Heart Of Gold (4 page)

Carter
nodded. When they met up again amidst the busy but well-ordered rush in the
kitchen, the woman introduced herself.

“I'm
Gertie McNutt. I run this place.”

“Carter
Wessex.” They shook hands briskly.

“Dinner
will be served at seven thirty but you'll need to pass hors d'oeuvres from six
on. We have uniforms here. What size are you?”

Carter
frowned in confusion. “I'm not here to waitress. I'm here to see Mr.
Farrell.”

The brown
eyes staring at her narrowed suspiciously. “About?”

"I'm
an archaeologist and I—”

The woman
started shaking her head. “He doesn't like archaeologists much.”

“So
I've heard. I just want to ask him if I can dig up on the mount—”

“He
doesn't like people digging up there.”

Carter
took a deep breath. "Heard that, too. But if I could just ask him—”

“He
doesn't like being asked.”

She
couldn't help rolling her eyes in frustration. “Does the guy like
anything? Or is he really as bad-humored as his reputation suggests?”

Flushing, Carter clamped
her mouth shut. Great, she thought. She'd just managed to insult Farrell to his
staff while trying to get in to see the man without an appointment.

“Sorry
about that crack,” she muttered.

There was
a pause as she was subjected to a frank appraisal. While she waited to be
summarily tossed off the property, she wondered whether cops were going to be
involved.

Instead,
the woman smiled. “Tell you what, I'll give you twenty minutes to see for
yourself if he's that awful. If you're crazy enough to want to give it a try,
you might as well get the full experience. Besides, the way he'll throw you out
will be a heck of a lot more interesting and inventive than anything I could do
to you.”

Carter
gave the woman a frozen smile, feeling like she'd volunteered for torture.
“Thanks.”

Swallowing
unexpected fear, she followed the woman through the house, taking in the
spacious rooms. Every one was filled with antiques and an air of elegant
leisure, with freshly cut flowers adding to the sophistication and grace. When
they came to a stout mahogany door, the other woman paused before knocking.

“Do
yourself a favor. Make it short and sweet. He likes things that way.”

She
knocked, and when a muffled reply was heard, the housekeeper opened the door
and they walked in to an old-world study.

Nick
Farrell looked up from an ornate desk and Carter's feet stopped working.

The man's
eyes were the most unusual color, a gray so pale that the irises were almost
invisible, and being looked over by them was like getting hit by a blowtorch.
He seemed to absorb every nuance of her appearance—her expression, the space
she took up. He was, she realized, powerfully intelligent, immutably
domineering and, surprisingly, the hardness emanating from him only added to
his allure. It made her wonder if there was any softness in him at all, and she
imagined that women had driven themselves crazy trying to find it.

With a
shiver of awareness passing through her body, she knew his face must have
launched a thousand women's fantasies. He had high cheekbones, a chiseled
jawline and a strong, straight nose. His hair was thick and dark, brushed off
his forehead, and his skin was tanned. The lips caught and held her attention.
The lower one was fuller and she wondered, in a flash of insanity, what it
would be like to kiss him.

Her heart
began to pound and, as if he'd caught the scent of her thoughts, she saw
speculation flare in his expression. Abruptly, she was assessed as a woman. As
those eyes narrowed and lingered on her legs, a flush bloomed deep inside of
her.

Before
she allowed herself to speculate on what he thought of her, she told herself
not to bother. The man was a heartbreak waiting to happen. Not for her, of
course. But she pitied whoever fell for someone like him.

“This
woman is here to see you,” Gertie announced.

One dark
eyebrow rose sardonically. “I don't recall asking to meet with any teenage
girls.”

His deep
voice wrapped around the words, creating cynical shadows in the syllables.
Carter was distracted by the sound and then realized he'd just insulted her.

Recovering
quickly, she replied with a tart clip, “I can't speak to your schedule,
but I've been out of my teens for a decade, thank you very much.”

The
eyebrow took flight again. Her tone had been every bit as commanding as his had
been, and it occurred to her that he wasn't used to being addressed in such a
way. Their eyes clashed as the housekeeper left.

