Windswept (17 page)

As she was shutting down the computer, Davis turned off his office lights and walked in. He placed the journal on top of the others on the table. “Let me give you a hand with the box,” he said.

They each took an end, carried the container into the conference room, and maneuvered it into place. Davis clicked off the room’s lights while Barrett went back to turn off the office ones. They halted in the hall by the stairs and looked out at the wet patio where the surface of the pool had returned to its usual placid state. It gleamed in the minimal illumination from the security lighting.

“It’s stopped raining,” Davis said.

“Yes,” Barrett agreed and watched the droplets glisten on the tabletop for a moment. Then her eyes suddenly refocused and, instead of looking through the glass, she was staring at the reflection of the two of them. He was standing slightly behind her and the stairway sconces spilled enough light into the space to highlight the bones of his face, exaggerating its eagle-like resemblance.

She saw him raise a hand as though he was about to touch her. No, she couldn’t take another touch again. It would only aggravate her attraction for him. She pivoted and took a step toward the foot of the stairs. As a diversion--for her thoughts, if not his intentions--she asked, “What do you think of Edgar’s journal?”

She wasn’t sure, but she thought he sighed before answering, “It’s surprisingly interesting, especially the sections on enlarging the house. Edgar drew his own plans and the plantation produced the lumber. He mentioned his two master carpenter slaves, Horatio and Cletus. I can attest they knew how to build. Granddaddy said the house was always plumb, every right angle a true ninety degrees. Let me know if you find those drawings. I’d like to see them.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for them,” she promised as they reached the top of the stairs, where she would go toward the front of the house and he toward the back to reach their respective bedrooms. “Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Barrett . . .” he began.

She raised her eyes to his when he didn’t continue, but the shadows hid whatever he was thinking. He looked down at her for a long moment, lifted a hand and twirled one of her curls around his finger. When she felt the slight tug on her scalp, she couldn’t have moved if the house shook, but he seemed to relax.

“You know the Gonzaleses will be off as usual tomorrow, and we’re on our own for food.”

She managed to nod. He released her curl and smiled with a look she couldn’t interpret, but it drew a return smile from her.

“I have an idea I’ll run by you in the morning. Good night.” He turned toward his room.

“Good night,” she replied and headed for hers, feeling absurdly as if an event had just happened she didn’t quite understand. Damn, Davis Jamison was so hard to read.

Davis watched her turn the corner onto the balcony above the dining room before he walked into his own bedroom and shut the door behind him. He shed his clothes, tossed them in the hamper, and brushed his teeth. He didn’t allow himself to think about the evening until he was lying in bed.

Patience, be damned. It had been all he could do not to return her little hug with a full-contact, body-to-body one. The way she had dropped her arm and sounded so breathless had demonstrated clearly she felt the attraction between them.

He’d almost touched her while they were looking at the rain. He was actually raising his hand to put it on her shoulder and turn her around when she had walked straight out from under it. Something was causing her to . . . retreat? No, more like
deny
any inclination toward him.

He hadn’t been able to stop himself from--finally--discovering if one of her curls was as soft as it looked. Well, he’d been proven wrong there. It was softer; the silky strand had simply flowed over and entwined itself around his finger. Touching it had brought him in scent range, and he marveled how “stimulating” was her mix of light spicy perfume, musty papers, and pure woman. Hell, he’d been instantly hard--and grateful for the low lighting.

What was he going to do? He liked the idea he’d had--to get her out of the house for a while. When she was here, she was so totally concentrated on those damned papers she could see nothing else. But he couldn’t ask her out for a “date.” She’d never agree to it.

There was, however, one ploy she might go along with--if he negotiated carefully. He chuckled to himself and reached over to set the alarm so he would be up before she was. Now if the weather would only cooperate.

Chapter Twelve

After a companionable breakfast with Barrett the next morning, Davis put down the financial section of the paper and looked out the window at a sunlit summer day. It was time to open his negotiation. “I have a suggestion I’d like you to consider,” he said.

