All Through The House (3 page)

In the meantime, he'd better get to work airing the place
out, if he wanted to be able to eat breakfast here in the morning. Forget
dinner. Once he had all the windows open, he'd grab a hamburger out, maybe go
watch the baseball game at John's house.

And tomorrow.... He shoved his hands in his pockets and
smiled. Tomorrow he just might drop into the real-estate offices of McLeod and
James and see if Ms. McLeod was any friendlier than she'd been today. Maybe
she'd like to have lunch with him, once she found out he really was a
respectable guy. If it turned out she was married, well, with a little effort
he could forget those magnificent eyes and long, slender legs.

He took one more reminiscent look down the drive, on which
the dust had long since settled, then sighed and pushed himself away from the
wall with his shoulder. Too bad he didn't have a gas mask. Next time—if there
was one—he'd go a little easier on the stuff. Or maybe try something different.
Yeah, there ought to be an easier way. He grimaced and plunged back into the
noisome depths of the house.

Abigail slipped off her shoes, wriggling and stretching her
toes, then leaned back in her creaking oak office chair and stared into space.
The wall directly in front of her was handsomely decorated by pen and ink drawings
of famous American houses, including a couple that might more accurately be
called castles. Maybe it was those pictures that had set her off, as the Irving
House, similarly rendered, would fit in very well on that wall.

Abigail was alone in the office; her partner, Meg James, and
their receptionist/secretary, Lisa, had taken an early lunch together. Abigail
was using the time to plan—and to stew just a little. The Petersons had been
perfect, darn it. The house had bowled them over, she knew it had. If only the
renter had called her, and she'd been able to put off the visit…. But that was
water under the bridge. Why there'd been a plumbing problem at all was what
she'd like to know. She wasn't going to call Ed Phillips about it, though. Whining
wasn't very professional. If, as the owner, he needed to know about the
problem, that was up to his renter.

Her mind hurried right over that thought. She didn't want to
contemplate the renter. It made her uncomfortable, reacting that strongly to a
man. Especially to one who was so wildly inappropriate. Abigail didn't know
Nate Taggart, but she'd seen that smug grin and the sensual charm he used so
easily. He was a dangerous man to a woman determined not to surrender too much
of herself.

Suddenly Abigail laughed. The man probably gave every
moderately eligible woman the same kind of once-over. It didn't mean a thing.
He wasn't going to show up on her doorstep begging for the chance to just once
kiss her dewy lips.

"So drop it," she ordered herself.
"Concentrate on selling the Irving House."

She pulled out the sheet that had gone to the multiple
listing service and studied it for the hundredth time. Seven thousand plus
square feet. Heating bills she hoped nobody would ever ask about. Six bedrooms,
not to mention the servants' quarters, and a ballroom. Who on earth needed, or
wanted, or even would consider, a house that had a ballroom? Especially when
there was no denying that said house required a little updating. She'd idly
peeled a strip of wallpaper off in the dining room yesterday, noting how the
roses were fading into the yellowing background. If the place were hers, she'd
have all the woodwork stripped, too, and refinished or painted; the rooms were
too dark.

So. What should she put in the newspaper advertisement she
ought to be writing? How about honesty? Wanted: one family with five children,
four horses (to fill the stables), a million dollars, and a passion for
resurrecting old houses.

Maybe she could suggest that the ballroom would be perfect
for a rec room. A rock band could practice there while the parents were holding
a party on the first floor, and neither would know the other was there.

She sighed. Better yet, maybe she should forget the Irving
House for a while, and concentrate on the Petersons. They'd looked interested
in one of the houses she had shown them yesterday; chances were they'd be back.
What she should be doing, instead of sitting here sulking, was making a push to
be sure they were.

Galvanized by her own pep talk, Abigail sat up in her chair
and grabbed the phone.

Mrs. Peterson answered, sounding cautious.

"Mrs. Peterson, this is Abigail McLeod. I just wanted
to apologize again for that disaster at the Irving House yesterday. I never
would have taken you there if I'd had any idea! I don't want you to
think...."

