First Impressions (3 page)

***

Shane rose early the next morning. She had plans and was determined to begin systematically. Organization didn't come naturally to her. It was one more reason why teaching hadn't suited her. If she was to plan a business, however, Shane knew an inventory was a primary factor—what she had, what she could bear to sell, what she should pack away for the museum.

Having decided to start downstairs and work her way up, Shane stood in the center of the living room and took stock of the situation. There was a good Chippendale fireplace seat in mahogany and a gateleg table that needed no refinishing, a ladderback chair that needed new caning in the seat, a pair of Aladdin lamps, and a tufted sofa that would require upholstering. On a Sheridan coffee table was a porcelain pitcher, circa 1830, that held a spray of flowers Shane's grandmother had dried. She touched them once briefly before she picked up her clipboard. There was too much of her childhood there to allow herself the luxury of thinking of any of it. If her grandmother had been alive, she would have told Shane to be certain what she did was right, then do it. Shane was certain she was right.

Systematically, she listed items in two columns: one for items that would need repairs; one for stock she could sell as it was. Everything would have to be priced, which would be a huge job in itself. Already she was spending her evenings poring through catalogs and making notations. There wasn't an antique shop within a radius of thirty miles she hadn't visited. Shane had taken careful account of pricing and procedure. She would incorporate what appealed to her and disregard what didn't. Whatever else her shop would be, she was determined it would be her own.

On one wall of the living room was a catchall shelf that had been built before she'd been born. Moving to it, Shane began a fresh sheet of items she designated for the museum.

An ancestor's Civil War cap and belt buckle, a glass jar filled with spent shells, a dented bugle, a cavalry officer's sabre, a canteen with the initials JDA scratched into the metal—these were only a few pieces of the memorabilia that had been passed down to her. Shane knew there was a trunk in the attic filled with uniforms and old dresses. There was a scrawled journal that had been kept by one of her great-great-uncles during the three years he fought for the South, and letters written to an ancestral aunt by her father, who had served the North. Every item would be listed, dated, then put behind glass.

Shane might have inherited her grandmother's fascination for the relics of history, but not her casualness. It was time the old photos and objects came down from the shelf. But as always when she examined or handled the pieces, Shane became caught up in them.

What had the man been like who had first blown that bugle? It would have been shiny then, and undented. A boy, she thought, with peach fuzz on his face. Had he been frightened? Exhilarated? Fresh off the farm, she imagined, and sure his cause was the right one. Whichever side he had fought for, he had blown the bugle into battle.

With a sigh, she took it down and set it in a packing box. Carefully, Shane wrapped and packed until the shelves were clear, but for the highest one. Standing back, she calculated how she would reach the pieces that sat several feet above her head. Not bothering to move the heavy ladder from across the room, she dragged over a nearby chair. As she stood on the seat, a knock sounded at the back door.

“Yes, come in,” she called, stretching one arm up while balancing herself with a hand on one of the lower shelves. She swore and muttered as her reach still fell short. Just as she stood on tiptoe, teetering, someone grabbed her arm. Gasping as she overbalanced, Shane found herself gripped firmly by Vance Banning. “You scared me to death!” she accused.

“Don't you know better than to use a chair like that?” He kept his hands firmly at her waist as he lifted her down. Then, though he'd had every intention of doing so, he didn't release her. There was a smudge of dust on her cheek, and her hair was tousled. Her small, narrow hands rested on his arms while she smiled up at him. Without thinking, Vance lowered his mouth to hers.

Shane didn't struggle, but felt a jolt of surprise. Then she relaxed. Though she hadn't expected the kiss then, she had known the time would come. She let the first stream of pure pleasure run its course.

His mouth was hard on hers, with no gentleness, no trace of what kissing meant to her—a gesture of affection, love or comfort. Yet instinct told her he was capable of tenderness. Lifting a hand to his cheek, Shane sought to soothe the turbulence she sensed. Immediately, he released her. The touch of her hand had been too intimate.

Something told Shane to treat it lightly no matter how her body ached to be held again. Tilting her head, she gave him a mischievous smile. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” he said carefully.

“I'm taking inventory,” she told him with a sweeping gesture of the room. “I want to list everything before I haul it upstairs for storage. I plan to use this room for the museum and the rest of the first floor for the shop. Could you get those things off the top shelf for me?” she asked, looking around for her clipboard.

