by Stacy Gail
Somewhere along the way, that was becoming just as important as restoring the mansion.
“No loitering around here. Move along or I’ll call Sheriff Berry.”
Chandler did his best not to jump at the sound of Earl Herff’s sour voice, instead settling back against the hood of his car. “Good evening, Earl. I don’t suppose you’ve seen Parker today, have you?”
“What do I look like, her keeper?”
No you look like you always do—a prize-winning pain in the ass. “I missed her at the mansion site and I haven’t been able to get a hold of her all afternoon. I’m beginning to think Mayor Weems found a way to run her out of town.”
“As if Weems could ever hold her own against the likes of Parker.” The old man’s sneer nevertheless held a hint of admiration for Parker, and that was a first as far as Chandler could recall. He hadn’t thought Earl was capable of admiring anyone on God’s green earth. “Your fancy architect said she was going to hunt for details on the mansion’s interior at a very promising source.”
“Did she say when she’d be back?”
“Nope. And, just in case you were wondering, the editor of the town’s newspaper hanging out in front of my office and putting people off the idea of checking in for the evening isn’t going to make her appear any sooner.”
When he put it like that, it was hard to argue the point. “Right. I’ll park across the—” The rest of his words dropped off his mental radar when Parker’s car pulled into a slot to one side of the lot.
Finally.
“No loitering,” Earl repeated, and turned to stomp toward the front office’s door. “If you’re going to stay, stay. If you’re going to leave, leave. But no matter what you do, get out of sight in the next minute or I’m calling the sheriff. Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight...”
That got Chandler hustling as nothing else could. By the time he caught up to Parker, who was juggling a file box and a small bakery bag while digging for her hotel key, his carefully thought-out greeting was a thing of the past.
“Quick, hide me.”
“What?” Parker blinked as he relieved her of the box and paper bag, and in moments they were inside the Honeymoon Suite. “Hide you from what?”
“Earl. I have about twelve seconds left to get out of sight before that crazy bastard calls Sheriff Berry.” Dropping his burden on a nearby table, he whipped the door closed and locked it for good measure. “There. That should do it.” Then he glanced over at her and grinned. “Thanks. I owe you one.”
“There must be something in Bitterthorn’s water to make its residents a little off-center.” But she was smiling as she tossed her leather satchel aside, kicked off her mules and made a beeline for the file box. “What did you do to earn the wrath of Earl?”
“Loitered. I was waiting for you,” he added when she raised questioning brows. “I figured you could ignore my texts and my voicemails, but it’s a lot harder to ignore me when I’m sitting on your doorstep.”
“Ignore?” Blank eyes widened before she threw a dismayed glance at her bag. “Whoops. I forgot to charge my phone last night. I wonder what else I’ve missed today. If Sharon’s tried to call me and I missed it, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Sharon?”
“My assistant. She’s the keeper of my schedule and all things important.”
“I wish I had one of those.” Chandler shook his head. Damn. There he was, turning himself inside-out like a lovelorn middle-school girl because Parker hadn’t called him back, while she obviously hadn’t given him another thought.
He was such an ass.
“Chandler? Am I in the doghouse for missing your messages?”
“No, forget about it.” That’s what he’d like to do, now that his cool façade was blown for all time. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
“What were you trying to get in touch with me about? Is everything okay at the site?”
“As far as I know, yeah.” He thought about lying, but she’d see the messages anyway, damn it. “I wanted to make sure we were okay after I left you hanging yesterday. Something came up.”
To his surprise, she made a sound of sympathy. “I heard all about it. Your server crashed, all the computers blew and you didn’t get out until the sun was coming up this morning, right? You must be exhausted.”
He was torn between laughing and rolling his eyes. “You’ve gotta love the Bitterthorn grapevine. It starts out with a little bit of right before it goes completely wrong.”
“Isn’t that what happened?”
“Close enough, I guess. For once I don’t even want to know where you heard about it.”
“Pauline’s, that evil place where its owners make you addicted to their ice cream simply by breathing in their sweet air. I’d be worried about gaining weight, but in this heat I doubt that’s even possible. Ah, here it is.” With a sound of triumph, she brought out several ragged manila envelopes and handed them to him as if they were as fragile as the Dead Sea Scrolls. “These should be preserved in your morgue, if at all possible.”
That surprised him. “What’s in here?”
“As far as I can tell, over a dozen issues of the Herald dating back to 1865, 1866 and maybe 1867.”
“Seriously?” Interest piqued, he looked inside at the dark mass of yellowed and flaking paper before his brows drew together. “I don’t know, they look pretty rough. As interesting as this is, I don’t know if it’ll be worth it to preserve these. There should be copies of these editions down in the morgue, so—”
“There aren’t, Chandler. Your morgue is great, better than most small towns, but there are huge gaps. From what I could read off the front pages without obliterating these papers entirely, there are at least two newspapers here that can help fill those gaps. And even more importantly, they’re both showing front-page articles dealing with the building of Thorne Mansion, and a lead on who its original architect was. If I can find that out, there’s a small chance I’ll be able to track down the original blueprints.”
