Harte's Desire Part 7

He heard Libby sigh in defeat and momentarily wished they weren't adversaries.

They agreed the room held nothing the salvage company would be interested in and proceeded to the second floor. Libby pointed out the many architectural treasures to be wrested from the mansion's walls, restraining her enthusiasm the best she could as she described them. Heavily-carved arch-headed doors with solid bra.s.s k.n.o.bs in ornate lock boxes, molded trim enriched with hand-carved corner blocks, plaster corbels supporting elaborate arches, alabaster chimney and mantle pieces that would bring a small fortune, even gas ceiling and wall fixtures with cranberry and milk gla.s.s globes. The expensive hardwood flooring could be recycled, as well. All of these details she knew by heart, having photographed and doc.u.mented each and every one in the mansion's 15 bedrooms.

By four o'clock they were on the first floor, wandering its many tall-ceilinged rooms. Libby noted the various doors, cove moldings, interior shutters, mantels, and light fixtures that, with careful removal, would be any salvager's dream. She confessed he stood to make a small fortune on the building's architectural pieces.

The entrance hall was the last room for them to inventory. It was getting late, about six p.m. Libby pointed out the staircase, mentioning its impressively-turn bal.u.s.ters, ornate newel post, and mahogany handrail that, once cleaned, would s.h.i.+ne with a special gleam. She a.s.sured him that even though some bal.u.s.ters were missing, an experienced cabinetmaker would have no problem replicating them.

Knowing she'd saved the best for last, she gestured upward. "Chris, this is probably the most valuable thing in the mansion," she said, pointing to the stained gla.s.s window prominently displayed at the landing. She didn't even bother to disguise her excitement.

Chris followed her gaze and let it rest on the colorful window. He'd never really noticed it before. h.e.l.l, he'd never really noticed anything in the house before today. Until she carefully explained what she was showing him and why it was important and valuable. He was thrilled with her a.s.sessment that he'd make a lot of money ripping the mansion apart. Anything to keep his costs down, which seemed to be spiraling out of control lately.

"What do you know about it?" he asked, his curiosity mildly piqued.

Libby took in its dazzling colors vividly illuminated by the slowly-sinking evening sun that finally appeared late in the afternoon. Of course, the panel had roses, like everything else in the mansion. A lovely border suffused with grandifloras, floribundas, climbers, and rugosas in every color of the rainbow surrounded a scene depicting the river view behind Harte's Desire. Two figures in the distance surely represented Chester and Amanda Harte. The stained gla.s.s artist's talents were showcased to perfection in the piece.

"I don't know anything yet. It's placed too high in the wall for me to see a signature or maker's mark." Mentally, she reviewed the known Philadelphia studios Chester Harte could have commissioned: D'Ascenzio Studios, the Coldwell Brothers, William Trench, there were several, all talented.

"I'll get a ladder," Chris offered, realizing that it would be a nice diversion to help steady her pet.i.te form as she took a closer look. They'd been civil with each other all afternoon, nothing more or less to suggest any earlier attraction between them. Truth be told, he missed their easy banter.

He returned minutes later and secured the ladder in the landing. Libby climbed up, grateful for Chris' a.s.sistance. Starting at the window's left side, her eyes wandered each piece of leaded gla.s.s across the bottom rail, looking for a signature to identify the maker. She'd almost reached the far right, when she gasped.

"Oh my gosh," she said breathlessly. "It's signed Louis C. Tiffany!"

"Are you sure?" Even he knew who Tiffany was.

"I am positive. Chris, you have to see this to believe it." Libby quickly climbed down so Chris could examine her discovery.

Her thoughts raced. When did Tiffany strike out on his own? Was this piece doc.u.mented in any company records? More importantly, what was it worth? The thought of this important work being wrested from its original setting was just another nail in her coffin of despair.

"I'll have to do some research on it for you. It's quite a find. It might even be museum quality." She could have sworn she saw dollar signs ringing up in his eyes at the very mention of its potential value as he got off the ladder.

