Harte's Desire Part 5

And if each movement wasn't reminder enough, Libby was working around Harte's Desire all morning, camera in hand, photographing the mansion from a thousand different angles. He hadn't noticed any hesitation in her stride, or slowness in hoisting the camera to suggest she was feeling any discomfort. Chris thought he'd seen her wince once as she bent down to retrieve a lens cover that had fallen on the gra.s.s. But she'd sprung right back up. If Libby was in pain, she was doing a d.a.m.n good job of hiding it.

Chris pressed the b.u.t.ton on his phone's intercom.

"Edwina," he barked out. "Do you have any aspirin in that suitcase you call a handbag?"

He heard Edwina rummage through its contents.

"You're in luck, Mr. D.," she replied, "got some right here. Want me to bring them in to you?"

"No, I'll come get them myself," he responded impatiently, adding under his breath, "if I can make it that far." He winced at the thought of asking his legs to move again.

As he entered the butler's pantry, Edwina observed her employer closely, wondering what, or whom, was responsible for Chris's surly temperament this morning. The reproachful look in his eyes told her not to probe, but that had never stopped her before and it sure wasn't going to stop her now.

"What's up, Mr. D.?" she asked with motherly concern. "You have a headache or something?"

"'Or something' about sums it up, Edwina. I'll take those aspirin now, please, if you don't mind." He moaned softly, then swore under his breath at the pain each step brought.

"Too much dancing this weekend?" she inquired and continued before he could answer. "Here, sit down while I get you a gla.s.s of water."

"No, really, I'll get it myself. I'm not an invalid," he protested mildly, "yet."

"Christopher Darnell, I've known you since you were eighteen, so I know when you've overdone it. Now sit. And that's an order." She turned and headed to the adjoining kitchen, only to hear footsteps behind her.

Never could keep that one down, she thought, filling a gla.s.s with cold tap water. Always so darned independent, even from the day he first started working for Bob Darnell, the man who later became his adopted father.

She was Bob Darnell's secretary then, handling the correspondence and phones for his already large and successful construction company in Philadelphia. Christopher Darnell showed up in the office one day, responding to their ad for experienced carpenters. She chuckled, remembering how Chris convinced Bob Darnell to hire him even though he'd never pounded a nail in his life. There was something about Chris's determination to learn the trade that convinced Bob Darnell to take a chance on him. Darnell later confided to Edwina that Chris reminded him of himself as a young man, desperate for a job and looking to be given an opportunity, no matter how small.

So Darnell put him on the crew and proceeded to teach him everything he knew about the construction business from the ground up, from pouring bas.e.m.e.nts to laying roofs. He found Chris to be a quick learner who only had to be shown once how to do something. He also discovered that Chris was an astute businessman, capable of bidding jobs accurately, bringing them in on time and near, or under, budget. Edwina had watched in amazement as the scrawny eighteen-year-old blossomed into a confident and capable young man with a body honed to chiseled perfection from the years of physical labor.

Nor was she surprised when Bob Darnell announced to her one day that he was going to adopt Chris. Their working relations.h.i.+p had evolved into a true father-son relations.h.i.+p filling a huge void for both of them. Darnell and his wife were unable to have children and they came to love Chris as the son they never had.

When Bob Darnell died, Chris inherited the construction company along with several choice building lots "Pops" had invested in.

On one of the lots Chris built his first success, a twenty-store strip mall full of gla.s.s and polished steel. It instantly established his credibility as a builder and real estate developer, providing the less-than-humble beginnings of a career that quickly expanded to include office buildings, hotels, and high-rise condominiums.

Edwina smiled to herself and looked with pride at the young man before her. She had been delighted when he asked her to stay on as his secretary and even though she had grown children of her own, she felt a parental affection for him.

Now if he would only stop limping around their "office" and either get some work done or cease hounding her with petty requests. So far he'd done neither.

