Harte's Desire Part 13

"This house belonged to my grandparent's. They left it to me." Libby took a cautious sip of the tart, but smooth vintage wine, mellowed to perfection.

"They gave it to the right person. It's definitely you."

Libby basked in the warmth of his approval. "I've always thought that peoples' homes and what they put in them reflect pretty accurately who they are. Mine's no exception, is it? I mean, could you see me living in a brand new tract house?"

"No way," Chris declared emphatically, a smile lighting the handsome planes of his face.

"What's your apartment like," she asked, "or do you have a house?"

He grew serious again. "An apartment. What do you think it looks like?"

"If I had to guess," she said, "I'd say modern, clean, lots of straight lines and angles."

"That about sums it up."

"Any family photos?"

He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "A few, in my living room. Why do you ask?"

"You may have a hard time admitting it, Chris, but those photos tell me there are some things from your past that you treasure."

Chris sipped his wine slowly. "I've told you a bit about my unpleasant childhood. Aside from my work, my personal life has largely been full of disappointment," he related candidly, raising his gla.s.s again.

Libby followed the wine gla.s.s to the firm line of Chris's mouth. His lips, strong and smooth, slowly parted before taking a sip of the fine chardonnay he brought tonight. He swirled the wine lightly in his mouth then swallowed. The act was done so naturally but with such sensuality that Libby felt the familiar jolt of desire overtake her senses.

Deciding she'd break the somber mood that had descended thick and silent around them, Libby laughed gently. "See what happens when I start philosophizing? I lose all track of time! Dinner's ready and I haven't even set the table yet."

Abruptly breaking away from his own thoughts, Chris sat down at the table where Libby was noisily arranging silverware and plates.

"I'll do that," he offered with authority. "You go finish dinner. I may be a bachelor, but I do know my way around the kitchen." Throwing her a teasing smile, Chris acted as though their earlier conversation was entirely forgotten.

Libby brought over a plate of steaming flour tortillas. "Actually I was surprised that 'Mr. Modern' could produce a gourmet meal from Harte's Desire's ancient kitchen!"

"'Mr. Modern?' You mean me?" Chris rejoined with feigned indignation.

"Yes, you. You actually did quite well with the antique stove at Harte's Desire."

Chris gave a hearty laugh. "Only because I had no choice!"

Having brought the rest of the dinner to the table, Libby motioned for him to sit back down.

"More wine?" she asked, noticing his half-empty gla.s.s.

"Sure."

As hard as she tried, Libby was failing to fight the attraction she felt for him, that pull she'd tried to ignore ever since they met. His presence in her kitchen was too homey, too comforting. His keen observations were hitting too close and, heaven help her, she was enjoying his company entirely too much.

She refilled both gla.s.ses and sat down across from him.

Dinner pa.s.sed with casual bantering between them as Libby carefully guided their conversation toward such innocent topics as baseball and Borden's Landing gossip.

To her surprise, Chris helped clean up afterwards, clearing the table and loading the dishwasher. Libby made a pot of coffee and put some home-made chocolate chip cookies on a plate.

Filling two mugs with the hot brew, she suggested they have dessert on the front porch where they could enjoy some fresh air while he reviewed the report.

Choosing the isolated safety of a wicker chair rather than the matching sofa, Libby sat down on its overstuffed cus.h.i.+on and handed the report to Chris who chose to sit opposite her in another wicker chair.

As he began to read, Libby propped her feet up on a nearby ottoman and relaxed with a sigh. She'd drunk a little more wine than usual tonight, and mellow relaxation spiraled downward. She sipped the steaming coffee slowly, savoring its warmth and hoping it would revitalize her.

As Chris continued to flip through the pages, she watched his face reflect a variety of emotions. Curiosity, interest, surprise, disagreement. Although he had a pencil in one hand, poised to make notes in the margins, he'd not written a thing since he began reading.

Thirty minutes later, after Libby finished her coffee and ate several more cookies than she intended, he placed the pencil and report down and stared at her in frank appraisal.

"You've done an excellent job, Libby. Your report has told me more about Harte's Desire that I can absorb in one reading. It's thorough, well-written, and appears to be well-doc.u.mented. And, I see you made good use of the original architectural drawings and old photos Edwina found in the attic. I'm sure the state office will be as impressed as I am."

Libby's face fell as she absorbed the full measure of his words. She could see he'd been absorbed in the report by the careful way he read it, but she hoped, in vain now it seemed, that her eloquence about Harte's Desire and its significance would finally convince him to save it. Realizing this was just another exercise in futility, Libby struggled to find a proper response to his comments.