Then she caught herself. While she hated the mansion's fate, she had to stop letting it rule her emotions. She dug into a well of resolve she didn't know she owned, straightened her shoulders, and looked at him squarely.

"Let's do the bas.e.m.e.nt and call it a day," she suggested.

Chris flipped a light switch at the head of the stairs before they descended into the dank cellar.

It took Libby a few seconds to get her bearings in the relative darkness. The gargantuan bas.e.m.e.nt was cluttered with an a.s.sortment of cast-off household goods, canning jars, an old-fas.h.i.+oned was.h.i.+ng machine, magazines that had been out of print for decades, and other detritus. A monstrous and ancient heating system occupied the center of the room, its octopus-like arms radiating from a boiler that had to date from the 1920s.

They poked through piles of debris, opened cardboard boxes, and sorted through tin cans filled with nuts, bolts, and nails.

"I don't see much here of architectural value," she said, gesturing around. "There's some old wooden storm windows in that pile over there, but I doubt they'll be of interest."

In the dim lighting she noticed several doorways along the back wall.

"Let's see what's over there," she said, pointing in their direction. She stopped when she saw the glazed look that had come over Chris. His patience with their afternoon together was finally wearing thin.

"I don't know, lady," Chris drawled, switching on another light as they made their way through the debris-filled bas.e.m.e.nt. "I've had about as much history as I can take for one day. h.e.l.l, make that for one year." He threw her a rakish look of contriteness.

"Well, you're the one that bought this place," she reminded him, reveling somewhat in his discomfort. This had been hard for him, too, but for entirely different reasons! She grinned back at him, unable to help herself.

Chris tugged on the first door they came to and it opened with a creak and a groan. Libby trained her flashlight around the room as glistening piles of coal in the wood enclosed bin reflected the rays a hundredfold. Obviously, the heating system had been originally coal-fired, as it would have been. The second door opened into a windowless room used for storing gardening implements. They found an a.s.sortment of clay pots, jardinieres, small trellises, and the like, but nothing of great value.

As they approached the third door, Libby noted with dismay it was held shut with a rusted padlock. "Oh dear," she groaned. "This one may have to wait."

Chris chuckled. "No it won't. I've got a pair of bolt cutters upstairs."

She eyed him speculatively. "Don't tell me you're a burglar, too?"

"Hardly," he laughed easily in response. "This isn't the first time something at Harte's Desire was locked up. I've used it a few times. Wait here."

She watched his retreating figure, silently admiring his handsome good looks. She inwardly admitted how hard it was to resist him when he dropped his business persona and lightened up. In another life, she could....she could what? Yes, maybe really like him. She mutely canceled the thought as soon as it arose. There was no way on earth they could ever make it work. He hated old buildings and she loved them. He hated her and she hated him. But, she did like the other side of him, the side that made her forget their history and their mutual dislike for each other.

Chris returned, bolt cutters in hand, and deftly removed the lock.

Libby stood back as the door swung open, a pungent smell wafting towards them. Cobwebs filled the doorway and Chris swatted at them before entering the darkness with Libby right behind him.

She gasped as her flashlight revealed row after row of green bottles, carefully shelved with their corked tops slanted down. "Chris," she whispered in awe. "It's a wine cellar. No wonder it was locked!"

Chris tugged on a chain dangling from the ceiling and suddenly the room was bathed in the soft golden glow of an old-fas.h.i.+oned, bare light bulb.

Libby walked over to the first rack and gently brought a bottle down to examine it. Wiping off a thick layer of dust, she held it gingerly up to the light. "The label says 'Harte Vineyards' on it." Her voice was almost childlike with excitement as she looked up at him with an astonished, but radiant expression. "I had no idea."

Chris watched her with newfound awareness. Her enthusiasm was infectious and he wondered how any man, him especially, could resist her this way.

"You're the historian, Miss Reed. Do you mean to tell me you never knew about a vineyard here?" he jested casually.

