Harte's Desire Part 2

"I really don't know. Maybe I just remind you of someone." Libby shrugged nonchalantly, even though her insides were a trembling ma.s.s of raw nerves. "And, if you'll excuse me, I must be on my way. Good day."

With renewed determination to leave as quickly as possible, she turned away from him, opened one of the ma.s.sive double doors, and stepped into the bright May suns.h.i.+ne.

Yes, she reasoned, if she was lucky, she would never have to see Christopher Darnell again.

Chapter Four.

It took Libby almost a full minute to realize that the persistent ringing in her ear was coming from the cell phone by her bed and not the one in her troubled dream. Actually the dream was a nightmare, with Christopher Darnell on the line, demanding to know if she was Libby Chatham.

Groggily, she answered and heard a huge sigh of relief on the other end. She barely croaked out a sleepy "h.e.l.lo."

"Miss Reed?"

"Yes?" It was too early for more than a one word response.

"This is Edwina McElroy, Mr. Darnell's secretary. Did I wake you up?"

Libby slowly opened one eye and squinted at the clock on her cell phone; the lighted screen read 9:02 and she realized with horror that she'd slept the better part of the morning away.

"Oh, Mrs. McElroy, no, you didn't..." she started to say.

"It doesn't matter, honey, if I did or didn't. You just sounded sleepy to me," Mrs. McElroy said kindly before changing the subject. "The boss asked me to give you a call this morning. He wants to know if you can meet with him sometime today. 'The sooner, the better' were his exact words."

Libby's heart lurched and then sank. Maybe he's changed his mind about the fundraiser, she thought. Or worse, he knew who she really was. Had her dream been a premonition?

"Did he say what he wanted to discuss?" she asked shakily, coming more awake with each second that pa.s.sed by.

"No, he didn't. Just flew out of his office, all in a huff, demanding I call you immediately to set up a meeting. The phones were fixed late yesterday and he's been returning calls all morning. Gets in at seven you know. A real workaholic, Mr. D. is."

Now fully awake, Libby quickly recalled her agenda for the day. A shower, long and hot, was definitely in order and she had to review some work with her a.s.sistant in about an hour.

"I could be there around one this afternoon, Mrs. McElroy, if that suits his schedule," Libby replied.

She heard the shuffling of what sounded like an appointment book in the background.

"Yes, he's free at one, Miss Reed. No need to ring the bell, just come on in. We'll see you then."

Libby hung up the phone, pondering the meeting to come. What could he possibly want, she wondered? What could have upset him so much that he had to see her? A phone call? There was only one likely reason, Libby surmised, and it was no doubt the one she feared the most.

Hearing noises in the bedroom, Libby's two cats, m.u.f.fin and Crunch, came bounding into the room and up onto the bed. Libby stroked them both before shoving them off the bed with a friendly swat. Grabbing a robe, she followed them downstairs where they waited to be fed. She was glad for their companions.h.i.+p in an otherwise empty and lonely house.

Coffee, she thought. What she really needed was a strong cup of coffee. Libby walked through a small hallway to the kitchen. Ignoring the decaf she usually drank, she plucked the can of regular she kept on hand for her guests out of the refrigerator and set up the coffeemaker.

Libby looked around with fondness at the room she had spent so much time in as a child.

She had nothing but warm memories of the house, which had once been her grandparents' and was now hers. She'd spent so many of her childhood days there, with Pop-Pop and Grandma Reed. She wasn't surprised when they willed it to her, not only because she was the sole grandchild but because they knew she would never tear it down or remodel it beyond recognition. Married when she inherited it, Libby rented it for a few years to a nice elderly couple. When her divorce became imminent, and her tenants thankfully decided to move to a warmer climate, Libby moved the thirty some miles from Philadelphia and took over the home for her own.

She could still remember the smell of Grandma Reed's pies left to cool on the kitchen's deep window sills. The room was bright and airy, with a large bay window overlooking the backyard. In a concession to modern conveniences, Libby installed new cabinets and appliances when she moved in two years ago. She left the rest of the house untouched and it looked remarkably the same today as it did when built in 1917.