In silence, Vance moved the ladder and complied. The fact that she'd made no mention of the turbulent kiss disconcerted him.

“Most of the work will be gutting the kitchen and putting one in upstairs,” Shane went on, giving her lists another glance. She knew Vance was watching her for some sort of reaction. She was just as determined to give him none. “Of course, some walls will have to be taken out, doorways widened. But I don't want to lose the flavor of the house in the remodeling.”

“You seem to have it all plotted out.” Was she really so cool? he wondered.

“I hope so.” Shane pressed the clipboard to her breasts as she looked around the room. “I've applied for all the necessary permits. What a headache. I don't have any natural business sense, so I'll have to work twice as hard learning. It's a big chance.” Then her voice changed, became firm and determined. “I'm going to make it work.”

“When do you plan to open?”

“I'm shooting for the first part of December, but . . .” Shane shrugged. “It depends on how the work goes and how soon I can beef up my inventory. I'll show you the rest of the place. Then you can decide if you want to take it on.”

Without waiting for his consent, Shane walked to the rear of the house. “The kitchen's a fairly good size, particularly if you include the pantry.” Opening a door, she revealed a large shelved closet. “Taking out the counters and appliances should give me plenty of room. Then if this doorway is widened,” she continued as she pushed open a swinging door, “and left as an archway, it would give more space in the main showroom.”

They entered the dining room with its long diamond-paned windows. She moved quickly, he noted, and knew precisely what she wanted.

“The fireplace hasn't been used in years. I don't know whether it still works.” Walking over, Shane ran a finger down the surface of the dining table. “This was my grandmother's prize. It was brought over from England more than a hundred years ago.” The cherrywood, stroked by sunlight, gleamed under her fingers. “The chairs are from the original set. Hepplewhite.” Shane caressed the heart-shaped back of one of the remaining six chairs. “I hate to sell this, she loved it so, but . . .” Her voice was wistful as she unnecessarily straightened a chair. “I won't have anywhere to keep it, and I can't afford the luxury of storing it for myself.” Shane turned away. “The china cabinet is from the same period,” she continued.

“You could keep this and leave the house as it is if you took a job in the local high school,” Vance interrupted. There was something valiant and touching in the way she kept her shoulders straight while her voice trembled.

“No.” Shane shook her head, then turned back to him. “I haven't the character for it. It wouldn't take long before I'd be cutting classes just like my students. They deserve a better example than that. I love history.” Her face brightened again. “
This
kind of history,” she said as she walked back to the table. “Who first sat in this chair? What did she talk about over dinner? What kind of dress did she wear? Did they discuss politics and the upstart colonies? Maybe one of them knew Ben Franklin and was a secret sympathizer of the Revolution.” She broke off laughing. “That's not the sort of thing you're supposed to teach in second-period eleventh-grade history.”

“It sounds more interesting than reciting names and dates.”

“Maybe. Anyway, I'm not going back to that.” Pausing, Shane watched Vance steadily. “Did you ever find yourself caught up in something you were good at, something you'd been certain was the right thing for you, then woke up one morning with the feeling you were locked in a cage?”

The words hit home, and he nodded affirmatively.

“Then you know why I have to choose between something I love and my sanity.” She touched the table again. After a deep breath, Shane took a circle around the room. “I don't want to change the architecture of this room except for the doorways. My great-grandfather built the chair rail.” She watched Vance walk over to examine it. “He was a mason by trade,” she told him, “but he must have been handy with wood as well.”

“It's a beautiful job,” Vance agreed, admiring the workmanship and detail. “I'd have a hard time duplicating this quality with modern tools. You wouldn't want to touch this or any of the woodwork in this room.”

In spite of himself he was becoming interested in the project. It would be a challenge—a different sort than the house he had chosen to test himself on. Sensing his change of attitude, Shane pressed her advantage.

“There's a small summer parlor through there.” Indicating another door, she took Vance's arm to draw him with her. “It adjoins the living room, so I plan to make it the entrance to the shop, with the dining room as the main showroom.”

The parlor was no more than twelve by twelve with faded wallpaper and a scarred wooden floor. Still, Vance recognized a few good pieces of Duncan Phyfe and a Morris chair. On the brief tour, he had seen no furniture less than a hundred years old and, unless they were excellent copies, a few pieces of Wedgwood. The furniture's worth a small fortune, he mused, and the back door's coming off the hinges.

