Windswept (18 page)

How does she do it, he wondered. How in the space of a couple of phone calls did she and his assistant become so attached, sharing such personal details? Peggy had worked for him for seven years and he had no knowledge of her former ambitions. The comment made him wonder about something else. Barrett was certainly ambitious; she’d made it clear, but . . . “What would you do, if you had to face her kind of choice?” he asked.

“Career or the man?” She was silent for a few seconds. “Peggy was a young woman in the middle of college and didn’t have an established career. She told me she didn’t know if she had really the drive or the talent to follow the music route. ‘Probably not’ is my guess. My friends truly talented in the arts are driven by their talent. It won’t let them settle for anything else.”

“I know what you mean,” he said.

“My situation is very different from Peggy’s,” she continued. “I have a fairly well established career, and my livelihood is tied to academia. I can’t see myself giving up my career under any circumstances. I don’t need to. I can teach and research history anywhere--and publications, tenure and an associate professor title will make me more marketable if I decide to leave my present university.”

Along with the determined tone that usually crept into her voice when she mentioned tenure, there was a note he couldn’t identify, and he shot a glance at her, but she was looking out the passenger window.

Before he could pursue the idea, she turned back and asked in a bright voice, “What are your travel plans these days? Going anyplace exotic soon?”

Although he wasn’t certain why, Davis would have liked to press her a little more on the first subject, but he went along with her question. “No, I’m sticking close to home for a while. Will it bother you if I work out of the house on occasion?”

“No, of course not.”

“Good.” A picture formed in his head of her working in the office, earbuds on, typing like a fiend, oblivious to all going on around her. “You know, you concentrate more fiercely than anyone I’ve ever seen. Sometimes I think a bomb could go off and you’d never hear it. How do you do it?”

“Comes from growing up in a noisy house with three brothers. It was either block out everything or never get any studying done.”

There was a light in the Gonzales’ apartment as they drove into the garage, and Davis remarked on it.

“Yes, they’re probably deep into
Masterpiece Theatre
or
Mystery
,” Barrett said. “You’d never know it to look at Eva, but she loves all those British shows. She has all the DVDs for
Upstairs, Downstairs
.”

“You’re kidding!” Once again, she knew his staff better than he did.

“Nope.” Barrett shook her head as she looked at the incredulity on his face. Didn’t the man ever talk to the people who worked for him?

She took a deep breath as she opened the door and climbed out. The warm and humid night air felt almost good after the air conditioning in the car--or was her reaction simply relief at being out of its close quarters? She should be nonchalant, not give away her attraction to him. She had to play it cool, so she grinned at him. “Don’t forget my seashell T-shirt.”

“I haven’t,” he replied as he opened the trunk and removed the bag. “Now I know how you accumulated such a collection. I think we went into every T-shirt tourist trap on the island.”

“No, we missed at least two,” she teased.

She went to take the bag out of his hand, but he just said, “I’ve got it,” and led the way into the house.

He was behind her in the hall, however, and up the stairs. At the landing where he should have gone in the other direction, to her surprise he gestured toward her room and followed her down the balcony. After she opened her door, hit the switch for her bedside lamp, and turned back to him, he relinquished the bag and took her free hand.

“Thank you for going with me today, Barrett,” he murmured, raising her hand to his lips. He kissed her knuckles lightly.

His mustache tickled, and goose bumps skittered up her arm. The touch of his lips on her skin caused her to gasp as her body came to attention. Trying to ignore her reaction, Barrett stared up into his eyes, which were almost black in the soft light. She couldn’t seem to move, could only wait to see what he was going to do, but she managed to say softly, “You’re welcome, Davis. I enjoyed it, too.”

Davis bent and lightly brushed her lips with his—once, then returned to linger for a few seconds longer. The mustache tickled again, but his lips were soft, and the kiss was over before she knew it. He smiled down at her. “Good night, Barrett,” he said, turned and left.

Transfixed, hardly breathing, Barrett stood in her doorway until she saw the stair lights go out. She inhaled a huge breath as she went inside, closed her door and leaned back against it.

