The Glass Shoe (6 page)

What on earth had possessed him to bring the damned shoe along? He couldn't remember packing it, but wasn't surprised that he had. Nobody had ever defined an obsession as something rational, after all. He placed the shoe on the shelf inside the closet and shut the door firmly.

Enough of that.
He was too far from Boston to continue his search for Cinderella even if he had a clue as to what steps he could take to find her.
And, truth to tell, he realized with a faintly guilty feeling that his first encounter with Amanda Trask had pushed both fairy tales and business to the back of his mind.

Puzzling over his own apparently fickle nature, he left his room and went downstairs. The second floor landing provided a view down into the entrance hall, and he paused there as he heard voices from below. He leaned somewhat cautiously over the banister, and saw that Amanda was engaged in talking to another lady. Or, rather, she was engaged in being talked at.

The other lady was small, spare, and silver-haired. She appeared to be well past sixty. Beyond that rough estimate Ryder found it impossible to guess her age. She was in faded jeans and wore a thick fleece-lined jacket with scuffed western boots on her small feet. And she talked a mile a minute.

Amanda was leaning against the high counter as if she needed its support. Nemo was sitting at her side, and she petted the dog's massive head in a rhythmic manner as she listened to the older lady's rapid voice.

"They were dreadful people, my dear, just dreadful.
Weren't willing to spend a dime on the place, and of course that's idiotic.
I was so pleased when the new owner bought it and started fixing things up right away."

"Miss Patterson," Amanda said in the firm tone of someone who'd been trying to get a word in.

Helen Patterson laughed. "Oh, they call me Miss Nell around here, child. And you're Amanda?
Such a lovely name.
It means 'worthy of love,' you know.
Or 'beloved.'
It depends on which book you're looking it up in."

There was a faint frown between Amanda's delicate brows, and a somewhat dazed look in her eyes. Ryder felt a flicker of amusement as he realized that in "Miss Nell" Amanda had met her match.

Miss Nell took a few brisk steps to the doorway of the den and peered in, her expression birdlike. "Oh, good, you've left it the way it was. This was my favorite room, you see, and I feel a bit sentimental about it. But where's the mantel, child?"

Amanda blinked.
"The—?
Oh. I'm having a new one made, Miss Nell."

"But you won't change the fireplace?"

"No. We'll probably have to sandblast the bricks, but—"

Miss Nell tut-tutted disapprovingly. "You'll change the tone of the room if you do that. I always thought this was such a warm room, so cozy, especially with the bricks all smoky from so many nice fires. My father hauled those bricks in a wagon behind four mules and built the fireplace himself. Fifty years ago, it was. Goodness. I was just a girl."

Amanda cleared her throat. "Miss Nell—"

"There isn't much furniture," Helen noted critically as she continued to gaze into the den. "And that sofa looks quite lumpy. If you want my advice, child—"

This time it was Amanda who broke in firmly. "Miss Nell, the new furniture is coming only when the rooms are finished. We'll make do until then. That room still has to be painted, the floor refinished, and the fireplace cleaned up."

Helen pursed her lips. "I like it the way it is," she said, turning to eye Amanda severely.

In a cheerful tone Amanda said, "The new owner wants it fixed up." Before Helen could say anything about that, she went on in the same friendly voice. "You didn't ride over here, did you, Miss Nell? The wind's picking up and it must be nearly freezing outside. Why don't I have one of the men
drive
you back home?"

"It's only three miles or so, child; I'll be fine. Heavens, I've spent days in the saddle in my time. Don't worry about me." She was moving toward the door as she spoke, briskly drawing on a pair of suede gloves. "You just give me a call if you need anything.
Anything at all.
I'm a good neighbor; anyone will tell you that."

"Thank you, Miss Nell," Amanda murmured.

As soon as the door closed behind Helen, Amanda heard an uncertain laugh escape her. Uncle Edward, she acknowledged silently, hadn't exaggerated; Miss Nell Patterson quite definitely kept an eye on her former home. She'd blown through the door like a miniature storm, bent on finding out exactly what had been done to the place and offering innumerable criticisms and suggestions.