“There's a lot of work here,” Shane commented, moving over to open a window and dispel the faint mustiness. “This room's taken a beating over the years. I suppose you'd have a better idea than I would exactly what it needs to whip it into shape.”

She watched his frowning survey of chipped floorboards and cracked trim. It was obvious to her that his professional eye missed little. It was also obvious the state of disrepair annoyed him. And, she thought, faintly amused, he hadn't seen anything yet.

“Maybe I shouldn't press my luck and take you upstairs just yet,” she commented.

A quizzical brow shot up as he turned to her. “Why?”

“Because the second floor needs twice the attention this does, and I really want you to take the job.”

“You sure as hell need somebody to do it,” he muttered. His own place needed a major overhaul. Heavy physical work and a lot of time. This, on the other hand, needed a shrewd craftsman who could work with what was already there. Again, he felt the pull of the challenge.

“Vance . . .” After a moment's hesitation, Shane decided to take a chance. “I could make it six dollars an hour, throw in your lunches and all the coffee you can drink. The people who come in here will see the quality of your work. It could lead to bigger jobs.”

He surprised her by grinning. Her heart leaped into her throat. More than the tempestuous kiss, the quick boyish grin drew her to him.

“All right, Shane,” Vance agreed on impulse. “You've got a deal.”

Chapter 3

Pleased with herself and Vance's abrupt good humor, Shane decided to show him the second floor. Taking his hand, she led him up the straight, steep stairway. Though she had no notion of what had prompted the amused gleam or sudden grin, Shane wanted to keep him with her while his mood lasted.

Against his work-hardened hand, her palm was baby soft. It made Vance wonder how the rest of her would feel—the slope of her shoulder, the length of her thigh, the underside of her breast. She wasn't his type, he reminded himself, and glanced at the hairline crack in the wall to his left.

“There are three bedrooms,” Shane told him as they came to the top landing. “I want to keep my own room, and turn the master into a sitting room and the third into my kitchen. I can handle the painting and papering after the initial work is done.” With her hand on the knob of the master bedroom door, she turned to him. “Do you know anything about drywall?”

“A bit.” Without thinking, Vance lifted a finger and ran it down her nose. Their eyes met in mutual surprise. “You've dust on your face,” he mumbled.

“Oh.” Laughing, Shane brushed at it herself.

“Here.” Vance traced the rough skin of his thumb down her cheekbone. Her skin felt as it looked: soft, creamy. It would taste the same, he mused, allowing his thumb to linger. “And here,” he said, caught up in his own imagination. Lightly he ran a fingertip along her jawline. He felt her slight tremor as his gaze swept over her lips.

Her eyes were wide and fixed unblinkingly on his. Abruptly, Vance dropped his hand, shattering the mood but not the tension. Clearing her throat, Shane pushed open the door.

“This—umm . . .” Frantically, Shane gathered her scattered thoughts. “This is the master,” she continued, combing nervous fingers through her hair. “I know the floor's in bad shape, and I'd like to skin whoever painted that oak trim.” She let out a long breath as her pulse began to level. “I'm going to see if it can be refinished.” Idly, she touched a section of peeling wallpaper. “My grandmother didn't like changes. This room hasn't altered one bit in thirty years. That's when her husband died,” she added softly. “The windows stick, the roof leaks, the fireplace smokes. Basically, the house, except for the dining room, is in a general state of disrepair. She never had the inclination to do more than a patch job here and there.”

“When did she die?”

“Three months ago.” Shane lifted a corner of the patchwork coverlet, then let it fall. “She just didn't wake up one morning. I was committed to teaching a summer course and couldn't move back permanently until last week.”

Clearly, he heard the sting of guilt in her words. “Could you have changed anything if you had?” he asked.

“No.” Shane wandered to a window. “But she wouldn't have died alone.”

Vance opened his mouth, then closed it again. It wasn't wise to offer personal advice to strangers. Framed against the window, she looked very small and defenseless.

“What about the walls in here?” he asked.

“What?” Years and miles away, Shane turned back to him.

“The walls,” he repeated. “Do you want any of them taken down?”

For a moment, she stared blankly at the faded roses on the wallpaper. “No . . . No,” she repeated more firmly. “I'd thought to take out the door and enlarge the entrance.” Vance nodded, noting she had won what must be a continuing battle with her emotions. “If the woodwork cleans off well,” she continued, “the entrance could be framed in oak to match.”

Vance walked over to examine it. “Is this a bearing wall?”

