All Through The House (7 page)

Nate didn't exactly dispel her nerves when he murmured, out
of the darkness, "Alone at last."

Abigail's tongue flicked over her lips again.
"Yes," she managed. "I noticed."

"Are you afraid of me?" he asked, the question sudden
and unexpected.

"Of course not! I wouldn't have gone out with you if I
were. I'm just...."

As she groped for words to explain herself without revealing
too much, he suggested, "Afraid of what I make you feel?"

Abigail was stung by his accurate reading of her. "What
makes you so sure what I feel?" she retorted with spirit.

The huskiness in his voice revealed the awakening of
amusement. "How about the way you look at me?"

"Maybe I look at all sexy men that way."

"And maybe you don't. Then again, maybe the fact that
you think I'm a sexy man says something. How about that?"

Abigail was momentarily silenced before she decided she was
being childish, anyway. In her more usual, straightforward way, she said,
"Nate, I had a lousy marriage. I've been single for three years, but I
don't date often. Don't you think it's natural that I'd be a little
nervous?"

He was silent for a moment. "Yes," he said.
"Does that mean you'd rather I don't kiss you?"

Abigail swallowed hard, trying to think of an appropriate
response. It struck her as one of those trick questions, where you were damned
if you did, damned if you didn't.

But Nate waited only a moment, choosing to take her silence
for assent. "Good," he said very softly, the arm he'd had draped
across the back of the seat dropping on to her shoulders, gathering her in.
"I agree. We need to get this first kiss out of the way, don't we? So we
can move on to kiss number two, and three, and...." The low, gravelly
texture of his voice mesmerized her even as his free hand encircled her neck,
slid up it to gently squeeze her chin as he lifted her face to his. The cab of
the pickup was still dark, but Abigail was so close to him now that the faint
illumination from her porch was enough for her to see the hot light in his
narrowed eyes, the shadow below his cheekbones, the lock of hair that had
fallen forward onto his forehead.

By the time his mouth lowered to hers, Abigail had forgotten
to worry about whether she still knew how to kiss. Her heartbeat was thundering
in her ears and she felt utterly unlike herself, weak and shivery and pliable.
And, when his lips met hers with heartstopping tenderness, the last walls
crumbled. She'd expected bruising, soaring, passionate force from him. It was
there within him, she was certain of that, but for her sake he had banked those
fires. Instead, he brushed her lips with his, teased them, took soft nips. Her
mouth parted in response and his hardened, showing a stirring of the more
dangerous hunger inside him. The hand that had held her chin cupped the back of
her head now, his fingers tangled through her undisciplined dark curls. His
other hand caressed her silk-clad shoulder, kneading and smoothing. It had
taken so little, just this first kiss, and already Abigail was mindless, weak with
the stirrings of almost forgotten passion.

Then, just like that, it was over. Nate had set her away
from him and straightened in the seat. He didn't pause or look at her again
before opening the pickup door and climbing out. Abigail was held immobile by
her own reaction for a moment, but by the time Nate had come around to her side
and opened her door, she was ready.

They walked silently up the path, Abigail ahead, holding her
head very high. She found her key and inserted it in the lock, trying to block
out her acute awareness of Nate standing just behind her. At last, her hand on
the knob, she turned to face him with a determined smile.

"I enjoyed myself tonight, Nate."

"I did, too." There was a wry twist to his mouth,
and in his eyes was both desire and a spark of humor. "Especially the
end."

Abigail stared at him wordlessly.

He reached out and stroked her lips with the tips of his
fingers, a feather-light caress that was in its own way as intimate and sensual
as the kiss had been. He smiled. "I'll call you, Abigail."

A moment later, she stood in the dark living room, watching
the red taillights of his truck recede down the road.

"What the hell?" Ed Phillips exclaimed.

Abigail pulled the phone an inch or so from her ear and
grimaced. "I'm sorry to bring bad news…."

"Not your fault," he growled. "But are you
sure?"

"Water was dripping from the ceiling to the floor.
Enough to make puddles."