Under different conditions, Amanda would have enjoyed Miss Nell, since eccentric personalities appealed to her. But Ryder Foxx had shaken her off balance and she was having a difficult time regaining it. She was feeling more than a little daunted. Carpenters everywhere, a big dog constantly at her heels with an unnerving habit of fainting, a strong-minded neighbor with definite opinions about this place and no hesitation in expressing herself, five more guests due to arrive in the coming days, and— and—Ryder Duncan Foxx.

Amanda muttered to herself, relieving her feelings with a few colorful words and phrases since she thought herself alone. But she wasn't alone, and the sound of a low laugh made her look up quickly toward the second-floor landing.

"Not very ladylike," Ryder said mockingly.

She watched him come down the stairs, wondering what she had ever done to the fates that they'd do this to her in revenge. The man looked indecently handsome in his casual clothing, she thought, the jeans too form-fitting for her peace of mind and the thick, dark blue sweater setting off the powerful width of his shoulders.

"Didn't your mother ever teach you not to eavesdrop?"

"Certainly she did," he returned promptly, a disquieting gleam of enjoyment in his eye. "I even paid attention to the lessons. I wasn't eavesdropping, Miss Trask, I simply didn't want to intrude. Who is Miss Nell?"

"She used to own this place," Amanda replied, watching him guardedly as he reached the bottom of the stairs and came toward her. "I hope you find your room... satisfactory," she added politely.

"You hope nothing of the kind," he told her in a pleasant tone. "Tell me, Miss Trask, are you this hostile to everyone, or do I deserve your special attention for some reason?"

"Some people," she said in a freezing voice, "simply don't hit it off."

"But there's usually a reason," he said with a slow, fallen-angel kind of smile. "I'm curious about that. Do I remind you of a discarded lover, is that it?"

She had the uneasy feeling that she wouldn't like where he was going with this conversation. "I have
work
to do."

"And you think I might interfere with your work?"

A wise little voice in Amanda's head told her that if she'd only keep her mouth shut, Ryder Foxx would rapidly tire of the sparring and leave her in peace. But she wasn't very surprised to find herself ignoring the voice.

"Mr. Foxx, the staff here—such as it is—has no time to provide entertainment for you. There's a grimy deck of cards around here somewhere if you want to play solitaire. There are horses out in the corral if you ride, but please leave a trail of bread crumbs so none of us is forced to disrupt the work by having to go look for you."

"You have quite a chip on your shoulder. I wonder why," he said thoughtfully, that gleam of enjoyment still present in his eye. "It might be worth my while to find out."

Amanda felt a definite shock. She recognized that speculative tone in his voice, and it shook her. Totally against her will, she felt a rush of heat from somewhere inside her, and her legs went weak.

No, she thought blankly. Oh, no...

She squared her shoulders and glared at him. "I have a job to do here. So whatever you've got in mind, you can forget it."

No more than a couple of feet away from her, he leaned an elbow on the counter and looked her over quite deliberately from her running shoes to her bright red hair. "Didn't your mother ever teach you not to throw down a gauntlet?" he drawled.

Amanda fought a sensation of half-excited panic. The only effect her rudeness seemed to have on him was to encourage him even more, and she didn't know what to do about it. She couldn't deceive herself into believing that she didn't enjoy the sparring, but she was too conscious of this man to allow any kind of relationship to develop—even an argumentative one. Particularly when all her instincts told her that getting involved with him on any level would be like striking a match in a room full of explosives.

She got a grip on herself. "Any gauntlet you see is imaginary, Mr. Foxx."

"Is it? Well, we'll find out soon enough, won't we, Miss Trask? In the meantime don't let me keep you from your work."

Amanda managed to keep her face expressionless as she turned away from the counter and headed down the hall toward the south wing of the house, but it was difficult. She felt definitely bested in the encounter, and found her thoughts divided between wry amusement and panicked bewilderment.

Her sense of responsibility made it impossible for her to call her uncle and ask him to find someone else for the job, and that meant she was stuck for the duration. And she was uneasily aware that her hostility toward Ryder Foxx had done nothing except pique his interest.

