Sealed with a Kiss (7 page)

“H
ow did you get here?” Tara demanded, as she ducked behind the door.

“I took College Avenue through the center of town.” He pointed toward the business district. “Then I went south on Maple, east on Sycamore and here I am.”

“Very funny. I'd love to stay for your whole act but I'm afraid I'm not dressed for company.”

“Why, yes, I noticed. But it is nice to see you in something colorful even if the look is a bit
mature
for you.” He angled toward the open doorway to get a better look.

She ignored his criticism.

“How did you get here without me hearing you? That infernal machine is loud enough to wake the dead.”

“Oh, it's ‘that infernal machine' now, is it? The
last time you were on it you said it was ‘incredible.'”

She dropped her chin, mouthing a three count, then glanced up. “Do you remember
everything
I say?”

“Don't flatter yourself, Rusty. It's the curse of a good memory. And to answer your question, it appears I pulled up while you were upstairs. I know it's late, but would you mind if I come in?” he asked. “We need to talk about the building.”

“I'm ready to collapse. Can't we put this off until tomorrow?”

He shook his head. “Sorry, I'm tied up for the next few days and this can't wait.”

 

Resignation crossed her freshly scrubbed face. Without makeup she was even more lovely. He looked away.

“Count to ten and let yourself inside. I need to change.” She ducked out of sight, her light footsteps beating a rhythm on the wooden floor.

The screen door thwacked closed behind him. One step across Miriam Elliott's threshold was a step backward in time.

Dorothy Kennesaw had lost her husband in Vietnam. The monthly Social Security check wasn't much so she made ends meet for herself and Sam by cleaning for the well-to-do. The big house on Sycamore was Thursday's employer. Each week
Sam stepped off the school bus and into a fantasy world.

The little apartment behind the grocery was homey, but Sycamore House was the stuff of his daydreams. Long after he was old enough to be a latchkey kid, he still met his mother on Thursdays at Miss Miriam's. Part of the attraction was the incredible beauty of the home and its contents. He'd studied the rich woods and breathed in the history of the pieces.

But another part, the most important part, was the redheaded girl who waited for him on the steps. At five years old she'd been a giggling shadow. He'd dubbed her Rusty. At eight she'd become a persistent pest. At eleven she was an endearing mass of skinny arms and legs and he was a high school junior with big dreams, a pile of homework and a broken dirt bike.

Rusty became a casualty in the battle for his time.

He hesitated at the carved pocket doors leading to the parlor. From habit, he eased his feet from well-worn boots and set them aside. After several reverent steps on the Persian carpet, he knelt to brush his fingertips across the handwoven silk.

It had taken months of work for an international locator, and twenty thousand dollars, but the same tree-of-life pattern Sam had memorized as a boy now lay before the leather sofa in his private office in Houston.

“Isn't it spectacular?” Tara stood in the doorway, dressed in jeans and a Yankees T-shirt, her damp hair deepened to a thousand autumn colors.

“I researched it for an art-history project and found it's one of a kind.”

“Is that so?” he asked.

“Absolutely.” She moved to his side, leaning in for a closer inspection. “It's called a tree of life.”

“Interesting.” He nodded. “But I think there's a possibility you may be wrong about it being one of a kind.”

She shook her head, the wet tips of her dark locks whipping across her shoulders. “No, I'm certain of it. I considered specializing in Persians when I went to work at The Heritage.”

With an affirming glance at the carpet, he pushed to his feet. “It may take a while, but I'm pretty sure I'll eventually prove you wrong.” He offered his hand to shake on the deal.

With a small smile, she clasped his palm with hers. “Fire your best shot.”

“Oh, my guns are loaded, Rusty, and I think it's time I had the last laugh.” He noted a slight shadow of pain cross her face at the sting of his words and for the first time wished he could take them back.

Stepping away, she dropped his hand. His gaze locked on the fingers she passed through her damp curls. “I'm exhausted. What's the reason for your visit?”

“In a minute.” He wouldn't be rushed. He turned, admiring the rich appeal of the furnishings against the backdrop of hand-stamped, sapphire-and-emerald wall coverings and intricate woodwork.

“Would you mind showing me around the place?”

“You've been here a hundred times.”

“But not for years. Please?”

She nodded and led the way.

The tour of the main floor ended on the back veranda. He squatted to study the partially restored desk.

She clicked on the porch light and the overhead fan creaked into action. “This is the desk I bought from the Carltons.”