Now that she'd seen him walk, she wondered again what David had conquered her Goliath. She'd never seen him this sore from physical exercise, except when he first started throwing a hammer and climbing scaffolding. Edwina chuckled. Maybe he got into a friendly game of tag football yesterday, but somehow she doubted it. He was already in great shape and could easily handle that. His mood was too gruff to blame on a bunch of guys slogging it out in a contact sport.

Chris accepted the aspirin and gla.s.s of water with a nod.

"I understand Courtney Blair found you at the Chesterfield Inn the other night," Edwina commented while he took the pills.

"Word sure travels fast in these parts," Chris drawled with a trace of annoyance.

"With her parents living next door to me, I always seem to get an unsolicited description of her many social activities. Especially since you gave me a ride home a few weeks ago and accidentally got to meet her." Edwina regarded Chris speculatively.

"Frankly, Mr. D., I think the woman has a crush on you. Her mother practically hinted as much. And...well...I'm sorry. I think you have me to blame for her appearance Sat.u.r.day night. Without thinking, I let it slip to her mother that I'd suggested you try the place for dinner this weekend. She must've run and told Courtney."

"Yes, Courtney came up to my table, alone, with some trumped up excuse of needing a ride home. She had some story about eating there with her folks, but they left, and I forget why she said she stayed behind."

Chris was getting irritated all over again, just remembering her thinly-veiled attempt at seduction. The deeply-exposed cleavage, the tight outfit clinging to every curve, the make-up too heavily applied. It was obvious to him she was out for the kill and had him lined up in the crosshairs of her matrimonial gun sights.

A month ago, he might have been interested, but not now. His project at Harte's Desire and his plan for revenge were all consuming.

"What else could I do, Edwina? The lady said she was stranded, so I gave her a ride home, then came back here for a quiet and peaceful night at this idyllic home-away-from-home." The last words were spoken with sarcasm.

Edwina raised a suspicious eyebrow. "That's all you did? Take her home?"

"Yep."

"To her house?"

"Yep."

"Not back here?"

"That's right."

"Since when have you ever turned down a beauty like that Mr. D.?"

"She's not my type, Edwina. Now stop your ceaseless matchmaking and get back to work," he teased gruffly. The woman was going to drive him nuts until he got married and settled down.

A recognizable blur of blue and red pa.s.sed by one of the kitchen windows, catching Chris's attention. He gingerly walked to the window, craning his neck to see which way Libby was headed now.

Edwina watched Chris stare intently out one of the large, multi-paned windows. Following his gaze, she saw Libby on the back patio, trying to find the best shot of the terraced gardens. Libby appeared to be thoroughly absorbed in the task at hand, checking and rechecking the light, distance, and angle. She was wearing slim-fitting jeans and a red plaid s.h.i.+rt, looking as though she could just as easily be a construction worker as a business executive. Edwina noticed her hair was worn down today, its golden waves highlighted by the warm May sun.

Edwina recalled the obvious attraction Chris and Libby felt for each other but tried to deny the other day. Maybe, just maybe, she thought intuitively, there was something going on between her employer and Miss Reed. It made sense. His testy frame of mind, his peering out the windows at her all morning. Chris wouldn't admit to the cause of his soreness, but she suddenly suspected Miss Reed had something to do with it.

Edwina itched to pursue her hunch, but knew she'd only be sidetracked by more of Chris's evasive answers. He wasn't in a confiding mood today. And, he'd just told her to resume working. She loved her job as much as she admired him and didn't want to risk losing her employment because of his quirky temperament. Better to keep her mouth shut and follow the boss' orders for a change.

"I'll be in the pantry if you need me, Mr. D.," she called out to him as he kept his eyes trained on the lithe figure outside.

"When Miss Reed comes in, please send her into my office," he called after her. "We have some things to discuss this morning."