"I'm glad you're satisfied, Chris," she finally managed to utter, her words stilted and lacking true conviction. "It's always nice to know I've got another happy client."

The sarcasm in her voice was unmistakable. Chris looked at her sharply.

"Come on, Libby," he chided, "surely you weren't hoping I'd have a change of heart after reading this? You knew the ground rules when you accepted this job. You were to doc.u.ment the building, past and present, nothing more. You can't save it because it's not yours to save. And I've already told you, several times in fact, that re-using it just doesn't fit into my scheme for the site."

Libby stared into the distance, only minimally aware of the day's fading light through the open French doors. Deep down she'd known she couldn't change his mind. He held all the cards. Ever the optimist, though, she had hoped. Hoped he would finally see how important Harte's Desire was. Hoped he would realize how very dear the mansion was to her.

She didn't know whether to laugh or cry at her foolish idealism. To think she could make a difference where the all-powerful Christopher Darnell was concerned. She must have been crazy to dream the report would sway him when her other attempts failed.

Well, she'd tried one last time. She'd given it her best effort. But for once her best wasn't good enough.

"It's obvious that nothing short of a miracle will change your mind," she finally managed, her voice tinged with anger and frustration.

"Probably more than a miracle," Chris replied stiffly. He paused. "I'm leaving Harte's Desire, Libby."

"W-w-when?"

"After I get back from London. This will be my last night here."

Libby didn't stop to a.n.a.lyze the unexpected pitching of her heart or the sense of utter desolation his announcement brought. Edwina had told her of Chris's temporary encampment at Harte's Desire, but Libby thought he'd stay at least through the summer. Yet here he was calmly informing her that this was the last time she would see him. With his maddening, unwavering position on Harte's Desire's future, why was she so suddenly bereft at the thought of his leaving?

"I a.s.sumed you'd be here through the s-summer," she stammered, trying not to show how much his departure affected her.

"It's not really necessary for me to be around anymore. Ed Fulbright, one of my senior vice presidents, is coming up Monday to oversee the project now. Edwina's agreed to stay for the next several weeks while he learns his way around. She said she'd continue to help you with the fundraiser if you want."

"That's kind of Edwina. I'll call her if I need her," Libby replied softly.

"And, if I can help in anyway...?" Chris added, his voice trailing hesitantly.

"Sure, I'll give you a buzz."

"I really should be on my way," Chris said, glancing at his watch. "I have an early flight out of Philly and I need to get a couple hours sleep tonight."

Libby merely nodded and started loading the tray with their empty plates.

"I'll help you get this stuff back in," he said, gathering up the report.

"No need," Libby replied tartly.

"I insist. Isn't doing dishes the hallmark of a truly liberated man?"

Under different circ.u.mstances, Libby would have teased him back. Instead, she brusquely headed back inside wis.h.i.+ng he'd drop off the face of the earth. As if aware of her mood, Chris silently followed her to the kitchen and again helped to clean up.

"This room would be just a collection of old things to me, but it's more than that to you, isn't it?" he asked, putting the last plate into the dishwasher.

Libby stopped wiping the counter and stared at him, her eyes wide with surprise.

"Yes," she responded, meeting his inquiring gaze steadily. "My ancestors made or used these things, so they're very special. For some crazy reason, my heritage means a lot to me," Libby ended softly. She sensed her love for family might make him uncomfortable, but it was who she was, and she wasn't about to pretend otherwise.

"You never mention your father?" he said, the words more a statement than a question.

Libby hesitated only slightly before answering. "He died a month before I was born, so I never knew him. My mother did her best, though, to keep his memory alive for me through stories about him. And, I have lots of photographs. A few of my favorites are on the piano in the living room."

Chris's blue-green eyes were riveted on her.

"How did you know this room is special to me?" she asked.

"By the way you described its contents to me earlier. You were almost reverent."

"I suppose I do get carried away," she said with a sigh. "Sorry." She folded the dishrag and draped it over the faucet, anxious now for him to leave.

"Don't apologize. I guess I'm a little bit envious." Chris leaned against the counter and stared wistfully out the bay window into the darkness beyond.

Libby sensed a profound change come over him. A deep sadness was clearly visible beneath the controlled veneer he usually projected. His jaw was clenched tightly and a small muscle twitched near his left temple. The adversarial mood between them had faded. Two foes were now two friends sharing confidences, past disappointments, and revealed sorrows.