Holy . . .!
What had just happened?

Davis Jamison, that hard, enigmatic, gorgeous man, the man she was having so much trouble reading, had just kissed her. The man to whom she was thoroughly attracted, but who, she had decided, did
not
reciprocate her feelings, had just
kissed
her.
Twice
.

Brief as they were, those were no thank-you kisses. She’d been kissed before. She knew what one of those felt like, and it wasn’t like
this
. A thank-you kiss didn’t take your breath and leave your body tingling. A polite, courtesy peck on the lips did not shut down your mind and make you want him to do it again.

Trying to force her thoughts into order, she pushed off the door and dumped the T-shirt she had bought out of the bag. She tossed the bag in the trash can, folded the shirt and put it in a drawer. Her mind still swirled in confusion.

“All right,” she said aloud as she sat on the bed and took off her sandals, “what’s going on here and what can we conclude from the facts?” She almost laughed as the question reminded her of one of those “trace the development of” questions she asked on history tests.

First. Davis was attracted to her. Those touches and those kisses were absolute proof. He clearly wasn’t a touchy-feely sort of man who treated all women the same, who bestowed kisses here and there and who didn’t mean anything by it. Oh, he probably wasn’t attracted as much as she was to him, but there was something going on in the head behind his mustache.

Second. He wasn’t rushing her, pushing her, coming on to her—not blatantly. He had to be too sophisticated to simply jump her bones. She couldn’t imagine him being heavy-handed in any endeavor. No, Davis was the type you wouldn’t see coming—as he had just proved.

Third. What did he want? That kiss said more than friendship. A simple summer affair? With a conveniently located woman? It was too soon to tell. She had to be careful not to jump to any conclusions as she knew she was inclined to do.

Fourth. What did
she
want? What if she fell for him? Given her present attraction, wouldn’t she fall far, fast, and hard? Ah, now those were good questions. She wanted . . . not to be hurt. Not to have to put herself back together. Not to be the object of pity or scorn. Not . . .

She flopped back on the bed and drew her knees to her chest. She was thinking in the negative. What did she want in the positive? She couldn’t just answer “Davis” to her question. She didn’t know yet how far she wanted to go with him. She did want his friendship, she enjoyed his company, but after that?

Priorities, she had to set priorities. Above all else, she had to catalog the collection and gather her own research. Accomplishing those goals was still first and foremost and was going to take all her time and energy. She didn’t have time for an affair, no matter how convenient.

Professional. She had to be professional. What if—oh, God, she hated this idea—they had an affair and it went sour? Where would it leave her, not with Davis, not even with her own feelings or self esteem, but with the ability and access to inventory the papers? What would it do to her professional reputation if he kicked her out of the collection, especially if it got around she’d been sleeping with the owner? Besides “bye-bye tenure,” she’d have a horrible time finding a job in the future.

Conclusion. She had to call a halt to . . . what? Something that hadn’t really started? She’d have to talk to him, discourage any . . . advances. Explain her situation. She couldn’t get involved. He was a reasonable man and they had a contract. He had to understand.

The question was, when would she do this? It was not a conversation she particularly wanted to initiate. She’d just have to pick her time carefully.

She sat up, feeling somewhat more in control. Her course was clear—or clear enough.

But when she was lying in bed relaxing into sleep, she couldn’t help replaying those two small kisses and the look in his eyes. And the tickle of his mustache on her upper lip.

***

Davis flicked off the stairway lights and closed his door behind him. He chuckled to himself as he remembered the stunned look in Barrett’s eyes after he had kissed her. She had not seen it coming. For a very intelligent woman, she had missed his cues.

Her friendly but impersonal demeanor was probably the way she handled men in general. She didn’t let them get too close. She ignored any subtle overtures. As for more obvious ones? He chuckled to himself. He could see her turning her “teacher” look on and hear the “teacher” edge to her voice. No man would stand a chance against her weapons.

Except for him.

