Sleeping Arrangements (Silhouette Desire) (4 page)

The clouds of their breaths lingered in the cold, still air be
tween their faces, merging into one slowly disappearing fog. Addy felt the ridiculous urge to tuck her top lip over her bottom one and direct her next breath straight at her feet, and told herself she was being paranoid.

She didn’t think she sounded very convincing.

“Your hands are cold.”

Her fingers were still interlocked with his, and Spencer was rubbing them gently. With inexorable slowness, he pulled her hands to his mouth and exhaled warmly on them. When she shivered, his smile showed in his eyes.

Enough was enough.

“I’m soaking wet because of your goofy dog, Reed. I’m cold all over,” she snapped.

For the second time since her arrival, her irritation at his smugness saved her from further embarrassment. She yanked her hands away from his and shoved them deep into her coat pockets. “I suppose it would be too much to ask to go inside now, before I end up with a raging case of pneumonia?”

Spencer’s grin told her she wasn’t fooling anyone. Then she shivered again, and this time it was because she actually was freezing.

“I really am cold,” she said as her teeth started to chatter.

“Of course. Come on.” With a casualness she didn’t fall for, he snagged one of her hands and tucked it in the crook of his arm. He led the way back to the sidewalk and steered her toward the front porch. After a moment of mental debate, Addy decided that the advantage of not having to look where she was going, allowing her to stare at the house looming over them, was worth the inconvenience of bumping into Spencer’s body with every step. Elwood pranced about their feet, kicking up snow with a dog’s sheer joy in play.

But it was the house, the fairy-tale, castlelike vision of a house, that she couldn’t take her eyes off.

With all of the lights on and a little more composure under her belt, Addy could see that although the house was large, it was the height of the building that made it seem so
imposing. The house itself was three full stories tall, and its towers—
there are towers, with round walls and cone-capped roofs, for God’s sake
—stretched another story or two higher. There were windows everywhere, almost more windows than walls it seemed, and warm yellow light shone out of dozens of them.

Closer to the house, she started to realize why the building gave off such a feeling of age. Her initial impression of stone walls had been given by the mottled, peeling gray paint on the clapboard siding. The wraparound porch that stretched across the front of the house and around one side lent an air of elegant welcome, until she noticed that the gutters were pulling away from the porch roof in several places.

“Careful here. Watch your step.”

“I see Great-Aunt Adeline didn’t exactly keep the place up,” she said as she gave a little leap over the first stair, most of which seemed to be missing, up to the porch.

“She was ninety-two when she died, Addy. New paint didn’t exactly top her list of priorities.” Spencer kept his gaze directly ahead of him, but his clipped enunciation communicated his displeasure well enough.

“I’m a little tense.”

She knew her words weren’t an apology, could hear her mother’s voice in her head demanding that she make one, but Addy felt as if she’d done enough apologizing to this man already.

“I know.” Spencer’s hand tightened around hers for a moment and he turned his head to look directly at her. His eyes were the blue of the sky a half hour after sunset. Then he let go and reached for the door.

“I know.”
She mouthed the words at his back like a bratty five-year-old. Of course he does. Spencer Reed knows everything.

It was amazing how easily this man could get under her skin with just two words.

“Come inside. I’ll find you some dry clothes.” He called the words back over his shoulder at her as he pushed open the
front door and then stepped quickly up the staircase directly in front of the door.

“I’m not going to be here long enough—” she started to call out after his retreating back “—to change clothes.” She ended by talking to herself. “Sheesh. Like talking to a brick wall.”

Might as well check the place out, Addy thought. Then she actually looked around her and realized that she would have no idea where to start. A long hallway extended on either side of the staircase toward the rear of the house, and what seemed like a dozen doorways opened off it, scattered randomly on both sides of the hall. Even the doorways themselves were varied, some with doors, some without. One was arched and another was an open cutout in the shape of the minaret of a Turkish mosque.

Flipping a mental coin, she started walking slowly down the right side of the hall, trailing her fingers along a chair rail. A faded Oriental runner muffled the sounds of her boots on the hardwood floors.