Shane made a face at him. “I haven't the slightest idea. How do—” She broke off, hearing a knock at the front door. “Damn. Well, can you look around up here for a few minutes? You'll probably get the lay of things just as well without me.” With this, Shane was dashing down the steps. Shrugging, Vance took a rule out of his back pocket and began to take measurements.

Shane's instinctively friendly smile faded instantly when she opened the door.

“Shane.”

“Cy.”

His expression became faintly censorious. “Aren't you going to ask me in?”

“Of course.” With a restraint unnatural to her, Shane stepped back. Very carefully, she shut the door behind him but moved no farther into the room. “How are you, Cy?”

“Fine, just fine.”

Of course he was, Shane thought, annoyed. Cy Trainer Jr., was always fine—permanent-pressed and groomed. And prosperous now, she added, giving his smart-but-discreet suit a glance.

“And you, Shane?”

“Fine, just fine,” she said, knowing the sarcasm was both petty and wasted. He'd never notice.

“I'm sorry I didn't get by last week. Things have been hectic.”

“Business is good?” she asked without any intonation of interest. He failed to notice that too.

“Money's loosening up.” He straightened his tie unnecessarily. “People are buying houses. Country property's always a good investment.” He gave her a quick nod. “The real estate business is solid.”

Money was still first, Shane noticed with irony. “And your father?”

“Doing well. Semiretired now, you know.”

“No,” she said mildly. “I didn't.” If Cy Trainer Sr. relinquished the reins to Trainer Real Estate six months after he was dead, it would have surprised Shane. The old man would always run the show, no matter what his son liked to think.

“He likes to keep busy,” Cy told her. “He'd love to see you though. You'll have to drop by the office.” Shane said nothing to that. “So . . .” Cy paused as he was wont to do before a big statement. “You're settling in.”

Shane lifted a brow as she watched him glance around at her packing cases. “Slowly,” she agreed. Though she knew it was deliberately rude, she didn't ask him to sit. They remained standing, just inside the door.

“You know, Shane, this house isn't in the best of shape, but it is a prime location.” He gave her a light, condescending smile that set her teeth on edge. “I'm sure I could get you a good price for it.”

“I'm not interested in selling, Cy. Is that why you came by? To do an appraisal?”

He looked suitably shocked. “Shane!”

“Was there something else?” she asked evenly.

“I just dropped by to see how you were.” The distress in both his voice and eyes had an apology forming on her lips. “I heard some crazy story about your trying to start an antique shop.”

The apology slipped away. “It's not a story, crazy or otherwise, Cy. I am going to start one.”

He sighed and gave her what she termed his paternal look. She gritted her teeth. “Shane, have you any idea how difficult, how risky it is to start a business in today's economy?”

“I'm sure you'll tell me,” she muttered.

“My dear,” he said in calm tones, making her blood pressure rise alarmingly. “You're a certified teacher with four years' experience. It's just nonsense to toss away a good career for a fanciful little fling.”

“I've always been good at nonsense, haven't I, Cy?” Her eyes chilled. “You never hesitated to point it out to me even when we were supposed to be madly in love.”

“Now, Shane, it was because I cared that I tried to curb your . . . impulses.”

“Curb my impulses!” More astonished than angry, Shane ran her fingers through her hair. Later, she told herself, later she would be able to laugh. Now she wanted to scream. “You haven't changed. You haven't changed a whit. I bet you still roll your socks into those neat little balls and carry an extra handkerchief.”

He stiffened a bit. “If you'd ever learned the value of practicality—” he began.

“You wouldn't have dumped me two months before the wedding?” she finished furiously.

“Really, Shane, you can hardly call it that. You know I was only thinking of what was best for you.”

“Best for me,” she muttered between clenched teeth. “Well, let me tell you something.” She poked a dusty finger at his muted striped tie. “You can stuff your practicality, Cy, right along with your balanced checkbook and shoe trees. I might have thought you hurt me at the time, but you did me a big favor. I
hate
practicality and rooms that smell like pine and toothpaste tubes that are rolled up from the bottom.”

“I hardly see what that has to do with this discussion.”

“It has
everything
to do with this discussion,” she flared back. “You don't see anything unless it's listed in neat columns and balanced. And I'll tell you something else,” she continued when he would have spoken. “I'm going to have my shop, and even if it doesn't make me a fortune, it's going to be fun.”

“Fun?” Cy shook his head hopelessly. “That's a poor basis for starting a business.”