Mrs. Peterson assured her that she didn't. What Mr. Peterson
thought was left unspoken.

"I wondered if you and Mr. Peterson had talked any more
about the Allen house. Are you interested in taking another look at it?"

"Well, we're not sure it's quite big enough. Although I
keep telling Bob that the girls will be gone in just a few years, and we don't
want to be in a house we're swimming in! I'd hate to move again so soon. Marie
is sixteen, you know, and Jennifer almost fifteen. But privacy is so important
to them now, and Bob hates the music they like to listen to. So a family room separate
from the rest of the house is important to us. And that house yesterday, it was
beautiful, but so open. I think we'd like a little more traditional
layout."

Abigail jumped in. "I have a new listing here that
might be just the thing. It's nearly four thousand square feet, wonderful for
entertaining, but...."

Ten minutes later, she hung up with a promise from Mrs.
Peterson that they would take a look at the house in question. Abigail
genuinely thought they might like it. She wished the listing belonged to McLeod
and James, instead of to Real Estate World, the big multi-office agency that
she and Meg often competed with. Still, if they were to do nothing but sell
their own listings, they'd go broke in no time. The two of them had yet to
convince the community that the new act in town would put forth more effort to
sell for them.

That's why the Irving House was so important. If Abigail
could impress Ed Phillips, he might list whole developments with them. Their
financial success would be assured, and she would know, once and for all, that
she could stand on her own two feet.

Engrossed in her familiar worries, it took Abigail a second
to respond to the sound of the front door opening.

"Anyone here?"

She gave a tiny squeak of surprise on hearing that very
distinctive voice and started to leap to her feet. Remembering that she'd taken
her shoes off, she sat back down, calling, "In here."

Nate Taggart promptly appeared in her doorway, dressed a little
more respectably than the day before, if still not fashionably, in brown cords
and a loose-fitting, slightly saggy brown tweed sport coat that still managed
to emphasize the breadth of his shoulders. He lounged there in the opening,
deep-set dark-gray eyes appraising her with that discomforting hint of
amusement in them. "Busy?" he asked.

"No. No, not really." Abigail made herself smile
with reasonable cordiality as her feet groped for those wretched shoes. She'd
managed to kick one of them under the desk altogether. "Damn," she
said, giving up. "Just a minute, I lost a shoe." With that, she bent
over head first, and disappeared behind the desk.

Nate grinned, ambling a little farther into the room and
craning his neck in an ungentlemanly fashion. But, hell, the sight of her
nicely rounded derriere was one calculated to warm any man's heart. What a
greeting.

He planted his fists on her desk and waited until her
flushed face reappeared. "Can I help?" he asked, the quirk of his
mouth giving him away.

There was a flash in those lovely eyes, and he could tell
that Abigail was contemplating freezing up. But then, to his surprise and
delight, she chuckled instead, a warm, delicious sound.

"Mission accomplished, thank you. That'll teach me.
Now...." Her smile cooled as she succeeded in restoring her businesslike
veneer, although her cheeks were still washed with pink. "What can I do
for you?"

Nate knew better than to tell her, although he was
speechless for a moment as the possibilities flashed in his mind. Damn. His
imagination didn't usually get away from him like that. The problem was, he
couldn't remember the last time he'd wanted a woman the way he suddenly wanted
this one. Maybe never.

"I'd like you to have lunch with me," he said, taking
a strategic step back from her desk. Nate had a suspicion that giving her a
chance to make a snap response wouldn't be a good idea. So, before she could
open her mouth, he turned casually to look at the pictures on the wall.
"Hey, there's Gore Place," he observed. "Do you know some people
think Charles Bulfinch is responsible for it? Fascinating design. Suggests
classical detail without actually using it. Beautiful." Out of the corner
of his eyes he saw her mixed astonishment and indecision. He turned back to her
with raised brows. "Did Ed mention that I'm an architect? No? Well, we're
in the same boat, trying to get new businesses off the ground. I have a partner
who's a contractor, we work together and separately. Put a bid in on that new
elementary school, as a matter of fact. Anyway, that's why I dropped by. I thought
maybe we could talk over lunch. I could use some business sent my way if people
ask for a recommendation, and I might be able to steer a few clients to you. I
get ones looking for a design before they've actually picked out the lot. So
what do you say?"