He slid a hand from the sturdy foot up the length of one leg, and across the edge of the desktop to rest on the tragically spray-painted surface.

“Do you think you'll be able to get the paint off the leather?” he asked, and glanced up to see her chewing her full lower lip, a familiar and endearing sign of worry.

“The hardware store ordered a special stripper for me by express delivery, so I should know this time tomorrow whether or not the leather will have to be replaced.”

“You've done such a fine job with the rest of the piece. It would be a shame to have to use new leather to finish it.” He stood and ran his hands across the padded surface. “Worst-case scenario,
you could find an old piece of distressed leather for the upholstery.”

He backed away to study it again. “I can't wait to see it finished. I bet it'll bring three grand. I'd love to have it myself.”

When she didn't respond, he turned to find her leaning against the porch rail, arms folded across her chest, studying him.

“What?” he asked, afraid he'd shown too much interest in the piece.

“You're a conundrum, Sam.”

“Excuse me?”

“Everybody believes you're so uncomplicated, back to the basics and all that, but I'm on to you.”

“You reckon so?” he challenged.

“As a matter of fact, yes, I do. One minute you're the carefree biker, the next you're the local expert on economic indicators. By day you're a secretive entrepreneur, deliberately hiding behind closed doors, and by night you're a parking-lot philosopher, espousing the simple life.”

“And you don't think it's possible to be all those things?”

Tara pushed away from the banister and took several steps closer.

“It's not only possible, in this case I'd say it's probable. And I don't have a problem with it, but a lot of people in this town will when they figure out you've deceived them.”

He squirmed beneath the weight of her words. His crouched position became figuratively as well as literally uncomfortable. Rising to his feet relieved the pressure on his knees but did little to reduce the worry building inside. He stared at the plank floor.

She was right.

He was beginning to enjoy his image as the needy beneficiary who seemed to eschew personal possessions in favor of teaching others his altruistic values. When the day came to claim his pound of flesh, would he find the price had become more than even he could afford to pay?

If Tara was already on to him, maybe it was time to cash in before the stakes were too high. Maybe it was time to end the charade.

As he drew a breath to speak, he felt the warm touch of her hand against his bare forearm and shifted his attention from the floor to her fathomless blue eyes.

“Sam, it's okay to admit you haven't made much of yourself since you left Beardsly. People here are happy you've got this second chance to do something with your life. You don't have to keep pretending that you have so little by design. One day you may be able to afford all the things you try to deny you desire.”

Sam placed his hand over her soft fingers, gently rubbing the pad of his thumb across her knuck
les. He exhaled, grateful he'd held his breath and his confession.

“It's that obvious, huh?”

She nodded. “I'm afraid so, Sam.”

“I have to admit, Rusty, some of the things you said are right on target. And you've given the philosopher in me plenty to consider. Now, let me give you something to think about.”

He rested his palms atop her shoulders and slid both hands down to her elbows. Gently pulling her to his chest, he wrapped her in a loose embrace and dipped his head to kiss her. His nostrils filled with the essence of the cinnamon scent she wore.

Tara surrendered to the kiss. Her arms slipped around his waist. Surprised by his unplanned action and her unexpected reaction, he loosened his grip. Refusing to accommodate his shift away from her, Tara pulled him once again into the embrace, evidently intent on continuing the kiss.

His mind strained against the jumble of spicy smells. And he realized with a jolt that there was nowhere in the world he'd rather be at that moment.

Heart pounding a fearful cadence, he raised his head and set her an arm's length away.

“So, everybody thinks I'm a failure?” he asked, denying the appealing warmth of the moment.

She gave a negative shake of her head. The drying curls glowed beneath the light above the veranda.

“That's not what I said.”

“But it's what you meant.” His self-control and matter-of-fact attitude slipped back into place. “Now that I have this chance to ‘do something with my life' as you so carefully put it, I don't intend to blow it.”

“I know you well enough to believe that's true, Sam.”

He stepped away from the glare of the light, into the shadow of the doorway. “Actually, Rusty, you never knew me well at all. But you will.”

He opened the door and she preceded him into the kitchen, a room he once knew like the back of his hand. His gaze scanned the glass-fronted cabinets, falling on familiar pottery mugs and earthenware bowls. Little had changed, least of all the know-it-all opinions of some people.

“The insurance on the building needs to be increased to cover the contents.”

“I know,” she agreed. “I have the forms from the underwriter in my to-do stack.” She angled her head toward the oak pedestal table, heavy with file folders and unopened envelopes.