An hour later, a polite knock on the dining room door announced Libby's arrival. He pushed some papers aside, motioned her in, and watched her take a seat in the side chair closest to him while setting her camera, tape measure, flashlight, and notebook on the table.

Chris carefully studied her while maintaining a mask of calculated indifference. He was fascinated by the expressiveness of her eyes as she looked up at him. Sharply he reminded himself to concentrate on the purpose of their meeting and remember the evil she had done him in the past. Suddenly, it was easy to see her for the adversary she was.

"Miss Reed," he began not bothering to temper the cold tone of his words. "I know I've given you a lengthy a.s.signment, but I'm wondering if you could take on one additional task this Sat.u.r.day, preferably in the afternoon?"

Libby looked at him, clearly puzzled. "And what might that be, Chris?"

"I'm having an architectural salvage company strip the mansion before I demolish it." He watched with satisfaction as she blanched at his words. He knew he was. .h.i.tting home and it felt good.

"I thought perhaps we could go room by room and note what items they would find of interest. I'll pay double your hourly rate since I'm asking you to work on the weekend," he added smoothly, delighting in the pained expression on her face at his more-than-generous offer.

Warring emotions played across her face. Finally, she spoke. "Why exactly do you need me?"

"To tell me what's valuable and what isn't. When the owner of the salvage company comes, I want to be prepared for the meeting. I like to leave nothing to chance."

And that was why he was so d.a.m.ned successful, Libby thought inwardly, knowing the times she'd bested him were only because he'd underestimated the great community support she could muster. Obviously he'd honed his skills from their repeated clashes.

"Sat.u.r.day afternoon is fine," she replied crisply.

"Excellent. Meet me here in my office at 1 p.m. sharp." He waved his hand dismissively and returned to the papers on his desk. He silently congratulated himself for resisting her obvious charms. Revenge was sweet, indeed.

She's nothing like Cynthia, Chris noted silently as he watched Libby make some adjustments to her camera before shooting the gazebo just outside the dining room later that day. With a wince, he carefully stood up and gingerly walked over to the windows to get a better view of her every movement. She made some notations on a clipboard, oblivious of his close surveillance. Her back was to him as she put the implements on the ground, stretched, and turned her face up towards the late morning sun.

Cynthia. Cynthia Moran. Her name evoked a thousand memories, ones he'd tried hard to bury in a frenzy of work over the years.

They'd met at a groundbreaking for one of his new buildings when he was just establis.h.i.+ng his name and reputation in the real estate development field. Her father was a wealthy financier from one of Philadelphia's upscale Main Line suburbs and his bank was financing Chris's project.

Chris couldn't remember why Cynthia was at the ceremony, but he was immediately attracted to the cool, pale blonde who stood with willowy grace next to her father. She was sophisticated, worldly, and beautiful; he was instantly smitten with her and was delighted when she asked her father for an introduction.

They went out that night to a small Italian cafe where they dined on home-made pasta, drank Chianti, and talked until almost midnight. She had seemed so sincere, so interested in him and his ambitions. Chris was too ashamed to tell her about his past, but he was all too willing to share his plans for the future. She was an avid and encouraging listener, and Chris found himself falling in love with her that first night.

Very quickly, they started dating each other exclusively. He didn't mind going to her rich friends' parties and fetes, where he often felt out of place even though he was welcomed as one of their own. Cynthia a.s.sured Chris that his newly-acquired prominence in the business community gave him instant acceptance among the wealthy circles in which she had grown up. After several months, they began talking about getting married, buying a house, having a baby or two. Things that offered Chris the stability he desperately wanted to experience as an adult, never having done so as a child.

He still remembered the night she took him home to meet the rest of her family. He'd been awed by the sight of the huge, old Victorian mansion which dominated a full suburban block, sitting tall and proud and isolated. It was the kind of house only those with wealth and connections among the upper strata of society could afford. To Chris, the house symbolized the Moran's undeniable status as one of the old money families of prominence in Philadelphia's aristocracy.

