Home for Love (7 page)

"On your way out?" she said hopefully to his chest as she backed away.

"As a matter of fact, no." He took the heavy cans from her and set them inside the door.

"Mrs. Adler said you'd be working in your office all weekend."

"I changed my mind."

"I see." Kate straightened a crease on her canvas pants. "Well… I hope you had a good time last night at your fund-raiser," she said insincerely.

"It was fair," he said. "Nothing special. I had Gloria drop me back here early so I could study some contracts."

"I see." Good grief, Kate berated herself, couldn't she think of anything else to say? But her heart was lightened with the knowledge that Gloria had not completely dazzled Steven. She found herself grinning foolishly at him.

"Where are those shutters that needed hanging?" he asked.

"What?"

"Shutters. Those things you hang outside windows—"

"You're not supposed to do any work on the house," Kate protested.

"It's my house. If I want to hang shutters, that's what I'll do."

"I didn't mean it that way," she said, poking her sneaker at a pile of old boards. "I mean—if you
want
to work on the house, fine. But you don't have to. I take full responsibility for the job I set out for myself—"

"Kate," Steven said with a sigh, "where are the shutters?"

An hour or so later Kate sat back from stripping the wainscoting in the library, glad to see that she was right about it. The natural grain was going to look beautiful in here. She stood up and stretched, gratified at how easy it was to work with Steven close by. She went over to the window, listening to the cheerful sound of nails being hammered into wood. Equally cheery was the sound of whistling. Goodness, the man whistled Mozart? Kate smiled; her financial problems were beginning to fade into the background. She resumed stripping paint.

She was deeply engrossed when Steven poked his head inside the room. "Lunch is served," he announced. "Meet me in the kitchen in five minutes." He disappeared before she could say anything. Mystified, she cleaned up in the washroom and then went to see what he was concocting.

It turned out to be a giant, impressive-looking omelet. Kate breathed in the aroma of onions and chives.

"I didn't know you could cook," she said, taking two plates from the cupboard. "That smells wonderful."

"I have a few surprises up my sleeve," he said.

"Oh, I'll vouch for that," she returned, opening the drawer where the plastic forks and spoons were kept. Here was another surprise already—the plastic had been replaced by a set of stainless steel. Kate picked up a spoon and examined it critically. Nothing fancy, but certainly serviceable. She nodded, only to glance over and find Steven watching her sardonically.

"Well, I'm glad you're finally settling in," she told him.

"You didn't even notice the new drain board. You're slipping, Ms Melrose."

"It's a wonderful tray," she pronounced. "But didn't they have it in any color besides olive green?"

"Will you stop trying to color-coordinate my life?" he grumbled.

"No," Kate said happily. The best surprise of all today was how comfortable she felt with Steven. She sat down with him and they shared their meal in companionable silence. The omelet was delicious.

"Did your mother teach you to cook like that?" Kate asked, leaning back luxuriously.

"No, actually it was my father. My mother's idea of cooking is peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches."

"She sounds interesting." Kate propped her elbows on the table, while Steven regarded his plate thoughtfully.

"I suppose she is," he finally replied. "She's always curious about life, always reaching out for more of it. She was the one who'd go out sledding with us, while my father had his head in a book—the perfect university professor." Steven spoke softly, musingly. "My mother couldn't stand to be cooped up like that. She'd been a professional skier, and the career that really made her happy was giving skiing lessons." He chuckled. "She'd have all us kids lined up on the slopes with her other students. She didn't care how many times we fell down."

Kate was listening intently. "That sounds so exotic to me. All that snow, and skiing from the time you're a kid. I never learned at all."

"It's not too late. You could start now."

Kate shivered, just thinking about the cold and the snow and ice. "Actually, I'd do really well in the lodge—with one of those big fuzzy sweaters and a cup of hot chocolate."

"I'd get you out on the slopes first thing," Steven said. "You'd like it."

"No, I wouldn't," Kate said stubbornly. "I like driving down hills, not skiing down them."

"How do you know if you've never tried it?" he asked.