Eyebrows raised, puzzlement in her blue eyes, she looked up from the editorials.

He leaned back in his chair. “We both have been working pretty hard for several weeks--your finishing the school year, my traveling, and since you’ve come here and I’ve come home, we’ve been going at it nights, weekends, hell, in my case, even on the golf course.”

She nodded, but didn’t say anything.

“I, for one, need a break from business, and I’ll bet you could use one, too. It’s a fine day. Let’s play hooky from work and go to Galveston.”

She frowned, and he could practically see her mind coming up with a list of objections.

“If not for yourself, do it for me,” he said, playing what he hoped was his high card. “I have a rough week coming and need to clear my head to come up with some innovative solutions to a couple of tricky situations. I need to ‘not think’ for a while. The papers aren’t going anywhere. What do you say?” He gave her an encouraging smile.

She watched his smile--both beneath his mustache and in his eyes. The roguish Jamison glint flashed in the hazel depths. Was he serious? Did he have an ulterior motive? Of course not, she scoffed mentally at the notion. Her attraction to him was giving her unfounded ideas.

But what about her research schedule? “I should really take a good look at the Herbarium and Mary Maude’s letters,” she replied. “But . . .”

“But . . . ?” he asked with raised eyebrows.

She turned her head to gaze out the window at the flowers and bright sunny skies. The day appeared so inviting, especially after the gloom of yesterday. She sighed and when she looked back at Davis, he was smiling wider, like he knew he’d won.

“All right,” she acquiesced and he grinned, the mischievous spark more evident. As she thought about the trip, she surrendered entirely. “It will do me some good too. I haven’t been to the island in years. We can poke around the Strand, see some of the old houses, and . . . ”

“And eat at Gaido’s,” he finished for her. “Let’s change to shorts and look like real tourists.”

***

His idea had been right on the money, Davis thought as they waited that evening outside the famous seafood restaurant for their table. Barrett had proved to be a lively companion, interested in visiting a variety of attractions. She’d protested, saying she had no interest in war or its instruments, but she’d agreed to tour the World War II submarine and destroyer escort in Seawolf Park.

Of course, she’d bargained with him, trading the cramped quarters of the sub for the more gracious rooms of Ashton Villa, one of the few antebellum buildings still standing in the island city. Her knowledge of the way people lived in the nineteenth century and the questions she asked the docents enlivened the tour for all the participants.

“Would you have liked to live back then?” he’d asked her as they left the building.

“No, I much prefer modern conveniences,” she’d answered with a grin, “but some of the architecture in Victorian houses is wonderful. The homes can be so warm and welcoming. Have you ever thought about living in a renovated one today?”

“Too much bric-a-brac and gingerbread,” he’d answered, “too hard to keep up.”

She’d said nothing, only looked back at the villa and sighed.

On the Strand, the restored historic mercantile center, they had wandered in and out of the art galleries. One shop displayed several Texas beach scenes, and Barrett had spent a number of minutes staring at a picture of dunes, wispy grasses, and the sea beyond.

“Like it?” he’d asked.

“Yes, it calls to me somehow.”

He had looked at it more closely. “Yes, I see what you mean. It’s quite good.”

“You like it?” she’d asked. “I thought you were more of an abstract-art person--from what’s in your house, I mean.”

He’d shrugged. “I guess I am, but I have no problem with representational art.”

As he remembered the conversation, he frowned. Did he have any representational artwork, where objects, or people, or places could be recognized for what they were? He’d grown up with family portraits and landscapes that had seemed dull and stodgy to him even as a boy. When he’d found his present house, he’d appreciated its clean lines and ease of upkeep. Then there was Sandra’s influence. He shook his head. He certainly didn’t want to think of her at this moment.

But he had liked the coastal painting Barrett had been studying—enough to make a mental note of the gallery and the artist.

“Jamison, party of two!” came over the loudspeakers. He put the thoughts out of his mind as he took Barrett’s hand to help her up and they went to their table.