She took
a steadying breath. “I think we should start over. Mr. Farrell, I'm—”

The door
burst open and bounced off the bookcase with a slap, causing her to jerk in
surprise. A teenage boy brushed past her, as if she was just another piece of
furniture in the room.

Even
though she'd jumped at the interruption, Nick Farrell's expression never
varied. The only change had been where his eyes were directed. The man was more
self-contained than a tank.

“You
can't let her do this!” the kid exclaimed, putting both hands on the desk
and pushing out his chin. He was dressed all in black, his hair styled so it
stood straight up off his scalp. She wondered how he got it to stay vertical
like that.

“And
what has she done?” Farrell's voice was calm, but she noticed there was a
subtle tension in his body.

Maybe he
wasn't above human emotions after all.

“She
says I have to wear a damned tuxedo if I'm going to eat tonight. I live here,
she doesn't, who the hell—”

“That's
enough with the swearing and the theatrics.” The tension in Farrell came
out in the muscles of his neck, tightening them into thick cords.

“I'm
not wearing a tux and I'm not going to the dinner party.”

There was
such defiance and anger in the kid's face that Carter realized, like so many
arguments between parents and children, the explosion wasn't just about the
topic at hand.

“I'll
speak with her.”

The kid
snorted. “Like that does any good. Why do you put up with her? It's not
like you're going to marry—”

“You
can keep your thoughts concerning my relationship to yourself.”

“‘Keep it
to yourself,'“ the kid aped. ”I keep everything to
myself."

“If
that were true, I wouldn't need my doors rehung from all the slamming,”
Farrell returned dryly.

The kid
turned on his heel and noticed Carter for the first time. His eyes widened with
surprise.

They
looked just like Farrell's, she thought.

“Hi,”
His voice changed as a lot of the hostility was lost.

“Hello.”

He
glanced back at Farrell. “Who's she?”

“I
was about to find out when you came barrelling in.”

The two
looked at Carter expectantly.

“Carter
Wessex,” she supplied.

“Are
you staying for dinner?” the kid asked.

“No.
I'm here to see him.” She nodded across the desk.

“Will
you stay for dinner?”

“I
thought you weren't going to the party,” Farrell interjected.

The kid
looked stumped, caught between rebellion and an unexpected urge to assimilate.
“If she's coming, I'll throw the tux on.”

“I'm
not coming.”

“Then
I'm not wearing one.” The kid turned to Farrell. “And you're going to
talk to Blondzilla.”

Farrell
shot a laconic look over at Carter. “You free for dinner?”

She
glanced back and forth between them waiting for him to take the invitation
back. He didn't.

Her eyes
widened. “I'm hardly dressed appropriately if tuxedos are involved.”

“I
think you look fine just as you are,” the kid remarked bashfully.

Farrell's
lips tightened as she blushed.

“Thanks
for the invitation, especially if you're serious. But I—”

“He's
always serious,” the kid muttered resentfully.

Farrell
crossed his arms over his chest. “That's not true. I laughed twice last
year. Now why don't you leave us so I can find out what this woman wants from
me.”

“Dismissed
like a damn dog—” the kid began grousing as he walked away.

“Watch
the language.”

“One
speaks it, not sees it.”

“I'll
use it correctly if you do.”

“You
first,” the kid said as he shut the door, hard.

As the
sound bounced around the room, Carter felt Farrell's undivided attention come
back to her.

“So
what do you want?” he demanded.

“I'm
an archaeologist and I—”

“No.”
His eyes left her and he started rifling through papers as if she'd left the
room.

Carter
bristled. “Excuse me?”

“The
answer is no.”

“But
I haven't asked for anything yet.”

“The
operant word being yet. Letting you chatter on before you get to the
asking would only be a waste of our time.” His voice was clipped and cold.

She was
stunned into silence and, for a moment, all she could do was watch his eyes
trace over words on some document.

“You
know, you don't have to be so rude. And you could look at me while we're
talking.”