“This sounds like a job that would be right up Doris’s alley.” Giving the envelopes one last glance, he set them aside. “What’s your lead on the original architect?”
“I think it may have been a devotee of a master engineer by the name of Carl Junker—one of the elite builders for European royalty during the Victorian era. From the moment I saw pictures of Thorne Mansion, I knew it reminded me of something I’d seen before. When I read what could be part of Junker’s name in one of those newspapers, the pieces fell into place in my mind. Unfortunately, that’s all I could read. Much of the paper had already flaked away, and my handling of it made it that much worse.”
“Could it be Junker himself?”
She shook her head. “Out here in the wilderness of 1860s Texas? No way. Like I said, this guy was the builder of royal palaces. For engineers and architects, especially back then, that’s like attaining rock-star status. At that time in history, Carl Junker was one of the very best.”
“Exactly my point. We Thornes never settle for anything that’s less than the best. Which has to explain why I can’t get enough of you.” And with that, he cupped his hand around her nape and pulled her into a hungering kiss.
Chapter Seven
If there was ever a time when Parker suspected she was suffering some kind of heart attack, it would be now. Thankfully there was no pain involved in the timpani drum thundering in her chest, only a giddy excitement. The press of Chandler’s mouth was something she hadn’t been able to get out of her mind all day, as if he’d somehow branded her with his kiss. Even when Deborah Pruitt had allowed her to burrow elbow-deep into her late husband’s collection of boxes that held Bitterthorn’s history—usually something that would have entertained her for hours—she hadn’t been able to shake the memory of it. As time wore on, it was all she could do t
o keep from tracking him down and making him kiss her again and again until she was satisfied. If that was even possible.
When she’d found him waiting on her doorstep, her heart had spun like an out-of-control top. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, she couldn’t help but think, if he’d been suffering in the same magnificent way?
His fingers loosened the haphazard knot she’d tied in her hair as he slanted the angle of his kiss to take it deeper. There was no subterfuge in him, no pretention. This was a sexual joining, a deliberate and conscious statement of what he wanted. Her response was just as obvious, as she let her head be cradled in his hand while she danced her tongue boldly with his, not satisfied until he loosed a groan that she felt more than heard. Until that moment she hadn’t known a mere sound could make her weak in the knees. She had to lock them in place so she wouldn’t wind up at his feet, her arms closing around his neck just to make sure she remained upright.
And they were only kissing.
Just how deeply affected would she be if—when—they became lovers?
“Hey.” His mouth left hers to cruise over her eyes, her cheek, her ear. When he bit gently on the side of her neck and sucked the faint sting away, it was her turn to moan. “Is it my imagination, or are you holding back?”
“Holding back?” She arched her neck as his exploration traveled lower. If she wasn’t careful she’d get addicted to the feel of his mouth on her skin. “Why would I do that?”
“Answering a question with a question. Excellent dodge. But as a journalist I can spot that trick a mile away.” The sweep of his hands down her back spiked her nervous system with a tingling, addictive delight. Their downward progress didn’t stop until his fingers dug into the curve of her bottom to lift her up into the urgent thrust of his sex. Her breath caught, an audible sound she couldn’t have stopped to save her life. His grip tightened in a wordless declaration of hunger, and she shivered when he pushed himself against the juncture of her thighs. “You don’t have to dodge anything. Not with me. I just need to know you’re sure about this.”
Southern men had to be a breed apart, was all she could think as he bent his head to sample the place where her neck met shoulder. Was he really so much of an old-school gentleman that he’d walk out of there if she told him to? As soon as the thought surfaced, another one tagged behind it. If he was leaving as many open doors as he could for her to escape, did that mean he wasn’t all that committed to jumping into bed with her? God knew that from the waist down, he felt more than committed. But maybe his brain wasn’t as eager as the rest of him. Maybe he wasn’t as eager as she was.
Did that matter?
Her past relationships, if that’s what they could be called, had always been easy, and complication-free. It had never crossed her mind to worry about whether or not her chosen partner was as crazy for her as she was for him. It had never mattered, if only because those moments of shared intimacy had never mattered. They’d just been fun, and that had been exactly what she wanted.
This was different. More than her next breath, she wanted his man to be as lost in his need for her as she was with him.
“Parker...”
She had to be overthinking this. She should just turn off her brain and go for it. The hidden flesh between her legs was so swollen and slick with need she could practically feel him inside her already. It would be perfect.
As long as he wanted her. Not just with his body, but with his mind, as well.
“I never tell a man to stay, Chandler. I just want to make it impossible for him to leave. But the choice has to be yours.”
If he seemed surprised by her words, he didn’t show it. Instead he nudged the collar of her shirt to one side and traced the line of her clavicle with his lips. “Our relationship was initialized by business. We cross this last line, we can’t turn around and uncross it.”
“Turning back is for people who don’t know where they’re going.”
“And where is it you want to go?”
