All Through The House (5 page)

Again that hot light flared in the storm-cloud gray of his
eyes. Before Abigail could move, his big hand settled on the back of her neck.
The touch was electrifying, almost painful. But the next instant, he'd released
her, balling his fingers into a fist. His knuckles grazed the curve of her neck
gently, sending a shiver through her. She was sure he could feel it as his hand
brushed with the delicacy of air against her dark curls.

Then she was fumbling for the door handle with clumsy
fingers, concentrating on the task of getting out of the high cab without
landing on her face.

"I'll see you Friday," she said, without quite looking
at Nate again.

"Friday," he repeated, his low, husky voice
holding a promise as intoxicating as his touch. The next instant, the pickup
had accelerated away from the curb, leaving Abigail to face the Petersons.

"You could see the roof of the house from here if it
weren't for the rain," Abigail told her passengers, making an effort to
sound cheery and positive.

The two men peered ahead through the semicircles in the
windshield that the steadily moving wipers kept clear. The gray, slanting rain
obscured even the old orchard, however, and Abigail slowed the car still more
to be sure not to miss the drive.

She was pleased to be showing the Irving House again so
soon; of course, she was. The ad had appeared in yesterday's newspaper for the
first time, and already this morning there had been a couple of calls. One
hadn't led to anything, but these two men were obviously serious. That would
have made her day but for two things.

One, of course, was the weather. She hated showing houses
when it was like this, unless the exterior of the building was better
unscrutinized, anyway. But so much of the attraction of the elegant Victorian
mansion they were on their way to see was its exterior, the nooks and balconies
and exquisite gingerbread. Despite the neglect of the landscaping, the yard
didn't hurt, either. The layout of the century-old formal gardens was still
clear, and with summer, so many flowers were in bloom. But today, nobody was
going to pause to take that in. The three of them would doubtless pull up their
collars and dash for the porch.

Her other problem was with the potential buyers. The two
dynamic young men in three-piece suits weren't interested in the house for
themselves. They represented a California company that had moved into Washington
and wanted to turn the Irving House into condominiums.

"We ought to be able to break it up into five, maybe
six," one of them had told her confidently. "Depending on the layout,
of course."

"But...it's out in the country," she'd faltered.

He waved that off. "Easy commuting distance to Everett.
And the house's historical interest, combined with the gardens and land, ought
to make it a natural. Rising young professionals who couldn't possibly afford
the house—and wouldn't want that much floor space, anyway—can buy a part of it.
They get the charm, the prestige, stabling for a horse or two, for a lot less
than if they were to buy the house itself. It's a natural."

Abigail smiled uncertainly, suppressing her instant and
unprofessional feeling of repugnance. "If you say so," she'd
murmured.

She could only recall a time or two that she had not wanted
to make a sale. Then it had been because she'd taken such a dislike to the
would-be buyer. Today it was to their purpose. Darn it, she liked the Irving
House. She wanted to see it restored to its once-upon-a-time splendor, filled
with a family who loved it. She hated the idea of five separate entrances,
walls thrown up and others torn down, the staircase in the possession of one
buyer, the library belonging to another. And the ballroom, gone forever. Where
would the ghosts dance?

She almost hoped Nate wouldn't be here today. He hadn't said
if he would be when she called to warn him of their imminent arrival. His voice
had sounded strange to her, although, like the last time, he'd been polite. She
couldn't put her finger on what it was; resignation, maybe? Oh, well, he
obviously was less than eager for her to sell the house out from under him, so
that wasn't exactly surprising. Instinct told him he would like the idea of
these particular buyers even less than the Petersons, however.

Abigail stopped her car as close to the front porch as she
could manage. The moment the wipers were off, the driving rain sheathed the car
in a gray envelope. She couldn't even see the carriage house, much less its
interior.

"Shall we go?" she said.

The two men, whose names were Phil Browder and Colin Santos,
nodded reluctantly. Their enthusiasm had dropped a few points on the drive
here. Abigail suspected the gray rural view was not their idea of beauty.
Getting those handsome suits wet was clearly even less appealing to them. They
weren't prepared with raincoats.

