Harte's Desire Part 10

If only she wasn't so d.a.m.ned beautiful all fired up about her plan to save Harte's Desire, Chris thought. She was undeniably radiant, animated in an almost sensual way. Impa.s.sioned and caring. Would a woman ever look at him the way she looked at Harte's Desire? Would a woman ever defend him with such conviction, ever love him despite the flaws he wore much as Harte's Desire did its peeling paint and crumbling plaster?

Heaven help the man Libby Reed might fall in love with, Chris thought. He'll never know what hit him.

Unbidden, the memory of her stretched out on his bed made Chris stifle a groan. She was probably as pa.s.sionate in bed as she was fighting for something she believed in. Chris's pants grew uncomfortably tight at the thought and he muttered a low oath of frustration at the lack of control he had over his bodily response to her. It would be another sleepless night and not because of the coffee he drank at lunchtime.

Was she ever going to tell him of their shared history, he wondered? Of Libby Chatham transformed into Elizabeth Reed? Such deception and lies. But now that he knew her, he could understand her motives. Still, it rankled him she wasn't being totally honest with him. Maybe she still felt that she had something to lose, or perhaps nothing to gain.

Edwina had kept him informed of her daily activities. "Just so you know" she would say. Earlier today, Edwina told him that Libby was ready to write the report and that her work in and around Harte's Desire was finished.

He might not see Libby again, Chris realized with a start. She might have her secretary deliver the report and she might not attend the fundraiser despite her long hours of preparation for the event.

He would miss seeing her, he admitted. But he needed to concentrate fully on his project here, and having her around was definitely not conducive to concentration.

Chris brushed the dirt and dust from his trousers. Yes, Libby's presence certainly livened things up around this usually quiet place.

Maybe today--now--was the time to confront her with the truth she so staunchly guarded. Honestly, he acknowledged silently, he no longer cared for revenge. He'd been hiding behind the truth as much as she, and if she wasn't going to confess-and soon-he would.

But, she'd be back. She loved Harte's Desire and she would be back.

Chapter Seventeen.

Libby flexed her hands, easing the stiffness wrought by long hours of non-stop typing at the computer. Stifling a yawn, she stretched her arms slowly overhead, sighing as the tension in her aching shoulders eased. A glance out the window confirmed it was another beautiful June day, warm and sunny, with a trace of humidity carrying the promise of imminent summer.

Libby longed to be outdoors. Puttering in the garden. Sunning at the beach. Anywhere but in her office, diligently writing the report on Harte's Desire.

It was due in one week, next Friday, and if she had to spend the entire weekend working on it, Mr. Christopher Darnell would have his precious report on time, as promised.

Libby rubbed her tired eyes, then re-read the section she'd just written. She decided her description of the Rose Room accurately reflected not only its current appearance, but Amanda Harte's intentions to make a very personal interior decorating statement.

Her hands poised on the keyboard, she mentally organized her thoughts for the next section. While writing the report, Libby safely tucked away any and all thoughts of Chris, expelling him from mind so she could fully concentrate on the task at hand. Several times she had wanted to go back to Harte's Desire, to check a detail or confirm an earlier observation. With the exception of one time, she managed to convince herself it wasn't necessary to return. Then she'd gotten as far as the front gate before turning around and sending Connie over instead.

She dearly missed roaming around the big mansion, exploring its many rooms filled with exquisite antiques. Although neglected, the rose garden was in full bloom and she missed checking the daily progress of each new blossom as she had done while working there. Libby stared pensively out the window at her own small flower garden, lost in thought.

If she were honest, she even missed seeing Chris. Somehow life was more exciting around him, more challenging when he was part of her everyday experience. Even though they were polar opposites when it came to historic buildings, it had been thrilling to be where he worked and lived. And although he was h.e.l.l-bent on tearing down Harte's Desire, she missed their verbal sparring, the look of banked desire in his eyes, and the sweet electricity that flowed, unbidden but undeniably, between them.