"No," she replied, shaking her head. "With your permission, I'd like to explore the grounds next week. Maybe the vines are still here. Or, some of them, at least."

"I doubt it, but you're welcome to look for them." Chris pulled another bottle from the shelf and looked at it closely. "This one's a 1910 merlot," he announced. "I wonder how many bottles are here?"

"Maybe thousands?" she said with a shrug.

They roamed through rack after rack, row after row, discovering chardonnays, pinot noirs, cabernet sauvignons, and even several fruit brandies. He tucked a bottle under his arm and announced his intensions to try it later as they made their way back through the dank, dark cellar.

Chris let her go upstairs first, admiring her perfectly-shaped figure as it swayed with each rising step, and realized he was having the devil of a time pretending he wasn't attracted to her. d.a.m.nation, the whole afternoon had sorely tested his resolve.

Libby gathered the rest of her belongings where she had set them down in the hallway and was about to bid him good night, when her stomach let out a long, low growl.

"Why Miss Reed, I think you're hungry," Chris said with a half a smile tugging at his lips as he shut the bas.e.m.e.nt door. "Care to stay for dinner?"

What am I thinking? he chided himself inwardly. But he'd already thrown the idea out there. Surely a little socializing after hours wouldn't hurt, and, besides, he was hungry, too.

He continued, "I'm making a stir fry for dinner and I've eaten by myself the last five nights in this lonely, haunted place. Perhaps you'd join me?" He was tired of eating alone, he admitted silently. It was Sat.u.r.day night and he had no plans. After business hours, the mansion was often too quiet for someone like him who was used to the hustle and bustle of the city.

She shot him a look combining disbelief with temptation.

He sensed her hesitation. "Better yet, I'll bring my laptop into the kitchen and you can research the wines and the Tiffany piece while I'm cooking. We can even try this merlot. Surely you can't argue with the logic of doing some research while I cook?" he teased lightly while flas.h.i.+ng his best smile. Yes, this was just a continuation of their work together. That's all this was, he a.s.sured himself.

Libby wrestled with warring emotions. It would be pure folly to stay, but she was anxious to validate the window's provenance and learn more about the vineyard. Even if it meant enduring his presence for another hour or two. Oh, who was she kidding? she asked silently. Endure? This Adonis-like man was asking her to join him for dinner and she was seriously considering turning him down? She ignored the clamoring inner voice reminding her of each and every reason she should decline.

"I'd love to stay, Chris. Thank you."

The lamb was walking straight into the lion's den tonight, Libby acknowledged before deciding she could care less.

Chapter Thirteen.

Libby followed him into the kitchen where he set up his laptop before carefully opening the ancient bottle of wine. He poured the rich, deep red liquid into two cut crystal goblets he'd found in the butler's pantry cupboards, then placed a plate of appetizers on the counter for them to share.

"Cheers," he toasted, raising his gla.s.s to hers, his eyes twinkling with adventure. "Let's see if 1910 was a good year."

"Cheers," she replied, her heart doing a small leap as he looked at her with that special, endearing way of his when he relaxed.

Libby swirled the wine in her gla.s.s then took a hesitant sniff. It smelled fine, nothing like the vinegar she expected. She took a sip and the wine's velvety smoothness caught her by surprise.

"This is really exceptional, Chris," she half-whispered, feeling the day's tensions melt away immediately as the liquid suffused her.

"Crackers and cheese?" he asked, pus.h.i.+ng the antique china plate towards her. He tasted the wine, too, and was astounded to find it was one of the best he'd ever had. And he'd drunk many expensive wines in his time. In fact, Cynthia had always insisted on ordering the most costly bottle on the wine list every time they ate out. He pushed thoughts of her away and concentrated on the captivating young woman seated in his kitchen. It was d.a.m.ned hard right now to remember she was the enemy.

With great discipline, Chris turned his attention to preparing dinner while she worked at the computer.