Once on the porch, shaking off the rain, all three stood and
looked in silence out at the yard. What had been a scene of high summer and
pastoral peace a few days ago was now dismal, the heavy-headed peonies beaten
into the grass and the leaves sodden with rain. Even the colors were washed
out.

Abigail couldn't think of anything to say, and neither man
commented. After a moment she turned to give the door a cursory knock. When no
response came, she let them into the house.

Abigail had a momentary feeling of deja vu as she stood in
the dim, silent entry hall. When she took a cautious sniff, however, all she
caught was the scent of floor polish and a faint mustiness, not surprising in
an old house with many of its rooms shut up.

As they trailed through the first floor, Phil and Colin, as
they'd insisted on being called, mostly murmured to each other and jotted down
notes on pads. Abigail felt superfluous, since she had already told them about
the remodeling Ed Phillips had done. When they started throwing up imaginary
walls and talking about where exercise rooms and hot tubs might go, she dropped
back, feeling a stab of anger and pity for the house.

As they mounted the main staircase to the second floor,
Abigail asked, "What do you think so far?"

Colin frowned. "We're facing bigger expenses than we'd
envisioned. The layout isn't ideal, you know." He looked at her as though
it were her fault.

"The house is beautiful, of course," Phil's
interjection was perfunctory. "But we'll need to go back to our offices
and do some figuring before we can tell how the numbers will add up."

Inexplicably, Abigail's spirits rose. Her step was lighter
as she led the way through the bedrooms with their attached sitting and
dressing rooms, eloquent of a grand age that servants had made possible. She
paused in the doorway of the one she liked best, letting the two men wander
ahead. The room was huge and airy, with French doors leading out onto one of
the balconies. The wallpaper was fading and torn, but Abigail loved it anyway,
with the tiny butterflies against a pale yellow background. That it happened to
be the only furnished room told her that Nate liked it, too. Her gaze avoided
the bed, which she had admired the day Ed showed her the house, before she'd
met Nate. It was a nineteenth-century spool bed, covered with a quilt in the
log cabin pattern, done in bits of blue and yellow. Somehow the effect was too
domesticated to fit her image of Nate.

Just for a second she tried to imagine him in that bed, and
succeeded with disquieting clarity. The quilt was rumpled now, and in her
imagination Nate's sleek, tanned chest and shoulders were bare above it as he
stretched, giving her a sleepy, appreciative smile brimming with devilish
intent.

Damn. She turned sharply away and marched down the hall
toward the sound of voices, which came from a room at the end.

When she glanced in, it was to receive a shock. Phil and
Colin weren't talking to each other, they were talking to Nate, who was leaning
against a tall drafter's table by the windows and listening with an
impenetrable expression. His gaze left them the moment she appeared, his eyes
narrowing as he took in her appearance. Just for an instant she regretted the
slacks and bulky raincoat. Then she reminded herself tartly that looking sexy
wasn't supposed to be her principal aim in life. And if Nate Taggart was
starting to make her think it was, she'd better watch herself.

"Mr. Taggart," she said neutrally.

Amusement glinted in his eyes and he inclined his head
slightly. "Ms. McLeod."

"I take it you've met Mr. Santos and Mr. Browder?"

"Yes." His voice hardened. "They tell me I'm standing
in one of their future condominiums' kitchens."

Abigail's lips parted, but no words emerged. What could she
say? I'm sorry? All she was doing was her job. As a broker she had agreed to
show the house, to sell it. Nate Taggart had no business trying to make her
feel guilty.

Phil Browder chuckled uneasily, sensing the atmosphere even
though Nate's emotions weren't overt. "You're getting ahead of us, Mr.
Taggart. Who knows, the whole project may not prove to be cost effective."

Nate didn't say anything. His back was to the bright
goose-neck lamp that shone down on his slanted table. Perhaps because of the
rain-washed, gray windows behind him, his eyes looked almost black today. The
hollows under his cheekbones were shadowed and the grooves beside his mouth
were cut deeper than usual. He looked tired, Abigail thought suddenly. She
wished he didn't. She wished he'd give her one of those lazy, mocking smiles
that sent shivers down her spine. She'd settle for him just saying something.