"Were you placed in the orphanage after your father died?" she half-whispered, afraid to break the spell.

"Yes." He stared motionlessly out the window, deep in thought, his face devoid of emotion.

"Your mother?" she asked softly.

Chris s.h.i.+fted to face her.

"I don't know who my mother is. Or even if she's dead or alive." His voice was low, forceful.

Libby heard the long-buried anger in his voice and read the fear in his eyes, perceiving in an instant the confession was costing him dearly.

"I never knew her," he repeated. "I was literally left at my father's doorstep with a note saying the baby inside the basket was his. He had as hard a time being faithful to a woman as he did to a job, so he never figured out who my mother was. There had been several different women in his life nine months earlier and the fact that he was a heavy drinker left him with a less-than-perfect memory of who she might be. I lived with him and my grandmother until they were both killed in a car accident. None of my relatives wanted to take me, the son of a ne'er-do-well alcoholic, so I was placed in St. Bernadette's."

Chris's face was an impenetrable mask, cold and distant. He then told her about the Darnell's and how he learned the construction business from the man who later adopted him.

"You never married?" Libby asked.

"I was engaged once," he replied flatly. "But Cynthia's just another piece of history I'd like to forget."

His eyes sought the distant darkness again and he clutched the counter so tightly Libby feared it would crack.

"Actually, once I divulged the truth about my strange family history, she very quickly decided to dump me. She came just this short of calling me a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, which is true in the opposite meaning of the word, I suppose." Chris paused.

"Cynthia was from a wealthy Main Line family that lived in a big old mansion out in the suburbs. I was madly in love with her. Cynthia said she loved me, too, until she found out I was only the adopted son of Bob Darnell. My true parentage was so repulsive to her, she broke off our engagement the minute I confessed everything."

Libby's heart constricted at the rejection he must have felt.

"Better you found out before you got married," she said, struggling to find words to ease his pain. "My marriage crumbled because Rick couldn't accept who I was, either. He felt threatened by my successful career and didn't share my desire to have children. He'd always been honest about not wanting a family and for a long time I didn't think I did, either. So I was the one who changed in that regard. But I never antic.i.p.ated his jealousy over my work. He'd always been so supportive! When he demanded I take on fewer clients and cut my hours back, I was shocked."

Chris nodded in understanding.

She continued. "Ending a relations.h.i.+p is always traumatic, no matter who decides to call it quits, Chris. If Cynthia couldn't accept you for who you are, then at least you were spared the pain of a divorce later." Libby's voice stumbled over the name of the woman who so had obviously captured and broken Chris's heart.

Libby longed to pull him close and comfort the little boy inside who raged against the incredible loss and dismissal handed down several times so many years earlier. Instead, she moved closer and placed her hand gently on top of his clenched one.

At her touch, Chris turned and faced her. The lines of sorrow from minutes earlier had been replaced by a look of calm acceptance. Libby had no idea what he was thinking, but his eyes locked with hers, as though daring her to condemn him as Cynthia had.

She couldn't. His mother's sins were not his. Libby cursed the charade that prevented her from consoling him further.

"You think I'm a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, too, don't you?" Chris finally asked.

Chapter Twenty-One.

With the bluntly delivered question, Chris pulled his clenched fist away from Libby's hand and clasped her arm, not roughly, but with unexpected tenderness.

"No," she replied simply, all senses reeling from the softness of his touch against her bare skin.

"No? Not even when I plan to demolish the very building you've begged me several times to save?" His voice was low, his dark eyes demanding.

Libby met his gaze without flinching. "If you truly believe--in your heart--that Harte's Desire must come down or your plans will fail, then I can't fault you for following your beliefs, Chris. Just as I can't judge you on the basis of your mother's and father's shortcomings. You've risen above them to succeed on your own merit, not theirs."

Chris's fingertips traveled the length of her arm, leaving a mutiny of glorious sensation in their wake.

"Am I a success, Libby?" He circled the tender, sensitive skin underneath her wrist.

"Only you can answer that," she murmured as her body involuntarily responded with tremors of newfound awareness. Every nerve danced in wonderful rebellion at his inquisitive touch, as his hands glided up her arm, over her shoulders and came to rest at the base of her neck. In a movement as light as spun silk, he pushed back her honey-colored hair to expose the velvet flesh behind her ear.

With infinite tenderness he brushed his lips across the soft skin exposed there then dipped his head and repeated the gesture in the soft hollow at the base of her neck.