fasten the hooks of her bra behind her back. Unsmiling, Nate stood in one graceful move and did it for her.
Dear God, he was beautiful! Muscles slid smoothly beneath tanned skin, bunching in his strong thighs when he tugged on his shorts and sat beside her on the sofa. Furious at herself, her emotions uncomfortably jostled, Abigail shoved her arms into the blouse and clumsily buttoned it.
He laid a hand across hers, stilling her fingers. "Embarrassed?" he asked, in that soft growl that had attracted her on the telephone before she'd even met him.
Was it that simple? she wondered. She nodded finally, without meeting his eyes.
His hand left hers to gently grasp her chin and turn her face up to his. He bent his head and kissed her tenderly. "Me, too," he murmured, then released her.
She should have been reassured. Instead, Abigail's fear that he meant to manipulate her emotions intensified. "What do you intend now?" she asked abruptly.
Nate lifted one brow, then smiled with lazy sensuality. "Nothing," he said lightly, "except spending as much time with you as possible."
It sounded like heaven, Abigail thought. The strength of her own longing scared her afresh, and her voice was unintentionally harsh when she said, "How are you going to feel if I bring somebody to look at the house tomorrow? Or are you asking me to give up trying to sell it?"
A frown gathered between Nate's brows, although the twist of his mouth was rueful. "No, I'm not asking you to give up trying to sell it. If you didn't show the place, somebody else would. Anyway, you wouldn't do it, would you?"
"When I accept a listing, I promise to give it my best," Abigail said, feeling priggish. "I can't violate my principles."
"I know." Nate smoothed her hair back from her face, his fingers lingering on the curls. "I won't ask."
She chewed on her bottom lip, her gaze searching his unflinching gray eyes. Was he sincere? Honest? Put in his place, would she have tried to defend what she saw as her home? What would he do if she called to make an appointment tomorrow?
"You know," he said, "the school board should make a decision about the contract for the new school in the next month."
"And?"
"Can you hold off running any more ads for that long?"
His request sounded reasonable enough. Or did she just want to see it that way? She stood and stepped into her skirt, concentrating on the zipper and button. "I'll think about it."
"That's all I ask," he said quietly.
While she slipped on her shoes, he pulled on his jeans and T-shirt. Feeling horrendously awkward, she said, "I'd better go. I need to stop at the office before I pick Kate up."
"Hey." He tilted her chin up again. "I'll call you tomorrow."
If he had demanded more, insisted on talking about what had happened, she would have run scared. Instead, she relaxed a little. "Okay. I'm sorry, Nate. I'm not used to…to things like this happening."
"Don't apologize." He laid a finger on her lips, then bent his head to place a soft kiss on the same place. Abigail's heart twisted.
She drove away, half her attention on her rearview mirror. Barefoot, Nate stood on the porch and watched her go. Even after he was out of sight, she could still see the mansion's turrets and the tiny, round window high up. She'd always half expected to see Rapunzel lower her long golden tresses from that window.
Of course, Abigail's mind twisted the thought back to Nate. If she let herself love him, would she be as trapped as Rapunzel had been? As trapped as she herself had been by another man, once upon a time?
With his deft fingers and crooked smile, his gravelly voice and rumble of a laugh, could Nate bend her will to his?
Abigail was already afraid of the answer. Because she had known in her heart, even as she'd told him she would think about it, that she would do as he asked.
Her ads had been successful. She'd attracted attention to the magnificent old Irving House. What more could Ed expect? She needn't feel guilty if she simply concentrated on other listings for a while. Or so she told herself.
CHAPTER 7
"You don't want the Irving House in our ads this week?"
Meg stood in the doorway to Abigail's office, a sheaf of papers in her hand. Abigail's partner wore her usual country chic: oversize, drop-waist jumper with a fashionably faded, coordinating cotton shirt with tiny flowers beneath. Abigail knew darn well how she would have looked as if she had a gunnysack on. Meg instead managed to be an earth mother, prosaic, homey, even pretty in a comfortable, middle-aged way.
"I don't think so," Abigail said, hoping she sounded casual. "I've been neglecting some of my other listings. Anyway, we have enough activity on the Irving place. Though maybe it should go in Harmon Homes next month."
Harmon Homes was one of a slew of free magazines filled with advertising bought by real-estate firms. McLeod and James always had a couple of pages with pictures of their listings.
"Okay," Meg said, without moving. "I'll fax it in, then." There was a moment's silence. "You still seeing the renter?"
She'd seen all of him now. Abigail promptly gave away her thoughts with a blush. "Um hmm," she admitted. "He...just sent me a present."