The man had been at the ranch less than two hours, and already her nerves were on edge. She told herself that her only option was to ignore him as much as possible and keep herself busy, to stay out of his way. It was good advice. She only hoped that she could take it.

"You missed supper, Miss Trask."

Amanda felt herself tense. So much for good advice, she thought wryly. She'd managed to keep out of Ryder's way for several hours, surrounding herself with the work crew while they were there,
then
retreating into the den with paperwork. She'd built a fire in the old fireplace to combat the chill of the room, and was curled up at one end of the couch looking over furniture catalogues.

Nemo, her constant companion, was sprawled out on the frayed hearth rug snoring softly.

She watched as Ryder came around the end of the couch and sat down, annoyed with
herself
because she couldn't help thinking that he moved with a cat's unconscious grace.

"Am I interrupting?" he asked innocently.

"Yes," she said.

"You can't work all the time. It's bad for your health, to say nothing of your temper."

"Mr. Foxx—"

"Ryder," he suggested.

Enough, Amanda decided, was enough. She looked him straight in the eye. "Why don't we save ourselves a lot of time," she proposed.

"I'm all for efficiency."

"Okay. I don't know you, Mr. Foxx, but it seems fairly obvious that you've decided I make a dandy sparring partner."

"Among other things," he said.

"What other things?" she demanded baldly.

He smiled slowly.

When it became obvious that was going to be the only answer he gave her, Amanda drew a deep breath and released it slowly. "Mind telling me why? I mean, do you have some masochistic need to go after any woman who's pointedly not interested?"

"No." He spoke casually, as if the conversation were about the weather. "There's just something about you, I guess.
Your sharp tongue or your red hair.
Something."

Amanda stared at him and felt an unexpected flash of amusement.
"Chemistry?"

"For want of a better word.
Don't you believe in chemistry, Miss Trask?"

"Sure, in a laboratory."

"But not between a man and a woman?"

That little voice in Amanda's head was urging caution; she ignored it, and didn't stop then to wonder why. "Look, I'm not responsible for your, er, chemical reactions."

"In this case," he said calmly, "you certainly are."

"You know what I mean."

"Are you married?"

"No."

"Engaged?"

Amanda shook her head.

"Anybody special?"

"Not at the moment. Mr. Foxx—"

"Let me guess. You've had a tragic past romance and now you're very bitter toward men."

She dropped her gaze to the catalogues in her lap. Damn the man, why wouldn't he stop this? With an effort she held her voice even. "Can't you just accept the fact that I'm not interested?"

"Only if you give me a good reason."
He studied her lowered head, watching the shimmer of firelight on her hair. It occurred to him vaguely that he was pressing too hard, that for some reason this was terribly important to him, but he didn't question that. He'd always listened to his instincts, and right now they were telling him to break through her guard even if he had to use strong tactics to do it.

She looked up at him, and Ryder felt his insides tighten. She was lovely, he thought, and there was something almost fragile about her—not physically, but emotionally. He had the feeling that the chip on her shoulder had been earned, that his light remark about tragic past romances had been closer to the target than he'd expected.

"Mr. Foxx—"

"Ryder." He heard the change in his voice, the note that wasn't mocking or casual but something very serious. And she heard it too; he saw her green eyes widen slightly. "Please," he added quietly.

Amanda tried to keep her guard up, but he was being unfair by suddenly switching tactics like this. It was shockingly difficult to maintain a belligerent front when the man looked at her with an unexpected gentleness in his gray eyes.

"Dammit," she muttered.

Quick amusement curved his firm mouth. "Is it so hard?
Just a name, two syllables.
And since Miss Nell isn't the only one who knows the meaning behind some names, 111 admit that mine means 'knight' or 'horseman.' "

"Figures," she said, half to herself.

His smile widened. "And yours means 'beloved.' I suppose I could call you that since you won't let me call you Amanda."

"Make it Amanda," she said somewhat hastily, choosing the lesser of two evils.