April of Enchantment (Sweetly Contemporary Collection) (2 page)

“You came in here,” he said, his voice quiet, tentative.

“I’ve been in here dozens of times. The house has been empty for nearly three years.”

“Trespassing?”

“If you want to call it that, though the heirs of the last owner certainly didn’t mind; they didn’t even care enough to see to the grounds or the repairs to keep it from falling down.”

“But you did?” There was skepticism in his tone, and something more she could not define.

“I’ve always l—liked it.” She had nearly said “loved.” It was true enough. The gracious old Greek Revival mansion, with its rows of white Doric columns along the galleries on three sides and stuccoed, white painted brick walls, had always appealed to her. Sometimes she had come in the fall and early spring, bringing a broom to sweep the leaves from the floors of the galleries to prevent them from rotting through, climbing to the upper floors by way of the outside servants’ stairs that rose in the back. In the summer, she had clipped and pruned the roses in the garden, enjoying the delicious perfume of varieties that were, some of them, as old as the house, keeping the verdant grass of the lawn from choking them out.

“Is that why you want to handle the project?”

This was better, a retreat from what had seemed almost like a threat in his manner. “Not entirely. It would be a showcase, something to prove what I can do, given the opportunity.”

She was going to make it. Still, even as she pulled the bolt and placed her hand on the knob of the French window, ready to turn it, to dash outside along the gallery and down the servants’ stairs, she was not certain such drastic measures were necessary. She hesitated.

“I can’t allow you to do that.” His hand came down on hers with firm strength, preventing her from turning the knob.

She swung her head to stare up at him, her violet eyes questioning, shadowed with fear. Abruptly, he encircled her slim waist with his right arm, pulling her against him. His lips came down on hers with the touch of fire. Firm, warm, demanding, they possessed hers. She felt as though a white-hot current passed between them, almost like an electric charge. An instant later, she was free.

Dazed, she swayed, and in that moment, he pulled his billfold from his pocket and opened it to his identification, holding it in front of her.

“Justin Roman,” he said, “at your service.”

She looked from the billfold he held, with its indisputable proof, to his hard, dark-brown gaze. Anger licked along her veins, ousting the perilous weakness of a moment before. “If that’s who you really are, then what was the meaning of that — that demonstration?”

For a moment he appeared disconcerted, though not, she thought, so much from what she had said as from some conclusion of his own. “To prove a point,” he said slowly, “and because I wanted to.”

“What point?” she demanded.

“To the best of my remembrance, I meant to show you that someone who looks as you do will always be at risk on the site of a project like this. You would need a guardian.”

“Probably, as long as there are men like you around! I thought you were engaged.”

“So I am.”

“You don’t act like it.”

“I seem to have less character than I thought,” he said, a suspended look in his eyes.

It was a disarming admission. To counteract it, Laura sent him a cool glance. “That’s your problem. I’m only interested in my job. Won’t you reconsider?”

“In the light of — recent developments?”

She glared at him. “No! Because I’m the right person for it.”

“Because you need a showcase, you mean. I can’t allow you to use Crapemyrtle like that. It isn’t the kind of place that can be treated as an experiment.”

“Experiment!” She took a deep breath. “I told you this wouldn’t be the first job I’ve worked on.”

“Only the first you handled from start to finish.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t do it.”

He looked away, gazing through the window and down the drive of grand old live oaks that led to the front door of Crapemyrtle. “We have already been over this. I think that you mentioned a diary?”

“It isn’t important, not if you aren’t going to keep me on.” She followed the direction of his gaze. The branches of the live oaks were moving arthritically in the winter wind that sent dry leaves scuttling over the rutted white gravel of the narrow drive. The evergreen oaks, the overgrown shrubbery that crowded against the house, and the great, shapeless boxwood hedge that enclosed the grounds made it seem darker than it really was. It had been a sunny, pleasantly warm day for early January, but it was turning cooler as evening drew in, and near freezing temperatures were predicted during the night. She shivered a little, wishing she had brought her coat out of her car. It was down there in her dark-blue compact parked just ahead of the silver-gray car Justin Roman was driving. Looking closer, she saw that his vehicle was an older model, actually what might be called an antique or classic, with an incredibly long body and low-slung lines.

He turned, his eyes narrowing as he stared down at her. “Blackmail?”

“What?”

“Apparently Masters & Masters thought the diary was important when they took you on. Contemporary information on the house, what it looked like — colors, fabrics, locations of rooms — would be valuable to have, but I don’t intend to pay through the nose for it, or to hand over a salary to someone who has nothing else to recommend her.”

“I never suggested such a thing,” Laura said, her eyes flashing violet lights. “As for my recommendation, has it slipped your mind that it is personal — or so you seem sure — from Russ?”

“No,” he answered, “it hasn’t.”

“Speaking of which, to the best of my understanding, Masters & Masters is the firm paying my salary. And that is enough to make me wonder, Mr. Roman, if you are my employer at all. It may be you don’t have the power to take me off this project.”

“If Russ Masters doesn’t want to replace you, I can always find myself another architect.”

She regarded him with clear eyes. “I don’t think you will do that. You have a contract, plans have been drawn for the additions and have been started on the architectural details that must be replaced; you have an agreement with a contractor who has already started to have materials delivered. If you started over, you would lose money, but more than that, you would forfeit valuable time — and possibly a friend.”