He swore again. "That'll teach me not to inspect it
myself. I hired a subcontractor who usually does good work. He picked the wrong
job to screw up on."

Abigail winced. Ed Phillips's bluff tone was usually genial,
but she could easily imagine him raking someone over the coals. She was only
grateful she wasn't the one who'd screwed up this time.

"Must have been embarrassing as hell," he said.
"Did you, uh, happen to mention it to the renter?"

There it was again, that odd note of constraint.
"Yes," she said. "He was home when I showed the house. He headed
off to find buckets to catch the drips. He said something about saving the
floor, at least."

"That bad?" He sounded genuinely incredulous, if
also angry. "Did you lose a real prospect?"

"I'm afraid so," Abigail admitted, trying to hide
how glad she was. "They were representatives of…" she glanced at her
appointment calendar, "Chartwell Development. Just opened a Seattle
office, I understand. They were considering the possibility of dividing the
house into condos. A leaky roof made them leery."

"Would it do any good if I called 'em?"

"I don't know," she said. "Let me give you
the number...."

A moment later they signed off, after Ed had promised to
have the roof repaired within the week. Actually, what he'd said was,
"They'll have their butts out there at eight o'clock tomorrow morning if
they ever want another job from me."

After hanging up, Abigail leafed through her phone messages
yet again. Definitely no call from Nate. Three days, and he still hadn't
called.

Impatient with herself, Abigail reached for the phone. Other
people had phoned, and the possibilities of sales and listings were far more
important than a man she'd dated once. Obviously, she needed to remind herself
of her priorities.

Still, as the phone rang in her ear, it was Nate's dark-gray
eyes she saw, his gravelly voice she heard. We need to get this first kiss out
of the way, don't we? So we can move on to kiss number two, and three, and....

"Realty World," a cheerful voice announced.

Abigail stumbled, "Uh, Susan Richards, please."

A moment later, "Susan Richards here."

"Susan, this is Abigail McLeod at McLeod and James. I
have a message from you. What can I do for you?"

The strange woman's voice brightened. "Believe it or
not, I have a client interested in the Irving House. I plan to show it Tuesday
or Wednesday. Anything you can pass on that might help?"

Don't tell the renter you're coming. The vehement thought
was instinctive, her reaction to it alarmed. She couldn't blame Nate for the
two debacles. Could she? Abigail took a deep breath. "If you can possibly
put off showing the house for a couple of days, it would be a good idea. As I
mentioned in the write-up, the owner has completely remodeled, but
unfortunately the storm last week showed up a couple of leaks in the roof. He
promises to have the problem cleared up immediately, but.…"

"I don't want to have to explain leaks in the
roof," the other agent agreed. "I'll do that. Tell me, is there any
chance of the owner carrying part of the contract?"

Abigail explained that Mr. Phillips was willing, providing
certain conditions were met. At the end of the conversation, just as they were
about to hang up, Susan Richards said, "Oh, by the way, I see there's a
renter in the house. I don't suppose you know if he has cats, or whether the
last owner did?"

Startled, Abigail said, "Well, I don't remember seeing
any, but I'm not sure. Perhaps you'd better ask him."

"My client is asthmatic. She can hardly stand even to
look at a cat, apparently. If there've been any living in the house recently,
it wouldn't do for her. Well, thanks for your help. I'll let you know how it
goes."

For the second time, Abigail hung up the telephone in a
pensive mood. She forced herself to put reluctant words to her uneasiness. This
would be a litmus test. If another agent showed the house with no problem, no
unusual problem....

What? Should she apologize to Nate? Gee, I'm sorry I thought
for even a moment that you might be sabotaging the house's sale?

Ridiculous. Of course, he wasn't. The two unfortunate
showings had been just that. These things happened. She wouldn't be sulking over
it if the Irving House were a hundred and fifty-thousand-dollar rambler that
she got a dozen calls a week about. The trouble was, she might not have another
shot at showing it to a client who could qualify for a million-dollar plus
house. She'd had more calls since her first ad, but none from serious lookers.
There were too many people whose favorite Sunday recreation was reading the
real-estate pages of their morning papers, then calling about ads or wandering
through open houses because they thought it might be fun.