Libby shrugged off the disturbing memories and forced herself to start the next piece of the report. The statement of significance, as it was called, was the most important part. In it Libby would have to defend the importance of Harte's Desire, not only in terms of its magnificent architecture, but as it related to the contributions of Chester Harte as a regionally prominent businessman and Amanda as an amateur landscape architect and horticulturist.

Libby loved writing this section because it was the body and soul of any thorough study of a historic building. It was also the most difficult section to write because it demanded an intimate knowledge of history, architecture, and cultural themes. She'd gotten half-way through the first sentence when Connie Garrett appeared in her doorway.

"Sister Mary Clare is on the phone, Lib. She wants to know if you're attending the special awards dinner at the Orphanage tomorrow night?"

Connie eyed her boss politely, waiting for a reply. Connie knew when Libby was in the throes of writing, her job as administrative a.s.sistant meant interrupting with only the most important messages or phone calls.

"Oh dear, I've been so busy with this, I forgot all about it." Libby waved to the papers strewn over the desk and photos of Harte's Desire tacked to the walls. "I promised her a month ago I'd come. Would you please thank her for reminding me and a.s.sure her I will be there?" Libby said, rubbing her tired eyes. "And find out what time, too, please?"

Connie chuckled inwardly at Libby's forgetfulness. Usually sharp as a tack, Libby had been distant and pre-occupied these past few weeks. Easily fl.u.s.tered and distracted, too. All the signs of a woman in love, Connie determined, knowing now was not the time to probe. After the report, but only then. She headed back to the phone.

The Orphanage, Libby thought. How could she have forgotten? She scrutinized the bulletin board hanging in front of her desk, then removed some of the photos pinned to it until the invitation was discovered under the 8 x 10 of the gazebo.

Libby looked over the engraved card announcing the awards dinner honoring the St. Bernadette's Orphanage Man of the Year. Libby wondered again how her promise to attend had slipped through her memory like water through a sieve. Idly twirling a lock of curly hair, she reflected on how the Orphanage and Sister Mary Clare had become near and dear to her.

About a year ago, Sister Mary Clare had called asking for Libby's help again. The Orphanage, located in center city Philadelphia, was applying for a state-funded grant to undertake a major restoration and make much-needed repairs to their building. While living in Philadelphia, Libby had gotten it listed in the National Register of Historic Places. A Richardsonian Romanesque building, it was one of the first designed by a famous New York architect who later gained international acclaim for his public commissions that included prisons, city halls, and churches. It was the only orphanage he designed, yet it was lauded in its day for bright, airy corridors, generously-sized dormitory quarters, and innovative play areas, even one on a rooftop.

Sister Mary Clare, unaware that Libby had moved, finally located her in Borden's Landing. The good Sister explained they needed help completing the lengthy and complex grant application and that one of the Orphanage's benefactors had agreed to underwrite the cost of its preparation. Would Libby be interested?

Because of the building's significance and her desire to help anyone wanting to restore a historic one, Libby leapt at the opportunity to a.s.sist the group of Catholic nuns overseeing the Orphanage.

The Sisters had been a delight to work with. They clearly cherished their historic building but felt frustrated in their attempts to maintain it by the diminished coffers of a diocese overburdened by the owners.h.i.+p of many old structures. Working among the children who lived there cemented Libby's growing desire to have children of her own. Rick's stubborn refusal to have any had been another major point of disagreement between them and was, ultimately, a contributing factor in their divorce.

Libby completed the grant application with the active support of Sister Mary Clare and the other nuns who volunteered to help research the building's history. Thankfully, the application was successful and the Sisters received a million dollar grant for their project. A condition of the grant, however, required the Orphanage to raise a dollar for every dollar granted. Sister Mary Clare was overjoyed and felt as though her prayers were answered when the grant was matched, dollar for dollar, by the same benefactor who paid for Libby's services.

Tucking the invitation into her purse, Libby decided the dinner would be a welcome respite from the intensity of writing the report. And she would get to see, first hand, how restoration of the Orphanage was proceeding. Yes, it would be nice to get dressed up and spend Sat.u.r.day night in the big city. She needed a break, and didn't want to spend another night at home, alone, as she had been doing.