Every now and then Libby would steal a glance his way, watching with interest as he capably chopped, sliced, and diced the ingredients for their meal. There was something inherently s.e.xy about the way a man commanded the kitchen, she mused. It almost predicted what kind of lover he would be. Those who just threw things together lacked the subtle finesse it took to please a woman. Those who paid attention to every detail, who determined to make every course perfect, would be the same in bed. Libby blushed at the turn her thoughts had taken and focused her attention back to the computer screen.

"What have you learned, Elizabeth?" he asked several minutes later, peeking over her shoulder.

"Let me tell you about the vineyard, first," she said, pointing to the screen. "See this photo? It's an aerial showing Harte's Desire in 1931. There's no mistaking the rows of grape vines in the southwest corner of the property not far from the river."

Chris adjusted his eyes to the somewhat blurry image and discovered she was right. "I see what you mean," he said somewhat incredulously.

"Now, look at this aerial taken a few years ago." She clicked and a new image came up. "Here's that same southwest corner, and you can just barely make out the remnants of the vineyard. I'll bet it's still there, Chris, just terribly overgrown like the rest of the gardens here."

"That's impressive," he said, his head so close to hers she could smell him, a rich, no-nonsense, musky fragrance tinged with evergreen. Heaven help her, she thought. She was always a sucker for a man who wore aftershave.

"I'll take a look next week to see if it's still there. I suspect the vineyard was their son's doing and I've found there were several vintages that got awards in the early 1900s."

"And the Tiffany window?" he asked, pausing to take another sip of wine. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless, that's how siren-like she was right now. The sailor in him was ready to get dashed on the rocks because of her. Alarmed at the unexpected need filling him, he stepped back, hoping to put some much-needed distance between them.

"I've found out a little bit. The maker's mark is authentic and it matches that seen on other windows he's crafted. From the scant research I've done tonight, it seems to be one of his early commissions. But I'll have to contact Tiffany's on Monday and speak with their archivist."

"You really know your stuff, Elizabeth," he said with honest admiration, thinking Rich Stone hadn't lied about Libby's talents. "This place has been full of surprises today, thanks to you."

She heard the praise in his voice and wished he were anyone but Christopher Darnell.

Chris smiled warmly at her. "Dinner's ready," he announced. "Why don't we eat on the back porch where we can enjoy the river view?"

Chris piled utensils and two fragrant plates of chicken stir fry with rice onto a tray, while Libby brought out their wine gla.s.ses, tucking the half-empty bottle of 1910 merlot under her arm. They settled into two cus.h.i.+oned wicker chairs with a small wicker table between them. For a few minutes neither spoke as the lazy river provided a soothing backdrop to the end of what had been-for her-an eventful day. Relaxing in a way she hadn't for months, Libby kicked off her shoes and socks, and settled cross-legged with a sigh into the chair before picking up her plate. The scenery was as intoxicating as the man sitting next to her.

"You mentioned when we first met that you'd been away from Borden's Landing for a few months. Was it business or pleasure?" he asked casually as they started eating. He took another sip of wine feeling an odd, unfamiliar contentment settle somewhere in his gut. Sitting with her, here, felt right in a way that was hard to define.

Libby quickly decided this topic was much safer than one where she might accidentally reveal her ident.i.ty. But, was she really ready to share this with anyone, and more specifically with him? The painful memories were sometimes more than she could bear.

Chris sensed her despair and clearly saw it reflected in her eyes. She looked terribly vulnerable, so opposite to the feisty professionalism she normally projected.

"I a.s.sume, then, it wasn't a trip taken for pleasure?" The raw concern in his voice caught Libby by surprise.

"No... I... that is, my mother," she stammered, trying to put into words the emotions that had been locked away, safely but destructively, inside her these past few weeks. Feelings that were demanding to be released before causing permanent damage. Now that the first few words were out, she had to continue.