She was being greedy to wish for both the listing and the
selling halves of the commission. The object was to find a buyer for the house;
who the actual selling agent was wouldn't matter to Ed Phillips. He would be
happy with the job McLeod and James had done. Abigail was beginning to think it
might be just as well if she didn't show it again, her emotions toward the
house were becoming so mixed. Partly thanks to its renter.

Who had promised to call, and hadn't.

*****

"Well, we're ready to go now," John said.

The two men stared at the muddy hillside. The hundred acres
had been ruthlessly clear-cut, the cleanup not completed. The previous owner
was responsible for burning the slash and putting in a road, neither of which
had yet been accomplished. Right now it took a little imagination to see the
site as John and Nate intended it to be, a sensitively planned development of
fine homes on two-and-a-half-acre lots.

The view of the Cascade Mountains was spectacular. On a
whim, Nate had camped out here one night before the logging and awakened to the
dawn painting the sky with colors no human artist had ever touched. Now,
however….

He shook his head. "I didn't picture it so
stripped."

John shrugged massive shoulders. "Stripping is what
some of the cut-rate developers do. Looks like the moon by the time they're
done. Hard-pan and rocks. We've got some topsoil here, anyway."

Hard-pan and rocks. That'd been one of Nate's complaints
about Ed Phillips. He'd scraped building lots down to hard-pan and sold the
topsoil. He had laughed about the idea of young homeowners buying their own
dirt back again.

This development was to be everything Phillips's hadn't
been. Except that now the city had decided to have a moratorium on hook ups to
the overloaded sewer system. Permits were being denied, even to those who had
received assurances in advance.

Nate grunted. "You talked to any city council members
yet?"

"Yeah, and they put me off. Do they care if we were
promised permits before this whole damn sewer thing blew up? Lucky we have
other projects, so we're not stopped in our tracks. We'll be busy enough, at
least. Especially if we build the school."

The crux of every conversation. If they built the school. If
they won the contract, their business would be an instant success. The city
would be wooing them, not the other way around. They would have contributed to
the community. And Nate could buy the Irving House.

Dreams. Too many riding for a fall.

What about Abigail McLeod's dreams? Nate shoved his guilt
back in his gut where it had been churning all week. If he bought the Irving
House, her dreams would be attained, too. She didn't care who bought it, just
that it sold. He was as good as any other buyer. What difference did a month or
so make to her?

He'd reached for the phone a dozen times that week, guilt
warring with his desire to hear her voice again, see her green-brown eyes and
her smile, touch her dark curls, her lips, her slender throat. And each time
he'd tasted acid in his mouth. He still didn't know what his choice would be,
if he had to make one. He'd wanted the house all his life. He'd wanted her for
little over a week.

Until this was settled, he should leave her alone. He should
never have walked into her office that day. Trouble was, then, she was just a
pretty woman. Then, he hadn't kissed her. Now? Now his lies were handcuffs that
bit into him every time he was too tempted.

"Want to talk about it?" John said.

"Talk about what?"

His partner was an unusually big man, pushing forty, with
short dark hair graying at the temples and a deceptively gentle manner. John
Mercer almost never raised his voice, but he reveled in confrontation. Nate
often contrasted his friend with Ed Phillips, since they were the two
contractors he'd worked most closely with. Both were aggressive men, but in
different ways. Phillips blustered and bellowed and cursed; John sliced with a
stiletto so sharp the wound didn't show. His talent meant that subcontractors,
bank officers, and county building inspectors wanted to cooperate. Phillips
made them afraid not to.

Now John raised a dark brow. His deep brown eyes were
shrewd. "You've had something on your mind all week. What are you doing,
thinking about adding a few turrets to the school?"

Nate shoved his hands into his pockets and gazed broodingly
at the raw land. "Are we getting symbolic here?"