With four bedrooms, it was certainly much larger than Libby needed, but she adored its turn-of-the-twentieth-century warmth and character. Designed in the bungalow style, it had a steeply-pitched slate roof that swept down to create a charming, columned porch on the front of the house. The porch was enclosed with multi-paned doors which could be opened in fair weather, bathing the room in fresh air. She didn't have riverfront property like Harte's Desire, but was close enough to the water to enjoy its cooling effects. There were three other porches, one of them used for sleeping as was popular back then.

The house was built of st.u.r.dy red brick, made locally, while its projecting dormers and bay windows were covered with cedar shakes stained red to match the house.

The Craftsman-style interior was formal, yet rustic, with paneled wainscot, polished hardwood floors, and open ceiling beams in the living room. Built-in bookcases flanked its red brick fireplace and French doors opened to the front porch beyond. The dining room had built-in, gla.s.s-fronted china cabinets and a bay window with a window seat. A small family room next to the kitchen was dominated by a corner fireplace, also done in red brick.

Surprisingly, the dark wood paneling, doors, and trim throughout the house had never been painted. Twice a year, Libby rubbed lemon oil on their varnished surfaces to protect and enhance the warm patina that had gradually acc.u.mulated over the years.

Libby waited impatiently for the coffee to finish brewing. It had been quite a night, she reflected after a long yawn. Actually, yesterday had been quite a day. She couldn't seem to get Christopher Darnell off her mind. He was nothing like the man she imagined him to be. Expecting an old, gray-haired patriarch, she found instead a strong, accomplished, and exceedingly handsome younger man. Powerful, dominating, and thoroughly charming when he wanted to be. She had antic.i.p.ated hating the person who threatened to destroy, and would if given the chance, the old buildings she loved.

Rather, she felt utterly confused by her attraction to him. And, she was attracted to him alright. Physically and on other levels she had yet to define, or admit. But she knew any relations.h.i.+p, however brief and sweet, was doomed once he discovered her ident.i.ty. And it was inevitable that he would, sooner or later. Borden's Landing was a small town and in the two years she'd been living here, Libby had come to know most of its residents on a first name basis.

She shuddered, imagining his wrath when he learned the truth. Hoping her deception wouldn't be discovered until after the fundraiser, she poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table to savor its steaming comfort.

Lord knows she'd tried to get him off her mind yesterday. After leaving Harte's Desire, she spent the afternoon doing research at the county archives and later made herself a simple dinner. Still feeling strangely restless and bored after eating, she decided that a good workout at the health club would calm her nerves as it usually did. When thirty minutes on the treadmill left her exhilarated instead of exhausted, she headed to the free weight room. The health club was packed for a Thursday night, but she did as many exercises as she could, all the while comparing the men working out there to Christopher Darnell. None of them seemed to have anywhere near his physical perfection.

Still wide awake when she got back home at ten, Libby poured herself a gla.s.s of Chardonnay and curled up on the sofa in front of the fireplace with a historical romance. The book was an excellent one, but she groaned inwardly when the description of its hero matched Christopher Darnell to a tee. There was no getting away from the man, she thought. Thoroughly caught up in the story and its all too similar protagonist, she finally forced herself to turn out the lights and go to bed at two.

Visions of him kept her from falling asleep right away, and continued to plague even her dreams.

Memory of that dream brought her back to thoughts of the day's coming events. She drained her coffee cup and headed upstairs to the shower.

Forty-five minutes later, dressed and refreshed, Libby emerged from the house wearing a casual pair of slacks with a matching knit silk top. She concluded it was better to wear something more suited for a confrontation than jeans and a T-s.h.i.+rt. Her hair, freshly washed and blow-dried, fell in luscious golden waves past her shoulders.

Closing the back door behind her, she headed to the carriage house that sat some fifty feet away. Like the main house, it had a slate roof, red brick walls, and projecting dormers covered with cedar s.h.i.+ngles. Although it had been built to house automobiles rather than horses and buggies, it was a substantial size.

Libby had converted the servants' bedrooms on the building's second floor into her offices, giving the smaller room to her a.s.sistant, Connie Garrett, while keeping the larger one for her. Seeing Connie's car in the driveway, she hurried up the stairs to greet her.

"Hi, Lib," Connie called out when Libby appeared at the doorway. "Boy, are you late this morning. Out 'till the wee hours last night, I hope?"

