All Through The House

by Janice Kay Johnson

  John uttered an obscenity. "Who the hell knows? Who cares?"

  Nate took his feet off his desk and sat up, the chair squeaking. "I'll handle Appleton. What's the foul-up? Anything I can do?"

  They talked about the problem for a few minutes, long enough to return John to his usually unflappable self. Nate was stuck with Appleton, though, a short bouncy young attorney who reminded Nate unpleasantly of a nurse who'd had the night shift the one time he had been hospitalized. "Time to take our temperature!" she would say brightly, at some godforsaken hour of the morning.

  Nate hadn't been surprised to hear that Appleton specialized in wills and probate. He'd have looked laughable defending some sleazeball in court.

  They were following the waitress to a seat at Weller's, the local version of Denny's—decent food quickly—when Nate saw Abigail. The back of her head, to be precise. It was her voice that caught his attention, that and the emphatic gesture of her graceful hands. Her dark curls were caught up in some kind of knot on top of her head, though a few strayed. For an instant, Nate felt pleasure, just because he could anticipate her delighted smile, the way the timbre of her voice would change for him, the promise in the depths of her green-brown eyes.

  And then he saw her companion. The man was maybe forty, big and smooth, auburn-haired, his suit expensive. His dark eyes rested warmly on Abigail's face as he listened to her.

  Nate felt as if a switchblade had just slipped between his ribs. He stopped, and Appleton walked right into him.

  When the young attorney fumbled through apologies, Abigail turned her head.

  "Nate!" Had she spoken with pleasurable surprise? Or just plain surprise?

  Nate's gaze left her smile for her companion's face. He hadn't moved, only lifted a brow to return Nate's regard. Nate nodded coolly to the dark man and then to Abigail. "If you'll excuse us...?"

  Puzzlement flickered in her eyes, but the hostess was obviously waiting, and Appleton was peering interestedly over Nate's broad shoulder. "Of course," Abigail said, "I'll look forward to seeing you Monday, Nate."

  Nate stalked after the hostess and slid into the booth with a curt nod for her. Abigail wasn't in his direct line of sight, thank God, but if he turned his head slightly he could see her face—and the back of the man's head.

  "Friend of yours?" Appleton asked.

  Nate gritted his teeth, but said civilly, "Abigail McLeod is a real estate broker with McLeod and James."

  "Really?" The stocky man swiveled to look at her. "I'm going to be listing my house soon. I'd considered them."

  "She's doing a hell of a job with the Irving House," Nate admitted. "No offer yet, but that's no fault of hers."

  "I wouldn't be ashamed to have a looker like her holding open houses at my place," Appleton said with a leer that sat peculiarly on his round face. "If you know what I mean."

  Nate's cold stare made those cheeks turn pink. Ignoring the menu, he said, "John tells me you've got a problem with the construction."

  Obviously flustered, the attorney said, "I don't remember saying that. I just stopped to take a look, see how things were going, and I wondered about the grade of cement. I'm sure you know what you're doing...."

  But. There was always a "but." Nate's gut was burning, and what did he have to do? Hold Appleton's plump hand, that's what. When the waitress appeared, he ordered without any interest in the meal. All the while he listened to Appleton and answered questions with a fair degree of amiability, Nate was conscious with most of his being of Abigail and the smooth-talking, handsome man with whom she was lunching.

  What the hell was she doing here with another man? He'd never even considered the fact that she might not be dating him exclusively. He'd assumed. God! The way she kissed him, the way she moved under him and teased him and talked about a life that sounded conventional...

  And yet, here she was. Too busy to see him, but not too busy for the bastard who was slipping a hand under her elbow to help her out of the booth. Damn.

  Appleton was saying something that Nate didn't hear. Across the busy restaurant Abigail's gaze met his. They stared at each other for a moment that seemed to freeze. She was saying something with her eyes. Asking him a question, reassuring him, compelling him. Then she smiled tentatively, and the knife in Nate's belly twisted. He nodded again and wrenched his gaze back to the attorney's face. He didn't have to be watching to see the gentle sway of her hips and the possessive hand her companion planted on her back as they walked away. And he knew damned well that Abigail could have slipped out from under it if she had wanted.