"Mom called me from the hospital in Boston. Actually, she left a message on my answering machine saying she was back in the hospital and to please call her when I got in. When I listened to the message I could hear the resignation in her voice. She had been battling breast cancer for five years. Surgery, radiation, chemo. She'd been through it all. She was no stranger to hospitals, but she didn't sound her usual upbeat and optimistic self this time."

Libby paused to look at Chris and found him listening carefully as she told her story.

"So, I took the first flight I could get to Boston and arrived late that night to find her desperately ill again. The doctors told me her cancer was out of remission. They recommended another round of aggressive chemotherapy, but couldn't guarantee it would work this time. Mom thought about it for a few days before deciding she was tired of being poked and prodded and filled with chemicals that made her violently ill in an attempt to make her well again. I think she knew her time was up, so she refused further treatment and decided to go home to die with what little dignity she had left."

Libby exhaled heavily and continued. "We talked about her coming back to Borden's Landing, to spend her final days with me. But she was too sick to travel by then, so I stayed at her house outside of Boston. A wonderful group of hospice nurses helped me care for her." Libby's voice quivered at the memories. "She died a little more than a month ago, peacefully and in as little pain as possible."

Two tears, hot and wet, slid down her cheeks. The telling was cathartic and she felt enormous relief at having finally brought her grief out into the open.

Chris said nothing, but reached over and took her hand possessively into his. His touch was warm and rea.s.suring, as if by holding her he could make her pain his.

"I know what it's like to lose a parent," he sympathized gently. "The loss is staggering, leaving you feeling alone, empty, and very mortal. Until you go through it yourself, you don't really understand how much it can change you, for better or worse."

He took a napkin off the tray. With great tenderness, he wiped the tears from her face, carefully dabbing the corners of each eye.

Libby was melting from his touch, so caring and considerate. When was the last time anyone had shown such obvious concern for her? Certainly Rick had never been this selfless. He'd been too caught up in his own problems to help anyone else with theirs.

Chris continued without questioning why he felt the need to share his experience with her. "I was ten when my dad died and for a long time I thought my life had taken a turn for the worse from that day on."

He didn't dare reveal more of his personal history. Remembering the shame and humiliation so long endured, he hesitated, trying to decide how to continue.

"I was so mad at him for dying and leaving me alone to face the world that I vowed I would be everything he wasn't." He looked at Libby thoughtfully. "You will come to terms with your mother's death in your own way and the choice is yours whether you become stronger or weaker from the experience."

Libby nodded in silent acknowledgement, knowing he was right. There was a tender side to this man who could also be so cold and domineering. His concern for her was unexpected and out of character. It hinted at the promise of a relations.h.i.+p that could be filled with caring and sharing, something she wanted beyond measure.

But a relations.h.i.+p between them could never be, Libby reminded herself sharply. The deception she was playing on him had seen to that. She was suddenly sorry she'd confided in him. She never wanted to lean on any man ever again, yet here she was pouring out her soul to someone she hardly knew. He caught her in a weak moment, she decided, then resolved to keep her vulnerability hidden. Most of all from him.

"Forgive me for unloading my burdens on you. I think the wine loosened my tongue!" she said more lightly than she felt. She eyed her half-full gla.s.s and knew it wasn't the wine. It was Chris and the engaging way he had of giving her his undivided attention when she least expected it.

She took a deep breath and attempted to steer the conversation towards a subject fraught with less emotion. "Enough about me. Why don't you tell me what you like about living in Philadelphia?" she asked, diving into her plate of food with a new-found hunger. "This is delicious, by the way."

He could understand her desire to change the line of discussion and was thankful she hadn't asked about his family history. His memories, like hers, were painful to recall and once told, left him feeling shaken and exposed. He could never tell her about the circ.u.mstances surrounding his birth. She would reject him outright, like Cynthia had. He'd learned the hard way no one could be trusted with the entire truth.

He was only too glad to discuss what he loved about the big city and was happy that Libby hadn't taken advantage of his softening to press any further about his own life story.