"And wouldn't you like to know?" Libby replied teasingly to the 23-year old a.s.sistant she hired two years ago fresh out of college. Connie was bright, single, and led an active social life. What began as a working relations.h.i.+p gradually turned into an easy friends.h.i.+p, and they often shared confidences.

"Actually, I was up late, but not for the reason you're thinking."

"One of these days, you're going to waltz in here with the biggest grin on your face and tell me you've finally met Prince Charming. You may claim you're over your divorce from Rick, but I don't believe you, Lib. And do you know why? You hardly ever date and you always find fault with any man who shows even half an interest in you." Connie gently chided her boss as she munched on a bagel spread thickly with cream cheese.

Connie had met Rick a couple of times before the divorce was final, and although she respected his work as an architect, it was easy to see why the marriage failed. Rick had an ego. A big ego. Things were fine while Libby struggled to establish herself in the field of historic preservation. But as her reputation grew and she felt confident enough to start her own business, Rick began to feel threatened by her achievements. Especially when he still hadn't been promoted to a junior partners.h.i.+p in the Philadelphia architectural firm where he worked.

Connie remembered Rick's last visit. He stopped by to see the upstairs offices, which had just been completed. After taking a quick look around, he proceeded to criticize everything Libby had done. The paint colors were wrong, the lighting placed incorrectly, the storage closet too small. It was obvious he was jealous of her success.

Libby didn't talk much about her failed marriage, even though Connie wished she would. Connie knew the divorce left Libby wary of all men and reluctant to enter into any relations.h.i.+p, long or short.

Connie eyed Libby with speculation, then decided to probe a little further. They were friends, after all.

"So why are you late today?"

"I had trouble sleeping, and if I told you it had something to do with Christopher Darnell, would you stop pestering me," Libby responded laughingly, "and let me get some work done?"

"That's right, you met with him yesterday. What did he do, turn down your request to use Harte's Desire?"

"No, actually, he agreed to it. He agreed to everything... the date, we can clear out the first floor, use the porches, the patio. We can do anything we want to for the fundraiser."

"And you're going to tell me that's why you were up late last night? You were out celebrating?"

"No," Libby replied with hesitation, "I'm going to tell you I met Prince Charming."

Connie put the bagel down and stared at Libby, wide-eyed. "Christopher Darnell is Prince Charming?"

Libby nodded in agreement.

"But I thought you said he was some old guy."

"Well, he's not."

Libby was immediately sorry for her confession because the discussion was dredging up memories she was trying desperately, and unsuccessfully, to forget. Like the admiring look in his eyes as he watched her, the strong current of emotion that pa.s.sed between them when they touched, the disarming smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth and lit his whole face with a boyish charm.

"If he's not some old guy, then what is he?" Connie sounded cautiously curious.

"Tall, dark, and handsome. Every woman's dream. Great body, gorgeous eyes, strong hands, intelligent, hardworking... have I said enough?"

"The only thing you haven't said, but I'm hearing it in your voice, is that there's something wrong with him."

"Yes, he's Christopher Darnell," Libby stated bluntly. "Remember him? The man who wanted to tear down the bank building--and those other buildings--in Philadelphia? The man who's going to tear down Harte's Desire? He hates, no, despises historic buildings almost as much as he does me."

Connie looked at Libby sympathetically. "Well, Lib," she began thoughtfully, "maybe you can convert him over to your side. You know, show him just how great these old buildings can be. You've always been good at that kind of friendly persuasion."

"There's no way that will ever happen, Connie," Libby said with resignation. "Besides, I think he knows who I am."

She proceeded to tell her about Mrs. McElroy's phone call earlier.

"As I see it, you don't have any choice, Lib. You have to go over there and find out what he wants. When you get back, I want to hear all the gory details. That is, if you live to tell the tale!" Connie laughed, winking at her boss. "And, if I don't see you, have a nice weekend!"

Chapter Five.

For the second time in two days, Libby stood before the paired front doors to Harte's Desire feeling a mixture of dread and antic.i.p.ation. She absentmindedly ran her fingers through her hair in a gesture of nervousness. Taking a deep breath, she turned one of the large, embossed bra.s.s door k.n.o.bs and walked in.

The hallway was quiet, except for the sound of her footsteps echoing off the marble tiled floors. She stopped by the butler's pantry to announce her arrival to Mrs. McElroy, but found the room empty. Thinking the friendly woman might be discussing something with Christopher Darnell in his office, Libby made her way over to the former dining room and peeked inside.

