Harte's Desire Part 12

"But the mansion, Chris. Harte's Desire. It's one of a kind. It's unique, and there's no other like it. Once you tear it down, it's gone forever. Build your office buildings and parking lots. But spare Harte's Desire. Please? I know in my heart it would make a splendid conference center."

Libby watched Chris carefully for a reaction to her words, hoping to find him moved by her plea. But he was lost in thought, staring into the distance, silent and cold.

"You're not going to save Harte's Desire, are you?" she finally asked, her low voice shaking with barely contained emotion.

Chris turned on the bench to face her.

"I can't, Libby," he responded quietly. "I'm a businessman and the balance sheet tells me I'd be an idiot to pump millions into a run-down twenty-five room oddity for the sake of preserving a historic whimsy. It just doesn't add up." He paused. "Besides, I'm already helping the Orphanage and historical society and that's more than enough old buildings for me."

He gazed at her steadily, his eyes never wavering from hers. "You ask too much when you ask me to save Harte's Desire."

Unable to endure the sincerity of his words, Libby quickly looked away, feeling a lump of emotion welling in her throat.

"I'm sorry, Chris," she finally managed to say. "Sorry you can't be persuaded. Sorry that Harte's Desire will be bulldozed in the name of progress. But I'm not sorry I tried to convince you otherwise. I had to, or I would always regret my silence. The mansion has been special to me all my life."

A sudden gust of wind caught Libby's golden curls, loosening several strands. Reflexively, Chris reached up to push them back into place, then gently cupped her face in his hands.

"I admire you greatly for trying," he said tenderly, softly running his fingers along her cheeks.

Before Libby could protest, Chris pulled her close and bent his head towards hers, their lips a whisper apart.

His kiss was hesitant at first, full of apology and restraint. Yet he lingered there, slowly tracing the outline of her full lips with the tip of his tongue.

Too surprised to react, Libby sat immobile on the bench, frozen, thinking she should break away from Chris's embrace as she had before. But as he caressed her lightly with his tongue, she knew she was helpless to escape the feelings of pa.s.sion he aroused in her. She moaned softly, then met his kiss with the urgency of unleashed desire, knowing all the while it was pure madness to respond. Reaching up to cradle his head with her hands, she pulled him close to her, savoring the feel of his dark, wavy hair against her sensitive fingertips.

She almost gasped when his tongue probed gently between her lips, parting them to explore the sweetness inside. The maddening a.s.sault on her senses continued as his hands slowly traveled down her neck, behind her shoulders, then deep along her spine. Libby felt the persistent ache between her legs burst forth into a steady throb. She returned his kiss, now equally pa.s.sionate and demanding, with a fervor to match, and heard him growl in response.

Chris arose from the bench, pulling Libby up with him as he did so, then drew her against his muscular frame. Ignited by the closeness of their embrace, Libby wrapped her arms around his solid chest. The feel of his engorged manhood rubbing through the silk of her dress sent hot s.h.i.+vers of desire through her. Emboldened by his blatant arousal, Libby trailed her hands down his back with deliberate motions before stopping at his waist. Libby felt the highly-toned muscles there tighten under her embrace as he deepened the kiss. His lips were hot and greedy, melding with hers.

His hands moved lower still. The delicious sensation of silk sliding sensuously against her skin fanned the flames of raw need burning within her. Libby, nearly delirious with pa.s.sion, was about to trace the length of his muscular thighs when she stopped, hearing someone nearby.

"I was hoping you two would find each other irresistible," Sister Mary Clare's voice called out in the darkness. She moved towards them, her black habit rustling with each step.

Libby quickly withdrew from Chris's embrace, frantically rearranging her dress and fingering her mussed hair. Chris straightened abruptly and cleared his throat nervously.

Sister Mary Clare eyed them with a mischievous grin. "Sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to say goodbye to you before you slipped away. And to say thanks for coming tonight. You both made this event a real success."

"Forgive me, Sister. I confess I thought I could just sneak out while no one was looking," Libby said contritely.

"No apology needed. I just hope you two had a good time." Sister Mary Clare turned and disappeared into the night, calling out to them with a chuckle, "Looks to me like you are. I told you I'm a great matchmaker!"