“It's mine,” she retorted. “I don't need a six-digit income to be happy.”

He gave her a small, deprecating smile. “You haven't changed.”

Flinging open the door, Shane glared at him. “Go sell a house,” she suggested. With a dignity she envied and despised, Cy walked through the door. She slammed it after him, then gave in to temper and slammed her hand against the wall.

“
Damn!
” Putting her wounded knuckles to her mouth, she whirled. It was then she spotted Vance at the foot of the stairs. His face was still and serious as their eyes met. With angry embarrassment, Shane's cheeks flamed. “Enjoy the show?” she demanded, then stormed back to the kitchen.

She gave vent to her frustration by banging through the cupboards. She didn't hear Vance follow her. When he touched her shoulder, she spun around, ready to rage.

“Let me see your hand,” he said quietly. Ignoring her jerk of protest, he took it in both of his.

“It's nothing.”

Gently, he flexed it, then pressed down on her knuckles with his fingers. Involuntarily, she caught her breath at the quick pain. “You didn't manage to break it,” he murmured, “but you'll have a bruise.” He was forced to control a sudden rage that she had damaged that small, soft hand.

“Just don't say anything,” she ordered through gritted teeth. “I'm not stupid. I
know
when I've made a fool of myself.”

He took a moment to bend and straighten her fingers again. “I apologize,” he said. “I should have let you know I was there.”

After letting out a deep breath, Shane drew her hand from his slackened hold. The light throbbing gave her a perverse pleasure. “It doesn't matter,” she muttered as she turned to make tea.

He frowned at her averted face. “I don't enjoy embarrassing you.”

“If you live here for any amount of time, you'll hear about Cy and me anyway.” She tried to make a casual shrug, but the quick jerkiness of the movement showed only more agitation. “This way you just got the picture quicker.”

But he didn't have the full picture. Vance realized, with some discomfort, that he wanted to know. Before he could speak, Shane slammed the lid onto the kettle.

“He always makes me feel like a fool!”

“Why?”

“He always dots his i's and crosses his t's.” With an angry tug, she pulled open a cabinet. “He carries an umbrella in the trunk of his car,” she said wrathfully.

“That should do it,” Vance murmured, watching her quick, jerky movements.

“He never, never,
never
makes a mistake. He's always reasonable,” she added witheringly as she slammed two cups down on the counter. “Did he shout at me just now?” she demanded as she whirled on Vance. “Did he swear or lose his temper? He doesn't
have
a temper!” she shouted in frustration. “I swear, the man doesn't even sweat.”

“Did you love him?”

For a moment, Shane merely stared; then she let out a small broken sigh. “Yes. Yes, I really did. I was sixteen when we started dating.” As she went to the refrigerator, Vance turned the gas on under the kettle, which she had forgotten to do. “He was so perfect, so smart and, oh . . . so articulate.” Pulling out the milk, Shane smiled a little. “Cy's a born salesman. He can talk about anything.”

Vance felt a quick, unreasonable dislike for him. As Shane set a large ceramic sugar bowl on the table, sunlight shot into her hair. The curls and waves of her hair shimmered briefly in the brilliance before she moved away. With an odd tingling at the base of his spine, Vance found himself staring after her.

“I was crazy about him,” Shane continued, and Vance had to shake himself mentally to concentrate on her words. The subtle movements of her body beneath the snug T-shirt had begun to distract him. “When I turned eighteen, he asked me to marry him. We were both going to college, and Cy thought a year's engagement was proper. He's very proper,” she added ruefully.

Or a cold-blooded fool, Vance thought, glancing at the faint outline of her nipples against the thin cotton. Annoyed, he brought his eyes back to her face. But the warmth in his own blood remained.

“I wanted to get married right away, but he told me, as always, that I was too impulsive. Marriage was a big step. Things had to be planned out. When I suggested we live together for a while, he was shocked.” Shane set the milk on the table with a little bang. “I was young and in love, and I wanted him. He felt it his duty to control my more . . . primitive urges.”

“He's a damn fool,” Vance muttered under the hissing of the kettle.

“Through that last year, he molded me, and I tried to be what he wanted: dignified, sensible. I was a complete failure.” Shane shook her head at the memory of that long, frustrating year. “If I wanted to go out for pizza with a bunch of other students, he'd remind me we had to watch our pennies. He already had his eye on this little house outside of Boonsboro. His father said it was a good investment.”