  Which meant that, for whatever reason, she didn't want to. Was she sending him a message? What was wrong with the telephone?

  And if it was a hint...well, she'd find out that he didn't take hints. He preferred honesty.

  *****

  "I've missed talking to you." Monday evening Abigail had waited until Nate backed the pickup truck out of her driveway before she spoke.

  If he could feel her gaze on his profile, he didn't turn his head. "Yeah?"

  What on earth was wrong? She watched him for another moment, but he didn't say anything, just stopped at the corner, glanced both ways without looking at her, then accelerated across the quiet intersection.

  She tried again. "I almost called you yesterday."

  "Any special reason?"

  "Do I need one?"

  He shrugged.

  "You looked angry the other day at Weller's. Did you have a problem with the man you were with?"

  "No. I had a problem with the man you were with."

  Astonished, Abigail said, "Do you know him? I didn't realize.... He's up from L.A., looking for an equestrian facility. He and his wife breed Arabians, and...." She stopped. Belatedly. Arabian horses had nothing to do with Nate's clenched jaw. "I don't understand," she said finally.

  "I kind of figured that." He yanked the pickup over to the curb in front of a vacant lot, overgrown with blackberry vines, then with quick, violent motions put it in neutral and set the emergency brake. When he faced her, his eyes were narrowed so that small lines fanned out at the corners. His mouth was a compressed line and the grooves in his cheeks were harsh. "Does it surprise you," he said in a hard voice, "that I don't like to come across the woman I'm dating out with another man?"

  Abigail was shocked breathless. It had never occurred to her—but it should have. Who should know better what a man is capable of? she thought bitterly.

  "You have absolutely no right...." she began, voice rising, only to be interrupted.

  "When you came into my bed, you gave me a right," Nate said, his eyes burning.

  "Your bed?" Abigail snapped. "I don't remember being anywhere near it!"

  "You want me to put it more crudely?"

  "No, I don't!" She realized that her hands were shaking, and took a steadying breath. "That's not the point. I haven't promised you anything yet...."

  "I didn't think we needed promises," he said, between gritted teeth.

  "I didn't think we did, either," she said, matching him word for word.

  "Damn it." His hands dropped from their clench on the steering wheel and he let his head fall back against the seat. "Then why...?"

  "Why did I have lunch with a client?" The words tasted unpleasant. She had said them before, too many times. "Why did you?"

  Nate grunted. "To hold his hand."

  Abigail didn't say anything. The silence stretched, Nate stared straight ahead through the windshield, and she waited. She saw his chest rise and fall with a long breath, and then he turned his head to meet her eyes.

  "I didn't like the way he looked at you," Nate said very quietly. "Or the way he touched you."

  Her tongue moved over dry lips. "He asked me out. I turned him down."

  "Why?"

  She closed her eyes. "Why do you think?"

  The next thing she knew, Nate's hand slid along the line of her jaw, and his thumb moved in a soft, caressing circle. "I think," he said roughly, "that I've been a gra
de-A jerk. Are you going to let me tell you how sorry I am?"

  Abigail lifted lashes to meet his regretful gray eyes. "Why?” she asked simply. "Why would you assume...?

  Nate reclaimed his hand, and his gaze shifted from hers. "I...I don't know. Maybe..." He gave a jerky shrug. "Oh, hell, I used to think I was always on the outside looking in. Maybe I just figured this was another time."

  What could she say? If she had known for sure what his intentions for the future were, if he had even said he loved her.... But she didn't know, and he hadn't. So how could she ask if he would ever trust her? If every time she had lunch with a handsome man, he would assume the worst? How could she ask how much of her life he would expect her to give up, to protect his own shaky sense of certainty?

  But he had already done something James never had: he'd admitted his own vulnerability. And so Abigail touched his arm, rock-hard under her fingertips, and said, "I promise that I'll tell you if I'm ever tempted to date another man. Will that do?"

  Nate reached up with both hands to frame her face and hold it steady so that she saw the turmoil in his eyes and the twist to his mouth. "Somehow," he said in that voice that reminded her of the rough texture of his shaven jaw, "I have a feeling I'd know before you told me."