Chapter Eighteen.

Late Sat.u.r.day afternoon, Libby stood in her bedroom looking with dismay at the clothes strewn over the antique, carved oak bed. She couldn't decide what to wear to the dinner that night. Nothing looked right. The pink dress was too short, the navy too long. Pants were out of the question. It was a somewhat formal affair and she felt like wearing a dress with high heels and fancy jewelry.

She walked over to the closet and again rummaged through its contents. Tucked in the back, hidden behind an old bathrobe, was a luscious red silk dress she'd completely forgotten about. She'd only worn it once, to a friend's wedding two summers ago, but she'd received dozens of compliments on it.

Quickly s.n.a.t.c.hing it out of the closet, Libby gathered up the red shoes she'd bought to match, a lace-trimmed slip, bra, and stockings. Ten minutes later, she stood in front of the full length mirror, a.s.sessing her appearance and finding herself pleased with the image reflected there. Her golden hair fell in gentle curls past her shoulders. For drama, she'd pulled a small section of hair from each side to the back, catching it in a red satin bow behind her head.

The dress draped her pet.i.te frame in silky perfection, subtly emphasizing her luscious curves without being gaudy or too revealing. Her mother's pearl necklace and earrings added just the right touch of elegance and sophistication. Dabbing her favorite perfume on her wrist and behind her ears, Libby gave herself one last look in the mirror and smiled.

Maybe she'd meet the man of her dreams tonight, she mused. No, she'd already met him in Christopher Darnell. But he was off limits because of the charade she was forced to play and his determination to bulldoze Harte's Desire.

The drive south down the interstate went quickly, and as Libby crossed the Ben Franklin Bridge, she gazed with excitement at the tall city s.h.i.+mmering to her left. Philadelphia's towering buildings, crowded waterfront, and bustling streets filled with historic buildings never failed to stir her. As much as she enjoyed going into New York City, Libby loved Philadelphia more, finding its smaller scale more appealing and more intimate. Navigating the traffic-filled avenues with ease, she found the orphanage and parked in a nearby surface lot. Admiring looks from the parking attendant a.s.sured Libby she'd chosen the right outfit for the occasion.

The early evening air was sultry and filled with the clas.h.i.+ng smells of acrid exhaust fumes mixed with the tantalizing aroma of soft pretzels emanating from the vendor's cart on the street corner.

Libby approached the orphanage then stopped, staring in amazement at its transformation. The building's handsome red brick and off-white sandstone exterior had been cleaned since her last visit and it fairly shone, now that the grimy layers of dirt and pollution had been washed away. Libby had cautioned the Sisters against sandblasting because the harsh process removed the naturally hard, protective coating from the masonry, causing irreversible damage to the soft surfaces underneath. Obviously, Libby noted, they used the low-pressure water spray cleaning she recommended, and the results were breathtaking. She hoped the Sisters were taking photos to doc.u.ment the dramatic change in appearance.

Libby walked up the steps and opened the ma.s.sive oak doors which had been gently hand- sanded then refinished, and now gleamed under several new coats of varnish. The entrance vestibule and connecting hall were still undergoing restoration. A metal scaffold running from floor to ceiling obscured one wall, while heavy canvas drop-cloths protected the charcoal gray and white tile floor from damage.

Libby gently ran her fingertips along the hall's scagliola walls which were being lovingly repaired. Scagliola was created through an age-old process of blending colored plasters, which when dried, were highly polished to simulate marble. Restoring scagliola was virtually a lost art, but Libby managed to locate an eighty-year old Italian in New York City who, with his son, specialized in its repair. Paint pots, scalpels, and brushes were stacked against one corner in testimony of the artisans' presence.

One of the Sisters directed Libby down the hall to the s.p.a.cious dining room which, Libby recalled, also served as a gymnasium and auditorium, depending on the occasion.

The tall-ceilinged room was filled with a few dozen large tables, festively decorated with colorful tablecloths and bouquets of fresh flowers. A dance floor was located at the far end of the room where a small group of musicians was setting up their instruments and sheet music. Multi-colored streamers hung from the walls, illuminated by sparkling flashes of light coming from a slowly rotating mirror ball suspended from the above.