They didn’t do much talking on the way back to Houston after dinner. Full with good food and the memories of a wonderful excursion, Barrett relaxed and her mind drifted, replaying the day.

Davis had been the perfect gentleman--always opening doors for her, asking what she wanted to see, willing to go different places--after some negotiation, of course. And, she had to admit, the submarine had been interesting. She couldn’t imagine being one of its crew cramped together in the depths of the ocean; she was strictly an on-top-of-the-water person.

He had definitely shown his lighter side today. They had conversed about so many subjects, from war to the shrimp industry, Victorian living to sculpture, seashells to T-shirts. Not only had he talked, he’d listened. So many men, certainly most of her male colleagues, did not listen to what a woman had to say. They lectured, they interrupted, they pontificated. They told you what to do or how to solve your problems as though you didn’t have a brain in your head.

Davis, on the other hand, had let her finish her sentences, made comments contributing to the subject matter, and asked questions showing his attention to her own statements. They had, in a word, conversed.

He hadn’t touched her except once or twice, like when he helped her over the granite groins stretching out into the Gulf to retain the beach sand. And he’d held her hand while they walked on the seawall. And he’d been behind her with his hands braced on the railing on the ferry over to Bolivar Peninsula and back. And he’d put his hands on her shoulders when they stood, surrounded by other tourists, in Ashton Villa. And he’d put his arm around her shoulders as they walked back to the car from the restaurant.

My goodness, more times than she’d thought. A small tingle ran down her back as she remembered how good, how right her hand in his had felt. How safe and protected she’d been on the ferry. Had she leaned against him without realizing it? She had an impression of a hard, warm body against her back.

But she had to be serious. He didn’t mean anything by the hand-holding or any of the other touches, she assured herself. He just had good manners.

He simply needed to get away from work, and she was a handy companion. Anything else was all in her imagination.

It wasn’t like they were on a
date
.

She glanced at him sideways. He drove with easy confidence, his long-fingered hands resting lightly on the wheel. The dashboard lights emphasized the harsh planes of his face, the dark slashes of his eyebrows and mustache, the slightly hooked nose. He could easily be a pirate at the helm of his frigate sailing through tropical waters or a starship captain guiding his craft through space, intent on his course.

She was close enough to smell him, too. Despite the cool air circulating through the car, or perhaps because of it, the scents of sun and beach and man swirled through her nostrils every time she inhaled.

She knew her imagination was getting the better of her, but her thoughts resulted in a sudden intense awareness of his presence, his very male presence in the car. For a large Lexus, the car seemed to have shrunk and his body was very close to hers.

“Wouldn’t you like to run your fingers through his hair and down those broad shoulders?” asked a little voice deep inside her. “Don’t you wonder if his mustache tickles?” She told the voice to shut up, but her hands twitched anyway. She clasped them together in her lap before she did something stupid. She tried to concentrate on the soft jazz playing on the radio.

Davis saw the glance, the twitch, and the fidget. His tactics were working. She was becoming more aware of and curious about him, not as the owner of the papers or as her host, but as himself. It had been all he could do to keep his touch somewhat impersonal during the day. She hadn’t shied away, had even leaned back against him on the ferry. He wanted her accustomed to his touch--and much more. He felt his body respond to the thought and wondered how much longer he would have to--or could--wait.

“You know I’m throwing a party at the house on Saturday in two weeks, sort of a thank-you to clients and an introduction to prospects?” he asked.

“The G’s mentioned it,” she acknowledged.

“I hope you are planning to come.”

“Thank you. I’d like to. What’s the dress? You know, what will the women be wearing?”

He shrugged. “I don’t have the slightest idea.”

“I’ll call Peggy. She’ll know.”

“I’m sure she will.”

“She was a big help arranging my stay here. We hit it off right away. She’s an interesting woman. Did you know she studied to become a concert pianist?” When he shook his head, she continued, “Yep. She had plans when she was in college, but she met Bill Murphy and fell in love. She gave up on her dream and switched careers to put him through school in engineering. I don’t think she regrets it. I can hear the love in her voice when she talks about him.”