"I just know, that's all. It's not my idea of fun. What's wrong with that?"

Now he was leaning toward her. "You're being narrow-minded. That really surprises me."

She glared at him. "Maybe it's just too much for you—a woman having her own interests. Maybe you just want a clone of yourself, up there on the slopes with you."

"How the hell did you jump to a conclusion like that?" He glared back at her. "All right, so I think people should be willing to try new things."

"What if I tried it?" she asked guardedly. "What if I tried skiing and decided I didn't like it? What would you say then?"

"I'd say you didn't give it enough of a chance."

Her fork clattered down on her plate. "Talk about narrow-minded," she said in disgust. "You think a woman should want to do everything
you
do."

"Listen, I grew up and saw my parents not have a thing in common. Two people need to share interests."

"As long as they're the man's, right?" she taunted him.

"Dammit, I never said that."

"You didn't have to. But I think your parents sound charming. A skier and a professor. Variety is what makes life interesting." She gathered up the plates with a great deal more clatter. "Gloria Nestor probably skis," she muttered, but was instantly sorry she had spoken the words out loud.

"I'll ask her when I see her tonight," Steven said.

"Fine." Kate stood at the counter, battling a wretched wave of jealousy.

"She'll be at my client's for dinner. He does a lot of business with her."

"It's no concern of mine how or when you see Gloria Nestor," Kate said stiffly. "I don't know why you feel the need to explain anything to me."

"I don't know why, either," Steven said, "but there it is."

Kate swiped at crumbs on the counter with a paper towel. A wayward image crept into her mind: she and Steven bundled up in mittens and mufflers, out on a snowy mountaintop together… just the two of them.

That was the frightening thing. Even though she
knew
she'd hate skiing, part of her longed to go out there and make herself cold and miserable. Just so she could be on that mountaintop with Steven. Just so she could be his type of woman over all the Gloria Nestors of the world. And there would go her selfhood, the independent person she'd fought so hard to become. Yes, it was frightening, wanting so badly to please a man.

She pushed the plates across the counter. She wasn't going anywhere near that sink today. It was far too dangerous.

"I'll get back to work," she said briskly. "Thanks for the lunch."

"You're welcome." But his tone didn't sound welcome in the least. When he went back outside, the pounding of nails sounded a bit more vigorous than necessary. The whistling had stopped.

Kate paced the library floor. She took a bag of M&Ms from her pocket and lined them all up in a straight row on the mantel. She picked out the yellow ones and ate them. Gloria Nestor had wasted no time in arranging another evening with Steven, and perhaps this time she'd be more successful in keeping his interest.

"She can have him!" Kate declared to the mantelpiece, but the words didn't sound very convincing. She ate one green M&M, then stalked upstairs to look for anything that would make her stop brooding about Steven and Gloria.

She paused in a doorway, examining the ratty brown carpet she'd started to pull up. This was the room where she planned to hang Steven's print once it was framed.

Whenever she saw a painting by Monet she would think of Steven.

This wasn't doing her any good. Turning, Kate opened the door across the hall. She saw a pair of loafers discarded carelessly on the rag rug, a shirt tossed across the back of a chair. Steven's bedroom. Kate hesitated, then stepped inside. There was only the barest amount of furniture—a couple of chairs, a bed, a nightstand. Kate picked up the book that was open facedown on the nightstand and read the title:
The Hound of the Baskervilles
. Sherlock Holmes—that seemed right for Steven. She glanced down, eyes lingering on the rumpled sheets of his bed. His pillow had been twisted and punched up against the wall as if he, too, had spent a restless night. Kate moved her hand over the pillow, thinking of his tousled head pressed against it. She could so easily imagine his powerful body lying here, tensed with energy even in sleep. Her hand crept downward, fingering a corner of the sheet…

What had come over her? She straightened quickly and backed away. She turned and fled the room, retreating all the way to the attic.

Here at last she found something to occupy her mind. She began poking about among all the boxes. This mess really did need to be cleared out, and yet the place would lose much of its atmosphere all neat and bare. Attics were meant for treasures like this.