He’d made progress today, he was certain. By the time they entered the restaurant, she’d become accustomed to his casual touches and seemed to be taking them for granted, even welcoming his hand in hers.

He hadn’t been sure if he’d kiss her tonight, but her blue eyes had darkened when he’d kissed her hand, and she looked so appealing . . . and her lips had parted with her gasp, and he had to have a taste, even if it was just a tiny one.

He had her attention now, and although he still planned to take it slow, build their relationship with care, he was looking forward to the days to come.

Just as he fell asleep, he wondered what she thought of his mustache.

Chapter Thirteen

About four-thirty Monday afternoon, Davis completed a phone call and looked at the work still to be done. He’d take it home. If he left now, he might be able to join Barrett in the pool. She’d tried to be “business as usual” at breakfast that morning. She had not brought up their excursion or displayed any of the usual indications of “interest” he was used to seeing from women. Instead, she’d snuck surreptitious glances at him from behind the newspaper. Wary and, at the same time, determined glances.

He had no doubt he’d win through her wariness. But what was she determined about? He grinned to himself. Finding out could be fun.

He reached for his briefcase just as Peggy appeared at the open door.

“Excuse me,” she said with an unhappy note in her voice. “Lloyd Walker is here again.”

“Let him in,” Davis said with a grimace. He stood and walked around to the front of his desk. He wasn’t going to let his cousin get comfortable this time.

“Davis.” Lloyd tried his threatening glare again as he came in. He stopped when he was about five feet from Davis and crossed his arms.

Davis leaned back against his desk and crossed his own arms. “What is it now, Lloyd?”

“You have to let me go through the plantation papers,” Lloyd stated, his pale blue eyes glittering as he drew himself up and thrust out his chin.

Davis recognized Lloyd’s mood. Whenever he was ready to fight, Lloyd always got a look of pompous righteousness on his face and a fanatical gleam in his eyes. Davis decided to be deliberately impassive; he knew it infuriated Lloyd and besides, old habits formed in childhood died hard. “I’ve given you my answer on the matter.”

Lloyd put one hand on his hip and used the other to point at Davis. “Listen here. My mother is driving me crazy. She’s absolutely certain Grandmama and Grandmama’s mother both warned her there was bad news, disastrous information in them. Now my mother has talked to Aunt Phyllis.” He said the last sentence as if he were announcing the end of the world.

Davis stifled a groan. Just what he needed--more family pressure. Cousin Taylor’s mother was a notorious gossip who prided herself on her ability to root out secrets.

A note of triumph entered Lloyd’s voice as he continued. “Aunt Phyllis corroborates Mother. She says her mother warned her about bad blood in the Jamison family when she married Uncle William, but she married him anyway.”

“Wait just a minute,” Davis interrupted. “Aunt Phyllis’s family has no grounds for slinging mud, not with their rum-running exploits during prohibition.”

“I know,” Lloyd spat, “but the evidence is mounting.”

“No, it’s not. Has any one of these sources offered any details?
Who
exactly did
what
?
When
?
Where
? How in hell do you expect to find whatever it is when you don’t know where to look? Do you have any idea how many boxes are sitting in my house? Do you have any inkling how long it takes to go through even one box? Dr. Browning has been working hard and she’s only up to the eighteen-forties.”

Lloyd looked disgruntled for a moment, but he rallied. “I have some questionable reports about her too. I still think she’s unqualified.”

“Questionable reports? From whom?”

“I have my sources,” Lloyd said as if he were a member of the CIA. “The word around her department is she won’t get tenure. How will it look if we rely on her judgment and she’s a second-rate historian? How can we trust it?”

Lloyd must have been talking to that asshole Glover, Davis surmised, but he said only, “And you can do better? You with no training in history?”

“I’ve had training. I was pre-law in college. We had to take a lot of history. I’ll get to the bottom of these tales and Mother’s fears. Whatever it was had to happen before the year Granddaddy was born. That narrows it down.”

“Yeah, to only about ninety years.” Davis shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I am not letting you have access to the papers.” He watched Lloyd turn redder in the face at his declaration.