Above the chair rail, the walls were crowded. Oil paintings, photograph collages, dried flowers, even an old violin, were displayed with care for visual pleasure all the way down the hall. Addy stopped in front of an age-darkened portrait of a dark-haired woman with her hair pulled back severely in a bun and a small smile on her lips. The family resemblance was unmistakable, even if Addy couldn’t have guessed the century for the life of her. Surprised, she found herself wondering if this was where her mother’s habit of blanketing her walls with photographs and artwork and family mementos came from.

Reaching out a hand, she traced the line of the woman’s cheekbone, her fingertips a millimeter from the painting’s surface. An angular scribble in the corner of the painting caught her eye. After a moment’s examination, she realized that the scribble was numbers.

1899.

Spiderlike chills crawled over her skin, lifting the hairs on her arm. This picture of a woman who looked so much like her mother, her sisters, herself, was over one hundred years
old. Some quick math allowed her to guess that she was staring at a picture of her own great-great-grandmother.

“Her name was Susannah.”

She jumped and clenched her jaw to keep from yelping at the sudden noise. One hand pressed firmly to her chest, she took a deep breath.

“Don’t
do
that,” she said. “You could kill someone.” Spencer was holding out a pile of neatly folded clothes. She ignored it. A grin quirked across his face.

“Sorry.” His voice didn’t sound very apologetic. He looked at the portrait. “I don’t even know who she is, but Adeline used to stop and look at that painting all the time. She told me once that the woman’s name was Susannah.”

“Susannah is my mother’s name,” she said after a long silence. “I think she was my great-great-grandmother.” Something was cracking inside her. What felt like an enormous pressure burst into existence behind her eyes and in her temples. She took a breath and felt it hitch alarmingly in her chest. Shook her head and closed, then opened, her eyes. “Is there a bathroom here?”

“Second door down. Take these with you.” Spencer pushed the clothes into her hands and she grabbed at them reflexively.

In the bathroom, she dropped the clothes on a green marble counter, cranked on the hot water and thrust her hands under the strong rush out of the antique taps. Everything was cold. Her hands felt like clattering ice cubes. She looked up and into a mirror and saw that her teeth were chattering.

No wonder I’m out of it—I really am about to come down with pneumonia. Time to stop being stupid just to prove I’m stubborn.

Five minutes later, she felt almost human again. Her jeans were still damp and chilly—taking her pants off was more comfortable than she’d wanted to get. But wearing a faded navy sweatshirt with Duke University emblazoned across the chest and thick, dry socks returned a little of her calm.

Duke?

She followed the sound of a whistling kettle and found Spencer in a tiny servant’s kitchen, not much more than a closet with a hot plate and a sink, off the other hall. He’d removed his overcoat, suit jacket and tie somewhere along the way and stood in gray slacks and a deep blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up. She stood in the doorway, reluctant to squeeze into the tiny room with this man who made all the little hairs on her arms stand on end.

“So, Great-Aunt Adeline was a big Blue Devils fan, was she?”

When he looked startled at her sudden appearance, she was pleased. Let him be the one off balance for a little while. His gaze skimmed over her from head to toe. She saw his eyes narrow and guessed that he’d noticed she still wore her wet jeans.

“Not that I’m aware of. That’s mine,” he answered as he returned to pouring tea from a fat ivory pot into two bone-china teacups. “Did the sweatpants not fit?”

“I don’t know,” she said, watching him pour. She found it irritating that instead of looking silly or a bit prissy with a teapot, the contrast between the fragility of the china and the muscles in Spencer’s hands and forearms only emphasized the strength of his physical presence in the tiny room. “I have this thing about wandering around big, empty houses with guys I don’t know while wearing their pants. I’d rather keep my own, thanks. So tell me, why are your dog and your sweatpants at my great-aunt’s house?”

His next words confirmed her suspicions.

“I’ve been staying here for a while,” he answered, dropping what she could only assume was an actual tea cozy over the pot and then turning to her. “Do you take anything in your tea?”

“I have no idea. I never drink it. Is living in my great-aunt’s house one of the perks of attorney-client privilege?”