“I don't know about Bridges, but Sam's Cycles needs a half-million in coverage for loss or damage.”

She whistled at the amount.

He held out his hand. “Why don't you give me the paperwork so I can handle it?”

“Because it's all still in Grandmother's name. I'll fill everything out and Davis will be happy to notarize the changes for me.”

“Davis?” He jumped on her mention of Davis Fairweather, the recently elected county clerk. “Gettin' cozy with a local, huh?” Sam prodded. He had spotted the social-climbing Fairweather on his numerous trips up the stairs of the Elliott Building in recent days.

She shook her head no but the stain in her cheeks said otherwise. Battling the mental image of the up-and-coming politician and Tara Elliott, Sam stalked through the dining room into the foyer.

Feeling like a jealous fool, he flung the front door wide and stomped across the front porch. “See that you take care of that right away. I wouldn't want to be you if the river rises and my bikes aren't insured!” He shouted over his shoulder without a backward glance.

“See you soon, Sam,” Tara called, a note of amusement in her voice.

The front door closed with a whoosh, and the dead bolt snapped. Sam lengthened his stride to the end of the walk, muttering as he went.

“So Sam Kennesaw's a failure, huh? They all think they know so much. Well, we'll just see who has the last laugh.”

At the edge of the pavement, he stepped down six inches to the gravel drive, all hundred and eighty
pounds on his support leg. Pinpoints of pain shot into his foot from the loose gravel walkway. He sat backward onto the step, his eyes squeezed shut in disbelief, as he remembered something important.

His boots.

“W
elcome back, Sam.” Claire Savage placed a toasted bagel on the granite coaster Sam used to protect his walnut Edwardian partner's desk.

“You're my business manager, Claire, not my mother. You don't have to feed me breakfast.” He didn't need to glance up from the spreadsheets he studied to know she'd be impeccably dressed, despite the casual workplace. The Harvard Business School graduate was a curious mixture of beauty queen and savvy shark.

“Can I help it if I enjoy a domestic task now and again?” She stepped behind his leather chair and placed her hands atop his shoulders, her strong fingers kneading competently. “You're tense. What secret mission has your muscles in knots?”

“Okay, Claire,” Sam tossed his reading glasses on the stack of documents. He swiveled the chair
to face her, folded his arms and assessed the former Miss Texas.

“You don't have a domestic bone in your body. What's up?”

She shoved her hands in the pockets of her silk suit and perched on the edge of his credenza.

“Am I that transparent?”

“Like a windshield. So, tell me, what is it?”

“Well, I'm not sure how to put this.”

He watched her with a close eye knowing something serious was percolating in her brilliant mind. In the four years he'd known the articulate blonde, he'd never seen her at a loss for words.

“Just shoot straight, like always.”

Her straight-shooting had ensured their relationship was strictly professional. Soon after they'd met, she'd told him she limited her dating to Christian men. Since he wasn't sure where he stood with God, Sam was out of the running. She'd become his business manager and shown no interest beyond his financial holdings.

“First, how about telling me where you've been the past month?” she asked.

“I'm sorry I've been so secretive.” He paused, letting Claire think he was giving in to her usual probing for information. “But I've been taking care of some legal matters in east Texas.”

“Are you being sued, Sam?” She pressed to her feet, brown eyes wide with concern.

“No, it's nothing like that.” He motioned for her to sit. “I'm helping out with the estate settlement of a woman my mother worked for when I was a kid.”

Her eyes narrowed, piercing him with the stare she reserved for bankers and customers behind in their payments.

“This woman left your mother part of her estate?”

“Not exactly.” He waved a hand dismissively. “It's complicated and I don't want to bore you with the details. Suffice it to say I'll need you to continue managing everything a while longer. Would you mind?”

The frown flipped upside down and spread into her best beauty-pageant smile.

“Not at all. Being on site every day has taught me so much more about the business. I'll even admit your charming customers are getting under my skin.”

“You just enjoy having those men making fools of themselves over you.”

“Well, certainly it's not insulting,” she admitted.

Sam knew the guys were awestruck over finding the legendary Claire Savage running the place. She knew it too and was so sure of herself she'd never blush over a compliment the way Tara would.

Tara. The scent of cinnamon drifted through his memory.

Where she was concerned, he was no better behaved than the customers who drooled over Claire.
Every time he'd been near Tara lately he'd done something foolish. He'd kissed her. Twice. And three nights ago he'd walked out of her house in his stocking feet and kept going.