Fl.u.s.tered by the interruption and still aroused by Chris's pa.s.sionate kiss, Libby looked at him, only to find an icy, unemotional mask staring back at her. How could he kiss her with such ardor a few minutes ago and now act as though nothing had happened between them?

Men, she thought with growing disgust. They only want one thing and would do anything to get it. Secretly, she'd hoped after Sister Mary Clare left, he would pull her back into his st.u.r.dy, secure arms and continue the kiss. Instead, she found herself watching him coolly and casually slip his jacket back on.

"There's something about you Libby Reed that I cannot resist. Even you agree we are totally unsuited for each other. I had no right to lead us down a path tonight neither wants to follow." His gaze held hers.

Feeling intensely hurt and rejected, Libby addressed him as indifferently as she could, changing the subject quickly.

"I'll have the report in your office Friday morning. That was the agreed deadline, wasn't it?" Her tone was polite and professional, almost frosty, and absent of any trace of prior pa.s.sion or need.

"That's actually why I sought you out tonight after I saw you leave the room, Libby," Chris replied, tugging on the sleeves of his jacket before adjusting the front b.u.t.ton.

He continued, "I've got a really hectic week ahead. And Friday morning I have to fly to London on business, so I was wondering if I might look over the report Thursday night? I have to spend the day in New York City, but I'll be back at Harte's Desire late in the afternoon. Could you come over, say, around 6 p.m.? If the report's not quite done, just bring what you have and I'll trust you to get the rest to Mrs. McElroy on Friday."

Libby thought carefully before answering. She honestly never wanted to set foot in Harte's Desire again and she knew she'd have a hard time containing her emotions with him there. Better to have him come to her for a change. Surely she could resist any moves he might make amid the safety of her own house. Having the enemy under control on her turf suddenly made a lot of sense.

"Why don't you come to my place instead, Chris?" Libby proposed easily. "That way, if you have questions about any aspect of the report, or my research, I'll have the answers right there in my office or on the computer. It's next to the house."

"That sounds fine. Sorry to change plans like this, but I can't help it."

"That's OK."

"What time should I be there?"

"Six should give us plenty of time." Libby gave him the easy directions to her house and laughed out loud when she saw the surprise register on his face.

"We're next door neighbors," she chuckled, feeling in charge of her fate once again, "or didn't you know?"

"Well, I won't have any trouble finding you, will I?" Chris responded, looking at her somewhat sheepishly.

"Nope," Libby retorted before turning and heading out the wrought iron gate and fence that enclosed the tiny garden. "I'll see you then," she called out as the staccato sound of her high heels striking the cobblestone pavement followed her into the darkness.

Chris listened to her walk away, then sat back onto the bench with a sigh.

She was an angelic vision in red silk tonight, he thought pensively, toying with the folds in his tucked s.h.i.+rt. So devastatingly gorgeous. But more. A delightful conversationalist, a careful listener, a knowledgeable guide, a terrific dancer despite her warning to the contrary. She'd been able to talk easily with every person at their table. Then she managed to do the impossible--show him the Orphanage in a way he'd never seen it.

He'd been so frustrated, and mad, when Sister Mary Clare refused to let him tear it down. Only out of his great affection for her had he agreed to match the state grant for its restoration. But tonight, Libby--how he loved the sound and feel of her name on his tongue--had changed all that. Like a sorceress, she'd helped him envision the Orphanage as it was meant to be. Bright, cheerful, a place full of hope rather than despair.

He hadn't meant to kiss her again. Or maybe he had. It didn't matter. Sister Mary Clare had saved him from making a fool of himself, yet again. His body still ached from unfulfilled desire and the memory of her arms around him as they danced, caused another painful arousal.

Cursing silently, Chris shook his head and took a deep breath of now still air.

She had such an effect on him, he thought, why didn't he have any effect on her? She hadn't even flinched when Sister Mary Clare call her Libby in front of him. In fact, she'd made a bold ploy demanding him to consider her a friend if he wanted to use it. Very clever, he conceded. He didn't really expect her to come right out and admit to being Libby Chatham. Not there. Not with so many people, so many strangers around.

But, he'd hoped she would tell him in the garden, away from the crowd. Away from those who'd just heard him confess how she'd taught him to see the Orphanage in a new way. He'd thought by sharing his genuine feelings with her, she'd be able to do the same in return. Oh, she'd admitted to accepting part of his plan for Harte's Desire. And it probably took some courage on her part to say so. But he wanted to hear more. Wanted to hear they'd been adversaries in the past, too.