"Oh?" Meg's brows went up and she came over to sit on the edge of Abigail's desk. Abigail pushed the beautiful picture book of old houses across to her friend and partner, who began to flip through it. "Well, it's appropriate, anyway," Meg murmured.
"You mean, instead of sexy lingerie?" Abigail said a little tartly.
Meg laughed with the cheerful abandon that characterized her. "I'm not that old! I wish somebody'd give me some Frederick's of Hollywood. I was just thinking out loud. I don't know if this is such a good idea, Abby."
Abigail stared at the page Meg had stopped at. Atop the charming gingerbread of the pictured nineteenth-century home lay a semidouble rose, pressed flat. She reached out to touch its brittle petals gently. Fragrance, sweet and musky, drifted faintly to her nose.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"Conflict of interest." Meg touched the flower, too, then firmly shut the book and looked straight at Abigail. "He doesn't want that place to sell, does he?"
Abigail hesitated, wishing she could lie, but aware that Meg knew her too well to let her get away with it. "No," she said finally. "He'd like to stay in the house. What's new about that? Very few renters want a house to be sold out from under them."
Which was true enough. Nate had been more creative than most; a renter who was a slob could be enough to prevent a house selling. Abigail supposed Nate had been afraid he'd be evicted by Ed, who wouldn't mind any excuse. As an architect, Nate had a reputation to maintain, too; clients might even stop by his house on occasion.
But Meg shook her head. "I don't know. From the way you described it, he talks about the place... almost..."
Almost like a lover. Meg had trailed off, but Abigail filled in the blanks with no trouble. Nate didn't hide his feelings well. If she had been just a little more perceptive, she would have caught on sooner. The nearly invisible tension she'd felt whenever the subject came up, the smooth shift to another topic, the tightened jaw.... Oh, yes, Nate gave away his feelings.
"Of course," Meg continued, sounding somewhat more cheerful, "considering the way he looks at you...." She smiled, shrugged, and stood up. "I guess I can't blame you."
"Frank's eyes still glow when he looks at you," Abigail pointed out.
"Yeah, but he's balding and has a potbelly now."
Abigail tactfully didn't respond, and Meg scrunched up her nose. "Okay, okay. I have a few extra pounds now, too. And I went for electrolysis the other day to get rid of those disgusting little hairs that want to grow on my neck. And the breasts aren't what they used to be "
Abigail just laughed. "Meg, if I can look as good as you when I'm fifty—"
"Forty-nine. Please." She stopped in the doorway. "Just be careful, okay?"
Abigail was terribly afraid that the only way to be careful would be never to see Nate agai
n. He made her feel reckless, young, trusting. All highly dangerous emotions.
"Careful." She tried to smile. "Right."
After Meg had disappeared back into the front office, Abigail opened the beautiful book of old houses again. She riffled through the pages until she found the pressed flower. It had been a deep purplish-red, now faded by drying. The scent still lingered, however, tantalizing and romantic.
Her ex-husband had made romantic gestures, too, but all conventional, none—as Meg had put it—so singularly appropriate. Candlelight dinners, one red rose in a crystal vase, lingerie... Oh, yes, he had given her delicate teddies and negligees, just naughty enough to make her feel self-conscious, a state he had delighted in. She had come to hate the gifts meant to soothe her, to make up for the friends and freedom she was denied. And meant, as well, to dress her up for his pleasure, like a child's Barbie doll. That was what she had come to feel like—a doll, without feelings or choice.
Was this expensive book the first of many gifts with a similar purpose? Or was it a genuine expression of emotion? Abigail wished desperately that she knew.
But she couldn't resist, however wistfully, touching the rose again, savoring the elusive scent that reminded her of overgrown formal gardens, faded Oriental carpets, and the warmth of sunlight pouring through old glass.
*****
"Lunch?" Abigail murmured into the phone. "Today? Uh, I'm with a client right now, but...sure. Why not?"
"Can we make it in your office?" Nate said. "I'll bring sandwiches. I have something I want to show you."
"I did pack a lunch," she admitted. "You can just bring your own. One o'clock? Fine."
She hung up and smiled at the young couple. "Sorry. So, do you see anything you like?"
"Well, this one looks interesting," the man said.
Or should she call him a boy? Abigail wondered, feeling old. They'd only been married a year, the wife had admitted with a blush. They looked like the high school jock and the cheerleader, but neither had gone on to college. The boy was a mechanic—which probably meant he made thirty dollars an hour, Abigail thought wryly—and the girl had attended beauty college and now cut hair. They were cute, cuddly, and expecting their first child. And ready to buy their first house, though they couldn't afford much. Especially not nowadays, when "starter" homes were a hundred and thirty thousand dollars.
All Through The House Page 9