Libby was pleased to see such a large turnout and she scanned the crowd of celebrants looking for Sister Mary Clare. Easily finding the six-foot tall woman clad head to toe in black and white, Libby made her way through the throng to the corner where the Sister was talking animatedly with a crowd of supporters.

Spotting Libby, Sister Mary Clare happily pulled her into the circle, giving her a big bear hug and a motherly kiss on the cheek.

"Libby, I am so glad you could come to our 'small' affair tonight," Sister Mary Clare greeted affectionately.

"And here I thought your order lived modestly," Libby teased, "but you've gone all out tonight, haven't you?"

"We're allowed to splurge every now and then," Sister Mary Clare confessed, giving Libby a broad smile followed by a friendly pat on the hand. "How often do we get to celebrate this magnificent restoration and honor the man who made it all possible? Of course, we couldn't have done it without your help either, my dear, which is why I have you seated at the head table with us."

Libby rolled her eyes at the compliment. "You didn't have to put me there, Sister. I'm just happy to share the evening with everyone else."

"Nonsense," Sister Mary Clare huffed. "I tried to convince the Monsignor to honor a man and woman of the year, but he wouldn't hear of it. A chauvinist at heart, he is, but a well-meaning one. He was afraid our generous benefactor would be slighted by sharing the spotlight. But I want you to know that I'm as grateful to you, Libby, as I am to our million dollar Man of the Year."

"That's very sweet of you to say so," Libby replied, visibly moved by the heartfelt praise.

"You know I mean every word," Sister Mary Clare said kindly. "Speaking of our Man of the Year, I want to introduce you to him. Confidentially," she went on, lowering her voice and looking at Libby with a twinkle in her eye, "I'm playing matchmaker with you two tonight. Not only is this man rich and single, he happens to be a terrific guy, too, and I think you would make a great couple."

Libby raised her hands in mock disgust. "You, playing matchmaker, Sister? Well, if you're half as good at finding me a man as you are matching children with parents, then I'd better trust your judgment." Libby laughed while Sister Mary Clare joined in.

"Come on, let's go find him." Sister Mary Clare grabbed Libby by the arm and steered her across the crowded room. "Our benefactor is actually one of our own, my dear, and he paid for your services, as well. Never was able to place him. It's a sad story, but he seems to have risen above it, if his success in the business world is any indication."

They approached a group of well-dressed men and women who stood chatting close to the bar. Sister Mary Clare tapped lightly on the shoulder of the tallest man in the group who had his back turned to her. She cleared her throat to gain his attention.

Libby almost fainted when Christopher Darnell, resplendent in a black tuxedo, white pin-tucked s.h.i.+rt, and red c.u.mmerbund, turned to face them. The crisply-starched s.h.i.+rt emphasized his tanned good looks, while the black tux made him seem inches taller and his already muscular build that much more imposing. He couldn't have appeared any more handsome if he tried.

Oblivious of Libby's gape-mouthed reaction, Sister Mary Clare addressed Chris enthusiastically.

"Chris, I'd like you to meet Libby Reed. She's the lovely young woman who..."

Before Libby could regain her composure to interrupt Sister Mary Clare's damaging use of her first name, Chris stepped in with an interruption of his own.

"No need to say any more Sister. Miss Reed and I have already met," Chris explained, extending his hand to clasp Libby's. The instant his large hand firmly but intimately grasped hers, Libby felt the familiar jolt of awareness and sensuality his touch always caused. Her knees weakened as the tingling current pa.s.sed through her, leaving her awash in a turmoil of conflicting emotions.

His thoroughly masculine hand still wrapped protectively around hers, Chris peered intently at Libby. "I wasn't aware that she used the name 'Libby', however," he remarked casually. "I've always known her as Elizabeth, but I think Libby suits her much better, don't you Sister?"

Before Sister Mary Clare could reply, she was called away to attend to a crisis in the kitchen, making her apologies to them as she hastened out of sight.