A maid took their coats, while a butler showed them to the library and fixed them a drink. Chris had already met Cynthia's father. Her mother, he discovered while sipping a scotch and water, was distant and reserved, appearing to tolerate his presence only for the sake of her daughter.

Dinner was a quiet affair with Cynthia doing most of the talking. Every now and then her mother would ask subtle questions about Chris's background that he fielded with as much finesse as possible, revealing only the barest of facts. He got the distinct impression he was being interviewed for the position of son-in-law, and while he might have a rosy future, his past was definitely suspect.

Feeling uncomfortable and humbled, he drove Cynthia back to his center city apartment, deciding to tell her everything about himself and his unpretentious origins. Chris reasoned that if Cynthia really loved him as she claimed, none of his troubling past would matter.

He would never, ever forget that night. Cynthia sat on his living room couch in shocked disbelief as he poured out his story. When he finished, she started a tirade of condemnation, accusing him of deliberately misleading her. She thought he was Bob Darnell's natural son, not the result of a one-night stand between an alcoholic and a woman who chose to remain nameless. How could she have children with Chris, she screamed at him, if she didn't know anything about his mother? What if she was mentally ill, or carried some disease that could be inherited by their children? Cynthia declared their relations.h.i.+p over, storming out of his apartment and out of his life.

Chris never saw her again, although he later read that she married the son of another one of the Main Line's scions. He wished her well, but learned from the experience that his background would always be a hindrance in any serious relations.h.i.+p he might enter into, no matter his many successes as a businessman.

It was hard to argue with Cynthia's reasoning about his mother. What kind of woman would leave her baby with an alcoholic father? Why didn't she want to raise Chris herself? There were so many unanswered questions. Chris felt there had to be something seriously wrong, mentally or physically, with his mother for her to act as she did.

Yes, Cynthia had been right about many things, but he never meant to deceive her. He simply thought their love for each other would be enough on which to build a life together.

Upon further reflection, Chris realized his hatred for old buildings stemmed directly from Cynthia's scathing rejection of him. Stately or ostentatious, historic or otherwise, old buildings for Chris symbolized old money and the very rich who built them. Unlike him, those buildings had a past and a history, things which had been denied Chris through no fault of his own. And people with old money, like the Morans, condemned Chris for a deficiency no amount of ambition or hard work could overcome.

Chris didn't go out of his way to demolish historic structures in a bid for quiet reprisal. But when one stood in the way of a project he wanted to undertake, he felt no guilt whatsoever watching the wrecking ball reduce it to a pile of rubble.

And, if Libby Reed hadn't been so d.a.m.ned successful in her rescue attempts, he would have laid waste to several more than he actually had.

His thoughts returned to the lithe woman now headed to the carriage house with camera and clipboard in hand. Cold, perfect Cynthia would never have stooped to wearing faded jeans and worn work boots, he considered, comparing the two women. Nor would she have ever allowed herself to break a sweat at the gym for fear of ruining her perfect hair and make-up. Libby sure didn't seem to mind and Chris grinned in recollection of the grit she had shown yesterday. Libby was down-to-earth, feisty, and determined. What would she think of his heritage, he wondered, watching her disappear from view. Would she react with the same revulsion and hatred Cynthia had?

Chris stopped his thoughts abruptly. What did it matter how Libby would respond? She was never going to know because he was never going to tell her. They were never going to be close enough emotionally for that to happen. He'd get his revenge, then get out. It was simple, really.

He moved away from the window and headed back to his office, grimacing as his stiffened muscles reminded him to take it slow. Very slow.

Chapter Ten.

Libby set her cameras and clipboard on the night table, kicked off her shoes, then stretched out on the ma.s.sive Renaissance Revival style bed, slowing letting out a sigh as her over-worked muscles reveled in the softness of its ancient mattress. Although two days had pa.s.sed since her workout with Chris, she was still sore and tight in places she'd only read about in anatomy books.