“Of course not. Don’t you read anything?” He doctored both teacups with a dollop of honey and a splash of milk and placed them on saucers. “Let’s sit in the library. I’ll start a fire.
You can warm up and I’ll tell you about all the information
inside
that useful packet of papers I sent you this morning.”

Trailing him down the hall, Addy felt like a fifth grader caught throwing spitballs during the teacher’s pop quiz. She had deliberately ignored the stack of legal documents since she had no intention of accepting the bequest. Now she realized that when dealing with Spencer Reed, it was better at all times to be fully prepared. She was clumsy enough around him without choosing to be ignorant, also.

The library was a long, narrow room that turned out to contain not only books and a fireplace but also a half-dozen glass-fronted cases holding collections of everything from iridescent pinned butterflies to small, fossilized sea creatures to dusty hunks of various minerals and semiprecious crystals. It was as if walking into a turn-of-the-century curio museum, and Addy tumbled straight into love at her first sight of its jumbled oddities.

“Here, curl up and get warm.” Spencer handed her tea to her and waved at a leather armchair with a muted plaid blanket draped over the arm.

She was more than happy to follow that order, and wrapped herself in the soft chenille throw while he squatted down in front of the fireplace and began fiddling with the stacked logs. His preoccupation allowed her to indulge in a lengthier look at the room around her. She was debating whether or not she ought to get up out of her comfy seat to take a closer look at some of the volumes on the far wall when she realized that her gaze, for the last several minutes, had been focused on the way the fabric of Spencer’s clothes stretched tightly against his shoulders and his butt as he leaned forward with the long fireplace match and lit the kindling.

Give yourself a break, girl, she thought, and raised the teacup to her lips to hide her smile. There’s no harm in looking, is there?

Just how much harm there could be was made clear, however, when Spencer suddenly turned and walked away from
the fire, catching her stare. His grin rose like a slow tide on his face and she flushed. She would have sworn the dratted man could actually read her mind.

“Not too warm?” he asked, settling himself in the chair next to hers, tea in hand.

“Not at all,” she said, denying the heated redness of her cheeks.

“Good, then we can get started.” With these words, he leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his knees. “First of all, did you read
any
of the papers I sent you?”

“You mean the papers that arrived at five this morning?” she retorted smartly. The blatant lie was her best option. “I was in nonstop meetings all day long. I didn’t have the time.”

“I’m sure.” His drawl bordered on insulting and the way he sat meant his clasped hands rested only inches from her knees. She tucked her legs up beneath her in the chair. “What is it that you do? No poor-taste joke to follow,” he added.

“I’m a civil engineer.” Gotcha, buddy, she thought, as her words made him sit up a little and cock his head a little to the side. And you can just ask me what that means if you don’t know.

The silence held.

That was unexpected, Spencer thought. A civil engineer. He leaned back again in his seat and picked up his cup of tea, using the gesture to fill time as he thought about the implications. If she’d said she was an animal trainer for the circus, or a performance artist who did weird things onstage while reciting poetry under a black light, he wouldn’t have been surprised. Adeline had told him stories about her niece, Addy’s mother, who’d gotten pregnant and run off with a jazz musician at eighteen years old. So he was prepared for a little oddity in the mother’s daughter. And she certainly had a mouth on her that defied polite-society conversation.

A civil engineer. Although he wouldn’t want to be put on the spot to define what exactly that was—something to do with how a building affected the land and hooked up to various public-works systems, he thought—he was sure that
you didn’t get to be one by having a few screws loose. She’d likely done postgraduate work in a scientific field and held licenses from several federal and state boards.

This changed things. He wasn’t sure how, but he
was
sure that it did.

First, a guess.

“Were you in the field yesterday morning?”

“How perceptive of you.”

Tromping around on a construction site went a long way toward explaining her mud-bespattered appearance at his office. Still, even now she looked more like an unemployed college student, with her wildly curly black hair and what he felt sure were braless curves under his sweatshirt. She had silver rings—some braided, some set with stones, some plain—on almost every finger of both hands, including her thumbs.