  "You can read my mind?" she asked, with a shaky attempt at lightening the atmosphere.

  "I don't have to." He smiled, but ruefully, his eyes still tender and unguarded. "If you want to date someone else, it'll probably be because I've damaged our relationship beyond repair."

  "Nate...."

  Whatever she had been going to say was lost when his mouth touched hers, just a soft, fleeting contact. Then he let her go and released the emergency brake. "Would you rather go home?" he asked in a controlled voice.

  Inexplicably, tears burned in Abigail's eyes. This was a turning point, and a part of her knew the decision she should make. Tonight's scene hadn't happened in isolation; if he jumped to a conclusion one time, he could do so again. He didn't trust her, might never. If she were smart, she would very calmly say yes. She would get out of his pickup, wish him a civil goodbye, and make excuses whenever he called from now on.

  But she also knew that she couldn't do that. What he made her feel was worth any risk to her heart. Maybe she could have walked away when she still saw him as an occasionally arrogant, always sexy, intelligent, charismatic man. But now, superimposed over that image was another: the little boy who hid just out of sight so that he could look at the house that represented all the dreams he didn't have. Now she couldn't forget that Nate Taggart was also that child, who had never been loved enough to learn trust.

  What scared her was that it might be too late. Could a grown man trust love he'd never had before?

  She didn't know. But she gambled. "No," she said, smiling, hoping he didn't see the tears on her eyelashes. "No, I'd like to have dinner with you, Nate."

  The agony of relief she saw on his face, however quickly masked, was reward enough.

  CHAPTER 9

  Despite her decision, Abigail wanted to be reassured. She wanted Nate to demonstrate his respect for her abilities as a real estate broker. She wanted him to recognize that her job was as important as his. She wanted him to show her trust.

  None of those things happened in the next week, and the fears she had shoved out of sight surfaced in an uneasiness that ate away at her hunger to be with him.

  She had the next Saturday off, but Nate was up to his neck in troubles, as he put it, and had to work.

  "Sunday?" he suggested, then grunted. "Hell, I suppose you have to work."

  "Afraid so," Abigail agreed.

  There was a moment of silence. Abigail was perched on the edge of her desk, phone to her ear. At the round table she used for clients, a mother and daughter sat studying listings. They were looking for a smaller place for the mother, who had recently been widowed. As far as Abigail could see, they were perfectly happy without her for a few minutes, since they were confident about what they wanted.

  "Something is going to have to give," Nate said finally. "I want to see you."

  Tension sat like a lump of cold oatmeal in her stomach. "I want to see you, too, Nate."

  "What day are you stuck with next weekend?" he asked.

  Stuck with. She bit her lip and said carefully, "Remember the joys of self-employment, Nate? I chose to work weekends."

  "Yeah, I remember. I seem to have done the same thing. I'm not sure whether that makes us soul-mates or mismatched."

  Abigail wasn't sure, either, and she was getting less sure by the day. She started to open her mouth to answer tartly, but closed it again. Had he really said anything objectionable? Or was she oversensitive, thanks to her manipulative, possessive ex-husband?

  She glanced at the framed prints of old houses that hung on the wall, and remembered the day Nate had walked in here for the first time. The sun had gilded his dark-blond hair as bright as the gold wedding ring she had put away forever. His smile was lazy and sensual, but somehow his gray eyes had been graver, as though his easy charm was a habit that didn't go any deeper than that slightly saggy tweed sports coat that she hadn't seen since. He had scared her then, and she was still scared. Was she looking for an excuse to stop seeing him?

  "How about Sunday night?" Abigail said. "I don't like to leave Kate when I've been gone all day, too, but I think she'd forgive me this once. After all, she adores you."

  "Does she?" He sounded pleased. "You can tell her the feeling's mutual. Okay, Sunday night it is. Oh, hell, the other phone's ringing. I'll call you tomorrow, Abigail."

  Another gift arrived the next day. It came in the mail, an old house—or was it a castle?—sculpted in pewter with a tiny crystal high up in a turret about where the Irving house had the round window. When Nate called, he accepted her thanks casually. Abigail set it next to her desk calendar and found herself picking it up often just for the pleasure of exploring its intricate details.

