All Through The House (2 page)

The oval center of beveled glass in the elaborately carved
front door allowed a glimpse into the wide hallway laid with a muted rose
Oriental rug, while the tall leaded-glass windows on each side of the door
scattered the sunlight into glittering shards of color. The door opened easily
under Abigail's hand, and she put her key back in her purse.

"Hello?" she called into the silence. The muffled
clang of metal against metal somewhere in the far reaches of the house was the
only answer. "Hello," she called again, louder, but there was still
no response. Abigail hesitated, wondering whether she should track the man down
before she started showing the house, but decided not to. He expected them,
after all.

A wide, graceful staircase with beautifully turned balusters
rose from the elegant entry hall with its marble floor and polished oak
paneling. Mr. Peterson went one way, drawn by the beveled-glass-fronted
bookcases in the library, while Mrs. Peterson peered into the front parlor.
"The ceilings must be fourteen feet high!" she exclaimed, impressed.
"And the floors are beautiful. Are they oak?"

"No, maple," Abigail informed her. "The wainscoting
and woodwork in here are, too." A magnificent marble fireplace dominated
one end of the room, made airy by the extremely high ceiling banded with
delicate plaster garlands.

The front rooms were skimpily furnished; Abigail knew that
when he'd inherited it, Ed Phillips had emptied the house of the more valuable
furnishings, keeping a few treasures and selling the rest. She had to assume
the lovely pieces here belonged to the mysterious renter, who clearly had very
good taste and loved antiques.

It was while Mrs. Peterson was opening and closing cupboard
doors in the kitchen that Abigail first became conscious of the smell. Faint
but unpleasant, it had been with them since she first opened the front door,
she realized now. Neither of the Petersons had commented yet, so Abigail
glanced around casually, wondering if the renter needed to take his garbage
out. Something was certainly rotting somewhere. But the bag under the sink was
empty, and the sink itself and the new Italian tile counters were spotlessly
clean. Abigail frowned, and wrenched herself back with an effort to answer a
question from Mr. Peterson.

"Yes, the sink and countertops are new. There is a
disposal now, and, of course, a dishwasher."

The Petersons murmured as they wandered through the kitchen
with its glass-fronted maple cabinets, and Abigail lapsed into silence again.
She liked to give potential buyers the space to really get a feel for what they
were seeing. At the moment, though, there was more to it. She was increasingly
bothered by the odor, which she was certain was becoming stronger. Mrs.
Peterson's nose twitched a little as she, too, looked into the cupboard under
the sink as though involuntarily drawn. Another housewife wanting to throw out
the trash, Abigail diagnosed.

She cleared her throat, forcing a chuckle. "Smells like
the renter must have made egg salad sandwiches this morning, doesn't it?"

They both laughed, too, and seemed to relax. "Is there
a bathroom on this floor?" Mr. Peterson asked.

Abigail didn't like the association, but smiled. "Yes,
indeed, and three more upstairs. There's a utility room back this way, too,
with a chute from both floors above. I'm sure with children you'll appreciate
that!" She led the way, her high heels clicking on the polished wood
floor.

The instant Abigail swung open the bathroom door, she wished
she hadn't. A condensed odor that any pulp mill would have been proud to claim
wafted out, a thickness in the air so palpable it should have been visible.
Gagging, she stumbled back a step, bumping into Mr. Peterson, who was
retreating just as quickly. Abigail had just the presence of mind to pull the bathroom
door with her, sealing the worst of the sulphurous stench in.

Her desperate need for fresh air took control, leading her
at a trot into the utility room. The Petersons were right on her heels. When
Abigail flung open the back door, all three of them leaned out, sucking in the
blessed spring air.

Mr. Peterson regained control of himself first, although his
expression was still tinged with green. "Did you get a good look? Was
something dead in there?"

Abigail closed her eyes and took one more fortifying breath
of air before mumbling, "Unfortunately, no."

She'd have almost preferred a dead body in the bathtub to
the reality, which was a plumbing problem. An acute one. Her one extremely
fleeting look into the bathroom had left her with a vision of the back off the
toilet and the floor scattered with wrenches and sundry other tools. Apparently
the renter was doing his best to fix the problem. Why the hell hadn't he called
her with a warning? However, she was looking forward to finding out what was
going on.

"Did I hear someone?"

Speak of the devil, Abigail thought grimly, turning to face
the possessor of that very interesting voice. "In here," she answered
through a pinched nose.

Footsteps sounded in the hall, and a moment later the man
appeared in the doorway of the utility room, his expression inquiring and a
little concerned. Abigail promptly forgot the smell. An odd little shiver ran
down her spine, almost as though his fingers had lightly traced it.

He was entirely too attractive for his own good, or maybe it
was for her own good. He wasn't handsome in a pretty way like a male model; his
looks were grittier than that, wholly masculine. He must have been six feet
tall, with wide shoulders, narrow hips, and the long, supple muscles of a
natural athlete. It was hard to miss noticing, dressed as he was in faded jeans
that clung to his hips and thighs and an equally faded sweatshirt with the
sleeves pushed up to expose strong brown forearms. In one long-fingered hand he
held a wrench. His dark-blond hair, shortish and pushed untidily back from his
forehead, was streaked by the sun. A straight, positively aristocratic nose and
beautiful cheekbones were emphasized by the strong grooves that ran to each
side of his mouth. And then there were his dark-gray eyes....

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.