Yes, he was hiding as much as she was. The minute Rich Stone told him about Libby, he should have confronted her with the truth. Instead, he'd been running from it as much as she had. Afraid the truth would ruin...would ruin what? A tentative relations.h.i.+p based on lies? A working relations.h.i.+p inspired by his desire for revenge and her desire to save Harte's Desire?

He now wanted her honesty more than he wanted revenge.

Nothing made sense anymore, Chris decided. Any feelings they might have for each other were based on dishonesties and ruses both were party to.

Chris stood up and yawned. He'd spend the night in his center city penthouse. The sixty minute ride back to Borden's Landing seem impossible at this late hour.

Chapter Twenty.

"You're right on time," Libby greeted Chris, opening the front door to let him in. Grandpa Reed's grandfather clock, which occupied a place of prominence in the living room, was just chiming the hour in its deep, melodious tones when the doorbell rang.

Chris strode into the room, holding a bottle of white wine emblazoned with the Harte's Desire label and a large bouquet of roses wrapped in aluminum foil.

Libby's heart skipped a beat, a natural reaction his presence always elicited. A quick glance confirmed what she already guessed--that he looked as handsome dressed casually as he did in a three-piece suit.

Tonight he was wearing navy khakis, Docksider loafers, and a white polo s.h.i.+rt. The placket-fronted s.h.i.+rt was unb.u.t.toned, revealing dark curly hair at its vee showing in sharp contrast to the s.h.i.+rt's whiteness. The knitted cuffs on its half-sleeves tightly hugged Chris's well-defined biceps. His forearms, lean but muscular, were nicely tanned and he wore no jewelry other than a watch on his left wrist.

Libby, dryly observing how vibrant and healthy he looked, concluded his urgent business during the week must have been conducted on the tennis courts or golf course. She felt utterly pale and lifeless in comparison, having spent the past several days indoors, at her computer, finis.h.i.+ng the report.

"These are for you," Chris said, extending the flowers and wine.

Libby arched her brows in surprise. Gifts from him, after their many failed attempts at romance, seemed totally out of character.

"Actually," Chris continued, "Edwina sent the roses over. She remembered how much you enjoyed them in the garden there and insisted I bring some. She cut them right before I left."

Libby brought the multi-colored blooms to her face and inhaled deeply, savoring the rich fragrance so often missing from the modern varieties.

"Please thank her for me, will you?" Libby replied, eyeing Chris cautiously over the perfumed blossoms, stifling an unwanted stab of regret that the idea to bring flowers wasn't his. What was he up to with the bottle of wine, she wondered, unless Edwina, in a matchmaking mood, had sent that over, too?

"The wine is from me," he said. "A peace offering."

"A peace offering?"

"An apology for my, uh, ungentlemanly behavior at the orphanage last week." Chris looked at her contritely.

Libby took the wine from his extended hand.

"Oh. You mean in the garden?" Her heartbeat doubled in remembrance of their pa.s.sionate kiss. Despite the flutter in her stomach, she laughed casually, trying desperately to make light of the situation.

"Forget it," she said. "I have."

"Well, I had no right to take such liberties with..."

"Your employee?" Libby interrupted.

"It runs deeper than that, Libby." Chris stared at her intently, his brows knitted in concern.

"Let's just chalk it up to the roses and moonlight and leave it at that, shall we?"

"Alright," Chris agreed, shrugging his shoulders. "Have you eaten yet?"

"Not yet."

"Neither have I. That's why I thought I'd suggest going out. Or we could bring in something, like Chinese food or a pizza."

Libby was prepared for his suggestion. In fact, she'd braced herself both mentally and physically for any of a dozen scenarios with Chris tonight.

She'd carefully steeled herself to resist any temptation, like an innocent kiss or a back rub, he might offer, knowing that once accepted, she was powerless to resist him. All day she reinforced herself mentally that this would be strictly a business meeting. She would not let herself get carried away by his good looks or any subtle attempts at seduction on his part.