  Meg wandered into Abigail's office about midmorning. "An offer on the Sandburg house!" she caroled triumphantly. "A deadweight off our hands!"

  "Is the offer decent?" Abigail asked.

  "Are you kidding? But I recommended to the owners that they take it. What else could they do? He's already in Wichita, she's getting lonely…. It's in a lousy location. And they aren't losing, they bought before prices bumped up." Her gaze seized on the pewter figurine. "Cute."

  Abigail touched the tiny crystal, glowing in a ray of sun from the window. "Nate."

  "He's got a thing about old houses, doesn't he?"

  If only you knew, Abigail thought.

  On Friday, Nate himself appeared unexpectedly in her doorway, hands behind his back. "Hi, got a second?"

  Abigail held up one finger, the phone crooked between her ear and shoulder. "Well," she finished as cheerily as possible, "if you do decide to sell, I hope you'll keep us in mind. I'd be happy to give you a free market evaluation. There's absolutely no obligation."

  When she hung up the receiver, she said, "Sure, Nate, come on in."

  He came across the small space with long, buoyant strides. He wore a pinstriped blue dress shirt tucked into worn blue jeans, a contrast that somehow emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and his rangy, muscular frame. The dress shirt lost a little something with its cuffs rolled up, while the narrow tie had been tugged loose at his neck. Even so, the sight of him took her breath away.

  "Is this the latest in formal attire?" she teased, trying to hide her reaction.

  Nate grinned, that wholehearted smile that creased his lean cheeks and made his eyes sparkle devilishly. "You bet. Yuppie chic. In other words, when I'm behind a desk I look dressed up. Under it, I'm comfortable."

  Abigail stood. "Okay, what are you hiding back there?"

  He bowed with all the savoir-faire of a nineteenth century dandy. "Just something to remind you of me." From behind his back he produced a magnificent bouquet of old roses, mauve and pink and faded crimson. Some blooms were loose, their
elegance tattered, while others were packed with petals, precisely quartered.

  Abigail didn't even have to bend her head to smell the fragrance, rich and evocative. "Oh, Nate."

  "Got a vase?"

  "Nothing worthy of roses like these," she said, "but I must have a jar somewhere. Just a minute."

  Actually, the watery green glass canning jar suited the roses that overflowed it. Abigail set it on her desk, too, crowded between the large book Nate had given her and the desk calendar with the tiny pewter castle. She tilted her head and smiled. "What do you think?"

  He didn't even look at the roses. His gaze was hungrily intent on her face, she discovered. "I think," he said huskily, "that I have to kiss you."

  Despite the still-open office door, he suited action to words. "God, you're beautiful," he murmured. "Sometimes I can hardly believe you're mine."

  At the possessive words, Abigail's blood chilled. "Hey," she said, pulling back in his embrace, "do you think somebody gift-wrapped me for you?"

  Nate apparently noticed nothing out of the ordinary in her tone. His eyes skimmed from her mouth down her body, in a perusal as intimate as his touch. "Oh, I don't know," he murmured. "If I were going to wrap you, I'd go for silk and lace." He released her and dropped another quick kiss on her lips, still tingling from the last one. "Listen, I've got to run. I just wanted to make sure you don't forget me even for a second."

  Then he was gone, leaving Abigail standing beside her desk, breathing the heavy fragrance of old roses.

  Several petals had dropped onto the book; one silvery-pink rose petal lay on her calendar. When the phone rang, she answered it, but all the while she was conscious of the roses. No, she wouldn't forget Nate, but suddenly, desperately, she wanted to. The rich fragrance was so powerful it made her claustrophobic. It was as though he had bound her in some way.

  I don't want you to forget me for even a second. It was so familiar. All so familiar. James would lower his voice intimately as he kissed her goodbye in the morning. "Remember," he would murmur, "part of me is with you all the time." He had given her roses, too, perfect hybrid teas. And gifts, nearly every day; lacy negligees, flowers, books, music tapes, jewelry. At first, so romantic; at the end, she had felt weighted down. Possessed. Bought.