“You're not listening to me, Sam.” Claire slapped her palms on the smooth desktop for emphasis.

“Of course I am.”

“Then what did I say?” she challenged.

“You said you liked the customers.” He faked it.

“Which is part of why I want you to consider selling me half the business.”

“What?” He bolted upright in the Windsor chair, certain he'd misunderstood. “Are you crazy?”

“There are more flattering ways to respond to a woman when she's offering to make a significant investment in your business.”

“I don't need an investor.”

“Then think of me as a partner,” she encouraged.

“I don't want a partner, either. I want you to stand in for me for a few weeks. That's all. Enjoy the change of pace, stretch your horizons, meet interesting people and be well paid for your trouble. But don't expect anything more.”

“At least tell me you'll think it over, Sam.” The determined tilt of her chin told him she hadn't heard a word he'd said.

“Do you understand me, Claire?”

“I always have.” She flashed her most beguiling smile.

The intercom interrupted the exchange.

“Claire, Joe Mason is here about the V-Rod and he—”

“I'll be right there,” Sam barked into the speaker.

Claire extended her hand, palm outward, signaling for him to keep his seat. “There's no need. Joe and I have been negotiating this sale for a couple of weeks and we're about to close the deal. You get back to your spreadsheets and I'll tell him you send your regards.”

Joe Mason, the penny-pinching heavyweight champ, negotiating? The guy owned four top-of-the-line models already and he'd never given a dime more than he had to. Maybe Sam owed Claire more credit than he was willing to admit.

But
not
a share of his business.

Besides, Claire was capable of developing an idea of her own. He wished he could tell her about Bridges but wasn't willing to admit the duplicitous life he'd been living in Beardsly.

He glanced at his watch and imagined Rusty at her desk sipping her late-morning latte. He rubbed the heels of his hands over his eyes.

What had come over him? Checking the time and wondering what she was doing when he should be reviewing his investment portfolio.

 

“And you have no idea when he plans to return?” Tara asked the construction worker. She was sick to
death of talking to a stranger through a six-inch crack in the door. The building inspector was asking questions and she needed Sam's input. This determination of his to keep everything under wraps was wearing thin.

Behind the plate-glass windows hung with dark drapes, saws whirred and hammers banged away day and night. Delivery trucks backed into a darkened warehouse, the overhead doors clanging shut before cargo was revealed. The place was shrouded in secrecy.

By contrast, Bridges was virtually open to the public already. Free samples of espresso were offered to browsers who oohed and aahed over the Elliott Building's second-floor improvements. Tara basked in the excited compliments, almost convinced that staying in Beardsly had been the right decision.

“No, ma'am. I don't know when Sam will be back. He said he had things to check up on and he'd be here directly.”

“What does that mean? Directly?” She'd almost forgotten that Texans have a language all their own.

“Well,” the carpenter drawled. “That could mean directly after dark or directly after summer. All I can tell you is that if you keep an eye out toward the corner, directly he'll come around it.” He smiled a bumpkin smile that didn't fool anybody, least of all Tara.

“I don't suppose you know how to reach him?” It was worth one more try.

“Don't suppose I do.” Bumpkin shook his head, raised his hammer in a congenial wave and closed the door.

She dragged herself up the new staircase for the hundredth trip of the day. The reason the second floor had seemed so appealing at one time was a mystery to her now. With calves and thighs groaning against the ascent, she stepped to the landing that positioned customers before the entrance to Bridges.

She'd selected hunter green as the trademark color to carry throughout the store. The deep hue striped soft cushions on comfy Adirondack porch chairs and adorned awnings above the front windows and doorway.

Leaded-glass doors she'd salvaged from the demolition of an old country church had been installed. The thick pine planks and smoky window-panes hinted at the atmosphere inside where shoppers would find hundreds of books to browse and lasting treasures to buy. She turned the brass knob and stepped into the cool interior, pungent with the smells of fresh paint and coffee beans.

She had a hundred and one details to attend to before the evening's schedule. Back in her office, she moved her stack of to-do envelopes from the top of the desk to the pencil drawer as she checked her
planner. She actually looked forward to the string of get-togethers. There was a kitchenware party at six, a golden wedding anniversary celebration at seven thirty and a candlelight prayer vigil for the troops overseas at nine.

She'd be worn out but she'd fall asleep as soon as her head hit the feather pillow, too exhausted to wonder where Sam was or what he was up to.