She found fifty-year-old receipts, mildewed books, a moth-eaten scarf, faded photographs of children playing on a beach. Kate settled down cross-legged on the floor, sneezed vigorously into her handkerchief, and proceeded to pore over the photographs. Young faces laughed up at her, their happiness shining even through the cracked, yellowed film of age. Kate wondered if the children had grown up in this house, where they were now. All the papers she had unearthed so far carried the name Eliza R. Hobbes. Who was she? Had she loved the house as much as Kate did?

Reluctantly she put the photos back in their shoe box, but couldn't resist scavenging through a big chest pushed against one wall. It was filled with old dresses, the cloth thin and brittle under Kate's fingers.

"Oh, goodness," she breathed, holding up a whirl of polka dots, then a froth of yellowed lace. Perhaps Eliza had worn these dresses to boating parties, or leisurely lunches in someone's garden. But here was a gown that surely had been worn to a ball. It was simple yet strikingly elegant, an off-the-shoulder burgundy silk with a full skirt swirling to the floor. Kate held it gently against her body, closing her eyes and humming a waltz to herself. She could see a string orchestra playing in a ballroom where couples skimmed over the parquet floors. Unbidden, an image of Steven rose to her mind, the way he had looked last night in his tuxedo. He fit too easily into her fantasy; it was too easy to imagine him clasping her hand in his and leading her out onto the dance floor. He pulled her close, his cheek resting against her hair.

Kate hummed her waltz louder, with a deliberately martial beat, but that didn't stop the Steven in her dream from drawing her a little closer.

"You look beautiful," he said huskily. Kate froze and her eyes flew open. Steven was sitting next to the trap door, gazing at her intently. The blood rushed to her face, and she lost her grip on the dress. It floated down to the dusty floorboards. She grappled for it, but in one easy motion Steven stood and was beside her. He rescued the dress, brushing it off and handing it back to her. The ceiling was so low that he had to lean over her. Kate took a deep, shuddering breath, and the next second she was in Steven's arms, the dress crushed against her.

"Please, please, no…" she whispered, but her words were lost as his mouth descended hungrily to hers. No fantasy could have captured the actual feel of him—the searing pressure of his lips, the lean hard strength of his body. Fire coursed through her in response, sweeping away all her defenses. Her hands moved upward over his shoulders. His muscles tightened under her touch, and he gave a low groan. The silk rustled between them, unheeded.

Her body fit so closely against his, but she longed to be closer yet. The need in her was overwhelming, more terrifying than any sensation she had ever known. She felt powerless against it. Her lips opened willingly to the gentle but insistent probing of his tongue. He tasted fresh and warm and clean.

But then he broke away from her, and the attic suddenly seemed cold, despite its stuffy air. They were both breathing raggedly. Kate held the gown against her as if for protection.

"Lord…that shouldn't have happened," Steven said.

"No," she agreed woodenly, not understanding how fire could bank down so suddenly to ashes.

"You'll have to forgive me—and forget about it."

But it was already too late. She knew that her body would always remember the feel and taste of him.

"I suppose that will be easy for you," she burst out. "To forget you came up here and—"

"Nothing is easy with you, Kate," he said roughly. His eyes were darkened now with some emotion she could not fathom. She turned away, clutching the dress still tighter.

"You're the one making everything so difficult," she muttered. "You weren't even supposed to be here today."

"You're right. I don't know what the hell I'm doing here. I've got a pile of contracts waiting for me at the office. That's where I should have been in the first place." He left her abruptly.

Kate felt raw inside. Slowly she loosened her grip on the poor gown, making a futile attempt to smooth out the wrinkles. It still felt warm from the contact with Steven. She returned it to the old chest, then sank down and rested her forehead against her knees. She was completely drained and completely shaken. How foolish it was to daydream, to imagine a perfect romantic scene. Because the reality was far too dangerous, pushing her to acknowledge feelings better left ignored.

But she could not deny the sensations that Steven aroused in her. They were not merely physical. She could have dealt with that—explained them away as the normal responses of a healthy body. But what Steven made her feel…