He was seated at the table with his back to her, gazing out the French doors past the overgrown brick patio to the river beyond. One of the doors was open, allowing a gust heady with the scent of spring to fill the room, rustling the plans and blueprints lying in front of him.

She could barely see his face, but it was obvious he was deeply in thought, contemplating something important or disturbing. Although his arms were casually draped on the arms of the chair, both fists were tightly clenched as though he were fighting an invisible foe. To Libby, he appeared cold, threatening, and unreachable.

Summoning all the courage she could find, Libby knocked lightly on the open door.

"Come in, Miss Reed," Chris called out to her without turning around. The words were spoken brusquely and with authority as he waved a hand at one of the side chairs, indicating for her to sit down at his right.

Libby looked at Chris expectantly, waiting for the words of discovery she knew to be on the tip of his tongue. Deceiving him from the beginning was a risk she had to take, but now she felt great remorse; it really wasn't in her nature to lie to anyone and if she had to, she would confess the truth. Hopefully, he would still let the historical society use Harte's Desire for its fundraiser. She would step down as chair, issue a public apology, do anything to ensure his continued permission to use the mansion. Restoration of the schoolhouse must not suffer because of any rivalry between the two of them.

Feeling somewhat better about how she would cope with the ordeal ahead, Libby watched Chris collect his thoughts before speaking.

"Miss Reed, er, Elizabeth, I'm glad you could meet with me today on such short notice."

He watched her settle into the straight-backed chair and noted silently how pretty she looked with her hair down, how much larger her brown eyes seemed when framed by ma.s.ses of golden waves. It occurred to him that she would look great no matter what she wore and with unaccustomed restraint he stopped himself from imagining her lovely body with no clothes on at all.

"Your secretary made it sound like a matter of some urgency," Libby replied, trying to keep her voice steady. She hid her hands under the ma.s.sive dining room table so he couldn't see their trembling.

"Yes, I had a very upsetting phone call this morning from the state Office of Historic and Natural Resources." He paused as her eyes widened in recognition of the name. "Do you happen to know anybody in that office?"

Dear heaven, Libby thought with an inward groan, she knew everyone there. Her work often involved buildings owned or regulated by the state and all of her National Register nominations were reviewed by that office. Someone must have told Chris about her.

"Yes, I know some people who work there." It was the truth. Not exactly the whole truth, she chided herself, but as much as she wanted to divulge. "Why?" she queried, mentally preparing for the onslaught to come.

"I had a long discussion with the head of that office today, and I received some very bad news," he exclaimed tersely.

Libby started to panic at his words. This was going to be worse than she envisioned. He was going to drag this out, take his time, like a cat toying playfully with the mouse before devouring it in one ferocious swallow.

"And just what were you told?" she asked, hoping he'd come right to the point.

"I was informed that before I can demolish Harte's Desire, I have to provide them with thorough doc.u.mentation of the building as it now exists."

A deep frown settled on his face as he addressed her.

"They want to have a record of it for their files, they say. Interior and exterior photos, written descriptions of the rooms and furnis.h.i.+ngs. They even want," he paused to look through the notes he had taken, "a history of the building and a statement of its significance, whatever the heck that is. They acknowledge they can't prevent me from razing the building, but they're making me submit this report as one of several conditions for getting their approval to build near the wetlands by the river."

Libby forced herself not to breathe an audible sigh of relief. She hadn't been found out. Yet. The fundraising plans were intact. For the moment. If her luck would just hold out another few months.

"Why exactly am I here?" she prodded, managing to inject some tranquility into her voice although her heart was still racing and she didn't dare withdraw her hands from under the table, they were shaking so.

"You mentioned yesterday that you have some training in the field of restoration. Do you know enough to complete this report the state wants?"

When she didn't reply immediately, he hastened to add, "I realize this is all very last minute, but I'm facing some extremely tight construction deadlines. I've never seen so many permits and approvals needed for one project. And this is just one complication more than I care to deal with right now."

Libby sat forward, intrigued by his proposal.

"The only person I know who could do the work is Libby Chatham and I'd have to be ice skating in h.e.l.l before I ever hired her."

"L-Libby Chatham?" Libby replied, her tongue stumbling over the mention of her former name.