An
arrogant brow arched though he didn't look up. “I always knew Miss Manners
came with a shovel. I just assumed it was for slinging drivel, not digging up
other people's property.”

“And
it's hard for me to believe someone living in a place like this has the social
skills of a cow.”

Gray eyes
popped up to hers. She saw that the speculation had returned.

“Fine.”
He put the papers down and leaned back in his chair. “Is this better? Tell
you what, I'll even go one further and remember to say please when I ask
you to leave.”

As his
eyes bored into her, Carter was willing to bet the guy was more than a match
for Blondzilla.

“So,”
he said briskly, “will you please leave?”

“You
can't just toss me out before I have a chance—”

“I
can't? I've got a deed in the safe that says this is my land and I don't think
there's any law that mandates the cheerful tolerance of trespassers.”

“Lucky
for you,” she shot back. “I don't think you could pull off cheerful
to save your soul.”

Crossing
his arms over his powerful chest, he looked her over once more. “How old
are you?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Try
eighteen.” He glanced at her clothes. “You look like you could be a
baby-sitter. Or even need one.”

“It's
hard to look mature in cutoffs and a T-shirt,” she said indignantly.

“You
pulled that getup out of a closet, not me.”

“I
had to go to an associate's dig before I came here.”

“Hopefully
not as an image consultant.”

“I'm
not here to talk about my clothes.” She glared at him defensively.

“You
seem determined to talk about something. Since I'm not going to discuss your
digging up my land, I figure clothes are a natural launching pad for inane
conversation. Considering you're a woman.”

She took
a deep breath, trying like hell not to lose her temper.

“Look,
I know Conrad Lyst found a cross that could be Reverend—”

“Perhaps
I need to be more clear. I'm not discussing anybody digging on my land. Your
questionable taste in sportswear is still on the table, however.”

“I
didn't wear this for you!”

“Obviously.
Although I must say it made quite an impression on the teenager who just left.
But then he's mistaking you for a contemporary.”

Carter
felt like she was getting picked clean by a vulture and had to fight the urge
to yell back at him again. Doing her best to regard him calmly, she forced
herself to keep her voice down.

“Mr.
Farrell, all I'm asking is for you to hear me out.”

“Call
me Nick and forget the speech. It won't improve your bargaining position any
more than those shorts do.”

“Are
you always this nasty?”

“As
a rule, yes. But sometimes I'm worse.”

She
rolled her eyes. “No wonder you have to get doors rehung.”

“It's
good for the local economy.”

“How
generous of you.”

“I
think so.”

There was
a long silence. She had the feeling she was amusing him, and that pissed her
off as much as when he'd been verbally attacking her.

“I'm
a professional, Mr. Farrell, not an itinerant ditch digger. You may be, sitting
on the answer to one of the great puzzles of the Revolutionary era. No one
really knows what happened to the Winship party and the gold they were carrying.
You owe it to posterity”

“To
let you come in and rescue the solution from my land?” His brow furrowed
deeply. “I've got news for you. I don't think it needs rescuing. As far as
I'm concerned, the past is best left buried and posterity these days is far
more interested in Ozzy Osbourne's family life. They couldn't care less about
minutemen and redcoats.”

“That's
a pretty narrow view.”

“I'm
a narrow kind of man.”

“I
can tell.”

He
chuckled. “So Miss Manners is also a behaviorist?”

“No,
it's the flashing ROYAL PAIN IN THE ASS sign over your desk.”

There was
a long pause, and then Nick Farrell tilted back his head and laughed. It was a
rich, rolling sound. When he focused on her again, he was smiling, and the grin
lit up his austere face, pulling an unlikely dimple out of one cheek.

Somehow,
now that she'd made him laugh, she wasn't quite so angry at him.

“Do
you have any idea how many people come at me each spring asking to tear into Farrell Mountain?”

“No,
but I don't care.”

“You
don't?”

“When
you go after some company, do you worry about what all the other little raiders
are doing?”

His grin
disappeared. “Been doing some research on my history?”