“You have it all figured out, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Nor would I,” he assured her, his voice grim. “Russ isn’t an unreasonable man.”

“Unlike others,” she said softly.

He ignored that. “And even if you stay on, I wonder how you’ll like it if you have me breathing down your neck every minute, because that’s where I’ll be, checking and rechecking everything you do, dogging your every footstep.”

“Good,” she answered pugnaciously. “Accuracy is important to me, too. And if you are going to be that close, I hope you don’t mind holding a tape measure or a ladder now and then. There are times when I could use an assistant.”

He stared at her, his dark gaze moving over her face, noting the stubborn tilt of her chin and the square set of her shoulders. The light through the dusty glass slanted across the planes of his face, glinting on his thick dark brows, the high ridge of his cheekbones, and the deep cleft of his chin, leaving his eyes with their long, thick lashes in shadow. His skin held an undertone of bronze, partially the legacy of his French heritage, partially from outdoor pursuits. Whether it was the result of his action only moments before or a trick of the fading evening, there seemed also to be a hint of sensuality in the firmly molded curves of his mouth. Laura looked away, another shiver running over her.

“This is getting us nowhere,” Justin Roman said. “Tomorrow I’ll talk to Russ. For now, we had better get out of here while we can still see our way.”

There was no electricity on in the house at present, though it had been installed in the early forties. The great upstairs hall was a tunnel of gloom echoing to the sound of their footsteps. Descending the curving staircase to the lower floor where the windows were covered with rags of draperies and the smothering greenery outside was like sinking into a dark well. Only the sunrise fanlight and the sidelights around the great front door provided faint illumination. The scent of dust, disturbed by their passage, hung in the air along with a dry smell of crumbling plaster and mice.

Laura stood to one side on the lower front gallery as Justin Roman closed and locked the doors, fastening the padlock that was all that held the tall heavy panels against intruders. She thought he hesitated, as if considering the possibility of asking her for her key. She deliberately kept her face turned from him. After a moment, he swung toward the stone steps, indicating with a brief gesture that she should precede him down them. With her head high, she moved to where her car sat, reaching for the door handle.

“Good-bye, Miss Nichols,” he said, his face expressionless.

“I’ll see you later,” she contradicted him with a grim smile before she slid into her car.

He did not reply, only moving past her to get into the sleek silver automobile parked behind her own vehicle. He reversed down the drive and into the road where he sat waiting for her to turn out in front of him. It was only a courtesy, she knew, a means of seeing her safely on her way, a remnant of Southern chivalry, and yet she had the distinct feeling that she was being escorted under guard from the premises.

“Calm down, Laura. The man can’t be that bad.”

“He is the most arrogant, pompous, infuriating person I have ever met. The more I think about him, and about his attitude when he found me at Crapemyrtle, the madder I get.”

Laura’s mother sent her a warm smile as she poured lacquer thinner onto the crazed surface of the old secretary-desk she was refinishing. “Don’t think about him, then.”

“I can’t help it. Everything was just fine until Justin Roman came into the picture. I was finally going to be able to contribute something to the expenses around here.”

“You mustn’t worry about it.”

“But I would have been doing the work I’ve trained for, have been a part of the restoration of Crapemyrtle. Now it may all come to nothing.”

“I meant don’t worry about contributing, as you call it. We’re doing fine with the shop.”

“I know, Mom, but I would like to do my share.”

Mrs. Nichols had started a small antique business in the front parlor of their old family home two years before, when her husband died. She had gradually built up a nice clientele, people in the town and surrounding area who loved antiques and depended on Mary Nichols to help them utilize them with expertise and taste. Buying old pieces, refinishing, then reselling had brought in a reasonable living, though speculation in good pieces of fine furniture as a hedge against inflation these last few years had also added to the profits. Bit by bit, the concern had taken over the entire lower floor of the Georgian mansion. Laura and her mother had retreated to the second story, installing a small kitchen, turning one of the bedrooms into a comfortable sitting room, trying to get away from the ever-present smells of ancient mustiness, lemon oil polish, and the wood alcohol, lacquer thinner, and varnish used in the refinishing process.

Laura’s mother tilted her head, surveying the desk top against the light overhead to be certain the lacquer thinner had dissolved the finish evenly as she smoothed away the cracks and fine lines that marred it. “You do enough. You’ll have to admit, however, that Mr. Roman has no reason to think you are as capable as you know yourself to be. You don’t look like a historical consultant.”

“So he pointed out. What I look like doesn’t matter.”

“Oh? I don’t think he would have felt it necessary to warn a man of the dangers of being caught alone at Crapemyrtle — or even a middle-aged female like me.”

“You aren’t middle-aged,” Laura said positively.

They were in the room that had once been the kitchen of the old house, but was now the combination refinishing room and display area for American primitive pieces and kitchenware. While her mother worked on the small desk, eager to complete the job before dinner, Laura lounged in a handmade rocker drawn up near a butcher block made of a solid cypress tree round. Sitting on the block was a hand-carved wooden biscuit bowl now being used to hold fruit. Laura reached for an apple, avoiding the other woman’s too penetrating gaze. She had told her of the warning, but not of the kiss that had accompanied it.