She was determined not to let Chris see her in pain, and only through a combination of extra-strength aspirin and sheer willpower was she able to work and move around Harte's Desire yesterday as though nothing was wrong.

Thank heaven she'd had the chance to discover firsthand he was in as much distress as she was. Watching quietly from behind a bush as she photographed an outbuilding, she'd seen him walk gingerly to his car, hesitate before opening the door, then yelp in agony as he sat down. She'd had to stifle a laugh; it felt so good to know she'd gotten the better of him. But then, he'd gotten the better of her, too, but it sure was worth it.

Libby hadn't seen him yet today, even though she'd spent the morning photographing the interiors of the mansion's first floor. After a quick lunch and a friendly chat with Mrs. McElroy, she headed upstairs to begin work in the second floor chambers.

This was the first one she entered and as Libby surveyed the room's furnis.h.i.+ngs, she decided it must have been the master bedroom. It had an adjoining bathroom and not only was the bedroom s.p.a.cious and generously proportioned, but the antique bedroom suite that filled it was elegant and costly.

Libby fluffed up the plump, down-filled pillows and gazed up at the headboard. Well over six feet tall and made of solid walnut, it was embellished with elaborate scrolls, cartouches, and panels of inlaid burl. Paneled bedrails connected it to a matching, somewhat shorter footboard.

Libby stretched a hand upward to play gently with a fringed ta.s.sel dangling from the bottom of one of two bell-cords that hung over the headboard and disappeared into the ceiling. They probably activated a call box in the kitchen below, she decided, thinking it was something for her to investigate later. Her eyes wandered over the rest of the room, noting the matching, marble-topped dressers, wall and ceiling gas fixtures, and an a.s.sortment of gilt-framed paintings. The walls were covered with a quaint, floral patterned wallpaper set off by heavily varnished walnut woodwork and a polished floor covered with plush, densely-woven rugs.

A small, round tea table, also topped with marble, was placed in a far corner, accompanied by two chairs and an export tea service of undetermined, but antique, vintage.

Bright suns.h.i.+ne streamed through the window, making the room cheery and welcoming.

Oh, this bed feels heavenly, Libby thought, sinking deeper into the airy pillows. It was so tempting to close her eyes and take a much-needed nap after another night spent tossing and turning. Another night thinking about Chris. Every time she dreamed of the possibilities, cold reality would intrude, sharply reminding her of the impossibilities. She felt her eyelids droop uncontrollably of their own free will.

"This is the last place I would have expected to find you," a deep voice boomed from the doorway, "in my bed, sleeping. Or is testing the mattresses part of your research on this old building?"

Libby's eyes flew open as she heard the words and the voice attached to them. Dear heaven, this was his bed? Panic stricken, she noticed too late the men's toiletries on the dresser and a denim work s.h.i.+rt thrown carelessly on the floor. Thoroughly embarra.s.sed, Libby blushed deeply. This was the last place she wanted to be found, too.

She started to arise, pus.h.i.+ng herself up on one elbow, when Chris gently nudged her back down. Involuntarily, she let out a low moan of pain as her stiff muscles tried to resist him.

Chris c.o.c.ked an eyebrow as he sat down at the foot of the bed facing her.

"I'm sorry, did I hurt you?"

"No."

"Hmm...maybe you threw your back out earlier today?" he asked with dawning recognition, pressing the point.

"Ah...no," Libby hedged, wondering where the line of questioning was leading.

"Then perhaps I can a.s.sume you've overextended your muscles in some way?"

"You could a.s.sume that," she replied acidly, "but it's none of your business and it's certainly nothing I would admit to. I'm photographing the bedrooms this afternoon and if you don't mind, I really should take advantage of the sun's angle right now and get started."

Libby moved a leg to the edge of the bed, preparing to roll off when Chris stopped her, catching her foot between his large hands.