To bed. With you. The words came so naturally she could feel them take shape on her tongue. But there was something holding him back, and it made her pause, uncertain. “A few weeks from now I’m going on to my next job in France. But for now I’m here to bring an improbable building back to life, and enjoy its owner while I can.”
“Yeah?” He raised his head to watch her with a predatory stillness that had her stifling a shiver. “That sounds like every guy’s no-ties wet dream. We just use each other to scratch a mutual itch while you’re in town, is that it?”
“That’s one way of putting it.” That was how she’d always approached intimacy before. Feel an attraction, enjoy exploring it, take away fond memories. No muss, no fuss. That was why she couldn’t explain why she didn’t care for the crude way he put it. Before she could figure it out, she took a half step back. “Our timing stinks, though. I have to be on-site early tomorrow morning to meet up with the architectural engineer, who’ll be in charge of the actual construction process after I’m gone. How about we scratch our mutual itch when neither one of us has a deadline hanging over our heads?”
“Even if you didn’t have that meeting tomorrow, we’re still on a deadline.” But he let her go before he scooped the envelopes off the table. “It’s great you know where you’re going, Parker. And it’s impressive as hell that you think you know exactly what’s waiting for you five miles down the road—no deviations, no detours. I’m just curious if you have a contingency plan should one of those unexpected detours ever get thrown in your way.”
She shrugged, all the more pissy when it was clear he didn’t have a problem with walking away. “I’m not worried. I’m a good driver.”
“We’ll see. Don’t forget to charge your phone.”
* * *
Why the hell had she reminded Chandler that they were on the clock? Of all the stupid things she’d done in her life, that one was a lulu. Out of sorts, Parker hauled herself up into her office, closing the trailer’s door on the busy sounds of construction. For a moment she closed her eyes and drank in the coolness of the small space, only to remember Chandler’s insistence that she hide away from the heat as much as possible. What a complicated, mixed-message man he was. He had a single-minded determination to see his ancestor’s home restored to its former glory, a determination she could only admire. But at the same time he seemed far more interested in making sure she avoided doing her job. Everything would be so much simpler if he could make up his mind about what he wanted the most.
With an impatient growl, she tore off her hard hat and threw it on the workstation. She wasn’t kidding anyone, least of all herself. Chandler Thorne was everything she found attractive in a man—confident, focused, dedicated to achieving his goals, and sleekly polished in an urbane, elegant way that seemed out of place in a sleepy town like Bitterthorn. She was there for such a short time, so why the hell was she waffling on how to deal with her attraction to him?
And damn, was she ever attracted to him. He was like her personal brand of catnip. She couldn’t even be in the same room with him without having some kind of crazy cardiac event. And when had a mere glance from a man ever had the capability to make her stomach muscles clench and her intimate flesh heat with desire? Never. She’d thought she understood what it was to want a man. But what she felt for Chandler was so overwhelming, she half-feared it would bury her sanity alive.
That was the big stumbling block messing up her mental mojo. Wanting...that was something she could handle. But what Chandler evoked in her was something else. Something more. It was like a need that had to be fulfilled. If she didn’t, something innate told her that she’d be doomed to go through the rest of her life never knowing what it was to be truly satisfied.
But if she did fulfill it, she feared she’d go mad once it was out of her life.
And it would be out of her life. The one thing she knew for a cert
ainty was that Chandler and his long-standing familial roots planted in Bitterthorn and her rootless lifestyle didn’t mix. Not long-term, anyway. Which was fine, she thought fiercely while cold bloomed in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t do long-term. God only knew why that phrase even popped into her head.
A sudden knock on the door at her back had her jumping out of her skin. Her pulse pounded as she swung it open, a heady mix of anticipation and surprise surging at the thought of Chandler dropping in once more. But when she found an unfamiliar teenage boy on her doorstep, the world went oddly flat.
“Yes?” She couldn’t stop herself from scowling at the kid. But damn it all, the kid wasn’t Chandler. He’d be lucky if she didn’t rip his head off.
Apparently the boy’s survival instincts were top-notch, because he took a half step back. “Uh, delivery for Parker Radclyffe from Abel’s Market?”
She recognized the name of the grocery store on the edge of town. “I didn’t order anything. I didn’t even know Abel’s delivered.”
“Yes, ma’am, it’s been delivering to its customers since it opened about a billion years ago. Um.” He held up three grocery bags in what appeared to be self-defense when his words made her scowl worsen. “These were ordered by Chandler Thorne and to be delivered to this trailer on the construction site of Thorne Mansion. I was supposed to drop this order off with somebody named Parker Radclyffe?”
“Chandler?” Just the sound of his name made her feel lighter inside. Without another thought, she opened the door wider while her scowl vanished. “I’m Parker. Please set those on the counter while I scrounge up a tip for you.”
“Oh, no, thank you, ma’am. Mr. Thorne already took care of that.”
Torn between amusement that she’d been “ma’amed” for the first time in her life and renewed surprise at the unexpected delivery, she glanced at the bags. “What did he want delivered?”