But he didn't. He only nodded without interest as Abigail's
two businessmen murmured pleasantries and made their escape.

She stood aside for them, but hesitated in the doorway once
they'd passed. "Nate, is something wrong?"

"Wrong?" He looked at her as though surprised that
she was still there, and not very interested. "I'm working, that's
all."

"But...." The protest died on Abigail's tongue.
She lifted her chin in a deliberate gesture of pride and said distantly,
"I'm sorry we disturbed you, Nate. Excuse me now." With that she
turned and walked away.

Nate's fingers curled into tight fists as he stared at the
empty doorway, listening to the sound of her footsteps fading down the hall.
Then he swore sharply under his breath, meaning every word. So much for his
little delusions. It had taken Abigail only four days to come up with another
potential buyer. He guessed this was his second chance, one that he was
flunking, although Abigail didn't know it yet. And they hadn't even had that
date. He hadn't been able to kiss her. He never would be able to kiss her, if
she even began to suspect....

"Hell!" he muttered again. He'd never expected to
feel guilty; the house meant so much to him. By rights of affection, it should
have been his. If only old Josiah Irving hadn't clung to antiquated notions
about the importance of family, despite his personal feelings about Ed
Phillips, his great-nephew. But Nate didn't hold that against Josiah; he didn't
mind having to buy the house. What he did mind was Ed breaking their agreement.

He drew a harsh breath and released it with a growl of
frustration. He couldn't stay down here and pretend to work. It might be a
stupid move on his part, but he had to see her reaction. Leaving the light
shining on the desk behind him, he headed with long strides for the stairs.

Abigail's face, white and set with shock, was the first
thing he saw when he emerged into the huge, echoing expanse of the ballroom.
She was staring up at the impressive ceiling, ribbed with carved, decorative
beams like a nave in a cathedral. Specifically, her eyes were focused on the
largest of a number of ugly, damp spots on the plaster. A rhythmic drip was
filling a small puddle of water at her feet.

Their mouths unattractively open, both of the men with her
were staring up as well. But for the tiny flash of motion, the ping as each
drop of water struck the wood floor, the tableau was a frozen, silent one.
Nate's jaw muscles flexed painfully as he looked at Abigail. Then he forced
himself into action.

"What in God's name...?"

Her face still stunned, Abigail turned to the sound of his
voice. He walked quickly toward her, exclaiming, "If I could get my hands
on those roofers! Didn't Phillips check their work? This is one hell of a mess!
Plaster can't stand up to water damage." He stopped beside Abigail and
stared up, too, although his senses remained attuned to her.

"Haven't you been up here since it started to
rain?" The question was cool, Abigail's voice tinged with the beginnings
of anger.

Nate took his time looking away from the ugly stains to meet
her eyes, which still reminded him of forest pools. Unfortunately, at the
moment they seemed to have a thin crackling of ice over their limpid depths.

He didn't like the question, and especially the way she'd
asked it. He had a feeling she wasn't buying his act. All of this lying was
starting to make him feel queasy. It didn't come naturally to him, and he
hadn't foreseen the necessity of it when he started this charade.

In an unconscious gesture, he hunched his shoulders a
little, evading Abigail's gaze while he did the same to her question. "I
don't have any reason to come up here for weeks at a time," he said, his
answer truthful as far as it went. "If you'll excuse me right now, I'd
better get some buckets and a mop. I want to save the floor, at least."

As he turned away, Nate could see the uncertainty in
Abigail's eyes. Feeling like the lowest scum on earth, he heard the awkward
beginning of her apologies to the two businessmen she'd brought to the house.

"This is a real shock to me. I think it will be to Mr.
Phillips, too. Before he even put the house up for sale, he had one of his
crews replace the roof. He said the existing one was in abominable shape."
She stopped abruptly. Even Nate couldn't resist a glance back at the discolored
ceiling.