To hide every curve of her trim figure from his appraisal, she'd chosen a roomy linen s.h.i.+rt with a ruffled neckline b.u.t.toned as high up her neck as it would go. A diaphanous, multi-colored skirt flounced from her waist down to a spot just inches short of her ankles.

Apart from the creamy expanse of her neck, the only thing left showing was her dainty feet, clad in strap sandals. As she did every summer, Libby had painted her toenails in a vibrant pink enamel. She'd toyed with the idea of removing the polish, but decided she'd already made enough concessions tonight on his behalf.

As for dinner, she'd antic.i.p.ated that, as well. Thanks to some late nights and overtime on Connie's part, the report was ready by two that afternoon. Thinking that Chris might be available to come over earlier, thereby avoiding the dinner dilemma altogether, she'd called to see if he was free. Edwina politely informed her that Chris wasn't due back until 5:30, and that Libby was on his appointment book for 6 p.m. Slightly dismayed but not daunted, Libby considered the options. Dinner out was definitely a bad idea. Depending on where they went, it could be too intimate, too cozy, and decidedly too dangerous. Take-out didn't appeal to her either. That's all she and Connie had eaten the past week during their late night crunches to be ready for today. A home-cooked meal actually sounded pretty good. She'd make something simple and fast. There'd be no time for lingering over coffee and dessert if she scheduled things right. Besides, they had work to do.

She looked at him confidently. "If you don't mind, I thought I'd cook something quick here tonight. We've got a lot to go over and really don't have time to eat out."

"That's fine. I just don't want to impose on you."

"You're not," she replied lightly, as if entertaining handsome men in her home was an everyday occurrence. "Come on out to the kitchen. I'll put these roses in water and you can start reviewing the report while I finish getting dinner ready."

She led Chris though the living room and dining room, thankful to see the week's acc.u.mulation of dust had been wiped away by the cleaning ladies that morning. She'd been so busy in her office that housework had taken a very low priority lately.

The kitchen was filled with the spicy smell of chicken fajitas that bubbled enticingly in a special sauce on the stove. A variety of toppings--sour cream, salsa, shredded cheese, and black olives--sat in small bowls on the counter. As Chris pulled out a chair from the antique oak claw-foot table in the center of the room, Libby gently stirred the Spanish rice and black bean ca.s.serole warming in the oven.

"I hope you like Mexican food, since that's what we're having."

"It smells great. I'm starved," he announced, watching Libby sprinkle cheese on top of the ca.s.serole and put it back in the oven.

Turning back, she saw him carefully observing every detail in her kitchen, ignoring the thick stack of paperwork on the table waiting his perusal.

On top of the kitchen cabinets was a museum-like display of items she and her mother had collected over the years. Tea pots, trays, tin boxes, woodenware, all antique and all hand-painted. Libby also used the s.p.a.ce for salt-glazed crocks and handwoven baskets pa.s.sed down from both sides of her family. Several nick-knack shelves holding antique toys, gla.s.sware, family memorabilia, and ceramics hung on the walls. Any wall s.p.a.ce remaining was crammed with antique prints and samplers, more often than not the craftsmans.h.i.+p of an ancestor.

Chris got out of his chair and walked over to a short pine shelf near the refrigerator. Gingerly, he brought down a small, unusually shaped wooden object--a thin disk with V-shaped notches carved along its edge, held between two wooden pins.

"What the heck is this?" he asked, holding it up to Libby.

"Everybody asks about that one," she said, uncorking the bottle of wine he'd brought. "It's used for edging noodles or pie crusts. The notched edge makes a decorative pattern in the dough. My great-grandfather carved it from a cherry tree in front of his farmhouse in the late 1800s."

Chris gently placed it back on the self, then walked around the kitchen surveying the rest of Libby's eclectic display.

She watched him from a discreet distance, so intent on his actions that the wine she was pouring into two gla.s.ses spilled onto the counter. Silently scolding herself for letting her attention wander, Libby wiped up the mess and handed one of the gla.s.ses to Chris.

He accepted it without comment and toasted her silently. "You've got quite a collection."

"I do, don't I?"

She pointed out several family pieces, including a drawer shelf her grandfather helped her to make and an egg basket her paternal great-grandfather had woven.

"Your house is just how I imagined it would be," he said.

"And how is that?"

"Like Harte's Desire. Full of old things." His tone was neither mocking or condemning, just matter-of-fact.