Chris stared questioningly, eyebrows arched, at Libby who desperately tried to find a suitable response that would satisfy him without revealing her ident.i.ty.

"I take it 'Libby' is a nickname for Elizabeth?" Chris said, his blue-green eyes now narrowed and penetrating.

Unable to find her voice, Libby merely nodded.

"H-m-m." Chris tore his gaze from hers to idly examine the wine in his gla.s.s. After a long pause, he looked at her.

"I wasn't aware it was such a popular pet name. I believe I mentioned I had the misfortune to tangle with another woman named Libby, but that was years ago." He shrugged his shoulders as if to dismiss the subject as insignificant.

"Only my close friends," she declared with emphasis, "call me Libby."

"Libby," Chris repeated, the sound of her name rolling lightly, sensually, off his tongue. "I like it. It has a nice sound to it. May I call you Libby?"

Struggling to stay calm, Libby replied with an air of defiance, "You can use it only if you consider yourself my friend." She issued the challenge knowing that if he guessed her ident.i.ty, she was forcing him to choose the direction of their relations.h.i.+p.

"To friends.h.i.+p," he toasted, raising his gla.s.s in a salute to her before taking a sip.

Libby tried to fathom his intentions, but could read nothing in his half-hooded gaze and neutral tone of voice.

"May I get you something to drink, Libby?" Chris offered, emphasizing her name.

"A gla.s.s of merlot would be nice, thank you." She watched him walk over to the bar, admiring his confident stride and devastating good looks. She noticed several elegantly-dressed women eyeing him with unmasked appreciation and somewhat jealously wondered if any of them was his date for the evening.

Accepting the gla.s.s of wine from Chris's outstretched hand when he returned, Libby demurely addressed him.

"I had no idea you were the one being honored tonight, Chris. Congratulations."

The tension between them was thick enough to cut with a knife.

"If you'd known, you wouldn't have come, right?"

Ignoring his pointed remark for the truth it presented, Libby decided to direct the conversation into safer territory.

"The restoration is proceeding beautifully, thanks to you. Did you notice how stunning the outside of the building looks?" she asked politely.

"It's impressive, I agree, for an old building. But I'm curious to know your connection with the Orphanage, Libby?" Chris stared at her intently, his blue-green eyes seeking, almost demanding, an explanation.

"I thought you knew, since you paid for my services."

"I did?"

"I was the consultant the Sisters hired to complete the grant application," Libby countered, returning his gaze, willing herself to confront the man so capable of rendering her senseless.

Chris deliberately took another sip of wine, his eyes never leaving hers. "I didn't know," he began slowly, "that you were the one being so highly praised by Sister Mary Clare. She never mentioned you by name."

He pursed his lips and smiled. "By her description, I thought an angel had returned to earth with the sole mission of helping them restore the building."

"Certainly, I'm no angel. And frankly, I'm surprised to find you, of all people, funding the restoration of something historic," Libby countered, enjoying the innuendos pa.s.sing between them.

"Yes, it's not one of my usual charities, but I have my reasons. Maybe now you'll concede that I'm not the enemy of every old building?" He absentmindedly adjusted the stiff collar of his s.h.i.+rt, making Libby long to touch the corded sinews of his neck being chafed by the tightness there.

"Well, perhaps this does raise you a notch in my esteem," she said with a slight catch in her voice. Watching his strong, lean fingers unb.u.t.ton and re-b.u.t.ton the s.h.i.+rt was having a devastating effect on her ability to think clearly. "You're helping the Borden's Landing Historical Society, too, so I guess you're not the total monster I'm convinced you are." Libby laughed teasingly, feeling the tension between them dissipate during their friendly repartee.

As the band started to play a slow tune, couples headed for the dance floor, arm in arm.

Setting his gla.s.s down, Chris held out a hand. "Would the beauty care to dance with this beast?" he asked with a twinkle in his eye.

"Your date won't object?" Libby cautiously inquired, ignoring the loud inner voice telling her to run from him in the opposite direction.