 

Sam dropped the day's
Wall Street Journal
on the nightstand beside his bed as he sank down onto the thick mattress. He hooked first one heel and then the other into the wooden jack and pried off his black leather boots.

After a quick shower he slid between the cool, Egyptian cotton sheets and punched the voicemail function of his speakerphone.

“Boss, it's me again. That redhead was by the new shop twice today. I sure hope you make it back up here tomorrow. If I play dumb one more time she's gonna draw back and hit me with that little black purse.”

Sam's laughter rang in the spacious master bedroom.

“One last thing,” the voice continued, “I got confirmation from two more bike chapters so we're on track for a heck of an opening-day crowd.”

The phone clicked off, leaving the room in silence. The evening quiet Sam always preferred had
left him anxious and tossing in his king-size bed for the past two nights. The comfort of the custom-built bed no longer appealed compared to the pull-out sofa in his tiny apartment in Beardsly.

He admitted to himself that it was more about familiar background noise than back support. Two months ago he'd have chosen his River Oaks home over any five-star hotel in the country. Tonight he'd rather be with the chattering kids who congregated on the steamy, heat-soaked asphalt parking lot than alone in this hushed, climate-controlled, personal sanctuary.

He stared at the white walls and the tray ceiling above his Danish headboard and considered adding some jewel-toned wallpaper and the vintage look of copper molding overhead. And as long as he was remodeling, he might as well rip up his boring carpet and lay a handsome mesquite floor. He glanced at the modern furnishings and realized they wouldn't suit the new look of his bedroom. What he'd need could only be found at an estate auction.

He squinted as the hundred-watt lightbulb went on over his head. He was unconsciously copying the rooms of Sycamore House. Tara's home.

His insides knotted in an unexpected and unwanted surge of confused feelings. But not for the house. For the woman who lived there.

The revelation robbed him of sleep and by seven he was fueled with black coffee and on the road.
Each mile that brought him closer to Beardsly drew him closer to her. His pulse raced in time with the tires on the pavement when he left the city, the road narrowing to two lanes as he moved deep into the country.

It would be over in a few days. He'd have his moment of revenge. Then he could put it all behind him forever and return to the life he'd built for himself after the Elliott women had yanked the rug out from under him.

His moment of revenge. The thought that had excited him weeks earlier held less appeal today. All the more reason to get on with the plan before it lost all attraction. He'd invested too much time and money in the scheme not to have the last laugh now.

 

“It's so good of you to come. I know how busy you are with your own big event just a couple of days away.” Emily wrapped her arms around Tara and pulled her as close as thirty-eight weeks of pregnancy would allow.

“It's my pleasure.” Tara smoothed her hand down a cascade of silky brown hair and patted the girl's thin back. “I'm glad Lacey let me know about your shower.”

Tara followed the mother-to-be as she waddled into the fellowship hall where a small group of women waited to share cake and childbirth stories and their secondhand newborn things. Emily had
come to Beardsly against her farming family's wishes four years ago as a college freshman. Now, just short of graduation she found herself pregnant and alone with no means to support a child.

“I promised God and my baby that I'd find a way. But from the looks of things—” she smiled around the circle of strength “—he found a way for me.”

For the umpteenth time in her life, Tara wondered how her grandmother had found the courage to give up her own precious child. Even more, she was amazed at the faith of her mother in giving Miriam a second chance through the gift of a granddaughter.

They blessed Emily with prayers of good health and lifted their hands in praise and thanksgiving for the new life she carried. Laughter echoed in the church hall as each mother confessed her most embarrassing moment of child-rearing ignorance. Tara pinned a twenty to the money tree and placed a small stack of children's books wrapped in pink-and-blue paper on the gift table.

She admired the confident glow in the eyes of the unwed mother, marveling over the girl's sense of peace in what was surely the most uncertain time of her life. Emily was not fearful about her lack of security. Instead she looked forward to the precious child God was about to entrust to her.

An hour later, Tara cut the engine on the luxury
sedan and took the steps up to the second floor of the Elliott Building. The script letters spelling out her store's name were emblazoned boldly on the canopy above the door. In two days she'd place the open sign in the front window for the first time and welcome customers.

Flipping lights on as she walked through the rooms, she saw the displays of merchandise with fresh eyes. Colorful glassware was creatively backlit through stained-glass window panes. New computers hummed atop heirloom library tables and stacks of
New York Times
bestsellers were clustered inside apple crates from the flea market.