All Through The House (4 page)

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 twist 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.