He'd calculated her response to a nicety. Abigail's first,
compelling reaction had been to turn him down. But he hadn't given her a
chance, rambling on that way. Besides, he'd turned off the sexy smile and bedroom
look, leaving her, just like yesterday, wondering if she'd imagined it. Was he
that smooth, or was it all in her mind? Maybe his features were just put
together in the perfect way to stir her hormones. He'd probably be astonished
to know that for a second there she hadn't been sure she'd even be able to
stand up, the way her legs had weakened.

"Um..." She hesitated still, before giving in to
temptation. No, that wasn't it, she told herself with masterly self-denial. She
was just being businesslike, because he was right; an architect was a good
contact for her to make. "I'd like that," she agreed at last,
"if you can wait for a few minutes. I can't leave the office empty, but my
partner ought to be back anytime."

"No problem," he said easily. He shoved his hands
in the pockets of his sport coat, pulling the fabric taut over his back and
shoulders as he again turned to studying the drawings on the wall, mumbling to
himself. "The Otis House. Too blocky. Better looking here than it is in
real life." He raised his voice a little. "You should have a picture
done of the Irving House to add to these."

Abigail looked at him in surprise. "That's funny. I was
just thinking that this morning."

He gave her a crooked smile over his shoulder. "What
else were you thinking? That you'd like to have me strung up by my
thumbs?"

There was a telling pause before Abigail said stiffly,
without noticeable conviction, "Not at all. Yesterday wasn't your fault.
Although I wish you'd caught me at the office before I brought the Petersons
out."

Nate opened his mouth to lie, then closed it. He was
stretching his integrity far enough these days without that. He contented
himself with, "Sorry. What're your plans now? Do you expect to have
trouble selling the place?"

"Yes," she said baldly. "The house has a
ballroom, for crying out loud. Do you know how few people want a ballroom
anymore?"

"None?" he ventured.

"None," she agreed with a sigh.

"I like it," Nate said. "It's wonderful up
there at night, with the chandeliers lit. Echoing, with ghosts gliding through
a waltz. You'd like it, too."

Abigail looked away from him. Suddenly she'd pictured
herself in his arms, twirling around that huge shining floor with the glitter
of crystal chandeliers turning the night to magic. Just the two of them, and
the ghosts. The music would stop, and he would arch her back over his arm, then
kiss her, his lips soft but demanding, his hand....

Good Lord. Her cheeks heated instantly and she cleared her
throat, although her voice still croaked as she said, "Yes. I'm sure I
would."

As though he could read her mind, his mouth quirked into
that devilish smile, deepening the creases in his cheeks, and his gray eyes
narrowed and seemed to darken as they lingered on her face. A band of sunlight
from the window spotlighted him, gilding the dark blond of his hair and
accentuating the sharp angles of his face. Abigail's breath caught in her
throat as she stared up at him. Just like that, the air between them was
charged, dangerous, with a current so strong it prickled the tiny hairs on her
forearms. Abigail licked her suddenly dry lips.

Nate's gaze, in which the amusement had at some point been
supplanted by unmistakable hunger, lowered to her mouth. Abigail's lips
involuntarily parted in response, as warmth unfurled inside. What sanity she
had was screaming that this was crazy. But another side of her didn't care,
wanted nothing so much as to have him kiss her. She didn't think she could bear
it if he didn't.

The sensual intensity of his gaze never wavered from her as
he took one long stride, then another one. The desk was the only barrier
between them. But Abigail never knew what she might have done, or, for that
matter, whether he really would have kissed her. The sound of the front door
opening, of feminine laughter, came distantly to her at first, then with the force
of a splash of cold water on her cheeks.

"Abby? You here?"