Harte's Desire Part 8

What was it about this woman seated next to him that made him react in new, distressing ways, he wondered?

They chatted amiably for the next hour, pausing occasionally to watch the boats sail or motor by as the sun set over the placid river. Libby finished her wine, pleased she'd kept her wits about her after her momentary loss of control, and stood to leave.

"Your shoes," Chris said, pointing to her bare feet.

"Next time I'll wear sandals," she rejoined, then caught herself. "Oh heavens, I didn't mean to imply we'd ever do this again, Chris. I really can't be socializing with my boss." She giggled and smiled broadly at him, his nearness making her somewhat giddy as she put her shoes back on.

"Nor should I be entertaining one of my consultants," he admitted with a shrug.

"No need to see me out, Chris. I know the way by now."

"But I insist."

"You're such a gentleman."

He took her by the arm, gathered up her equipment in the hallway, and escorted her to her car.

Libby turned to say goodbye only to find him inches away. She nearly b.u.mped into him, he was that close.

His gaze was so intense, the desire so obvious in his eyes, she could feel the heat radiating off of him in waves. When he reached out and gently traced her chin, she s.h.i.+vered with expectation. Kiss me, she thought wildly, kiss me.

Instead, Chris stepped back abruptly, breaking the magic woven spider-like around them. "Good night, Elizabeth. Drive safe," he said stiffly before turning on his heels and walking back to the mansion.

Libby let out a long sigh of relief, unaware she'd been holding her breath. It would have been pure madness to kiss him. Thank goodness he came to his senses when he did, because she'd surely lost hers tonight.

Chapter Fourteen.

Libby spread the aerial photographs in front of her, looking for the best way to access the vineyard near the river located at the outermost reaches of Harte's Desire's eighty waterfront acres. A path heading southwest from the rose garden, one she'd not yet explored, seemed to travel in the right direction. With a camera swinging loosely around her neck, she started along the narrow dirt covered walkway as it sloped downward towards the river.

Chris watched her from the relative safety of his dining room office. Clearly, she was setting out to find the vineyards, he determined, watching her consult the aerial images she'd shown him a few nights ago on the computer.

"Edwina," he spoke into the intercom. "Hold my calls for the next hour or so. I need to help Elizabeth with something," he said somewhat vaguely, knowing he did not have to explain himself to his a.s.sistant.

"Sure thing, boss," Edwina replied a few seconds later.

Chris quickly exited the French doors overlooking the rear gardens and headed for the path Libby had chosen to follow. Overgrown and filled with brambles, the trail twisted, turned, and meandered. Undeterred, Chris watched closely to make sure he was following in her footsteps. So far, it seemed he was.

After several minutes of wondering if she'd made a wrong turn, Libby finally entered a clearing with a commanding view of the river. A large outcropping of rocks afforded the perfect spot to sit and admire the view. The peace and quiet of this almost-heavenly place made her almost forget why she was here. She set the camera down and looked in both directions, pleased to find the original vines, although terribly overgrown with weeds, straggly, and unpruned, still lived. Despite the lack of care, many bore small cl.u.s.ters of grapes in a variety of colors.

She was right. The vineyard had survived, but barely.

What to do, she wondered? Harte's Desire was that much more special now that the vineyard had been discovered fragile, but intact. She could think of no other place along the Delaware River that compared. Libby snorted with frustration. Surely the vineyards were standing where one of Chris's office buildings was planned. She hadn't seen the site plan drawings, but it didn't take much imagination to know the river view setting was just as perfect for grapevines as it was for office s.p.a.ce.

She heard Chris' arrival before she could see him as he traipsed through the overgrown path and strode into the clearing.

"You're not really dressed for a hike along the riverbank," she wryly observed.

"I do look rather out-of-place in a business suit here, don't I?" he admitted, his eyes sparkling in the bright, mid-day sun as he sat down next to her on the rock.

"I'm surprised you could take time away from your busy day to follow me down here."

"I needed a break," he said simply.

Libby silently admired the perfectly-tailored navy pants and form-hugging white dress s.h.i.+rt that displayed his fit physique to perfection. Doing her best to ignore the ever-present attraction she felt for him, she waved her hands in both directions. "The vines are here, Chris, just where they're supposed to be."

Chris looked around then walked over to the closest plant, pulling away some brambles and weeds. "There's even some grapes on this one. Not ripe enough to sample, though," he commented.

Libby chewed her bottom lip with worry. "I know this is a long-shot, but what do you have planned for this location?"

"Probably one of the office buildings," he replied, returning to sit next to her.

She let out a long sigh. "That's what I thought you'd say."

"I can show you the site plan if you're interested." He studied her carefully, waiting for her response, speculating where the conversation was headed.

She laughed with derision. "I'm not interested, Chris. We're on opposite sides of the table, here, remember? You know it. I know it."

"I've never lied to you about my plans, Elizabeth."

"I'll give you that, Chris. And, I have to be honest with you."

Chris straightened, wondering if she was finally going to reveal her past ident.i.ty.

"I only took this job because I needed the money. I mean really, really needed the money. Now I'm sorry, because at every turn I am reminded of the mansion's ultimate fate. And sanctioning its demise is not who I really am."

Chris waited anxiously for her to continue, hoping for a heartfelt confession.

She looked at him with frank appraisal. "You caught me at a weak moment. I only have myself to blame."

"But Elizabeth," Chris interrupted. "You forget that the town--and the historical society--are behind me with this project. They'll benefit in so many ways...new jobs, tax ratables, the old school gets restored, new life for Borden's Landing..."

"I know, I know. But I'm starting to think that I'm the only one who sees just how unique this property is, Chris. Between you and me, I wish I'd never taken this job." She watched him flinch at her words.

"You're not quitting, I hope?"

"I'm many things, Chris, but I'm not a quitter. You'll have your report on time as we agreed. And the state office will find no fault with it."

Chris watched as she spoke, determination and sorrow furrowing her brow. He didn't stop to understand why her words had such an effect on him, why he should suddenly care about her opinion. Without thinking, he leaned over and kissed her. At first, his lips met hers with a tender hesitancy, lingering and savoring the feel of her skin against his. He did not know why he did it, but it was the right thing to do. For him, hopefully for her, too.

Libby moaned softly and leaned against him when he deepened the kiss. Their tongues danced against each other and when she shuddered, he could barely contain his response. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer, totally lost in the rapture enclosing them. In a heartbeat he knew the feelings pa.s.sing between them were unexpected and extraordinary, transcending whatever differences they might have. He wanted her like he wanted no other. Their past and his desire for revenge suddenly meant nothing.

Libby pulled back sharply, pus.h.i.+ng Chris away as she did so.

Her mouth opened but no words of explanation came out. Her eyes flashed alternately with pa.s.sion and regret.

"I can't do this, Chris," she finally managed to choke out. "I am not the woman you think I am."

She spun on her heels and sprinted up the path leading back to the mansion.

Chris hesitated only for a moment before running after her. When he finally caught up, he spun her around, his eyes blazing. "You can't do what, Elizabeth?" he demanded. How he wished she would be honest with him about her ident.i.ty so they could move past this dam between them.

"You can't do what?" he repeated softly this time, locking eyes with her.

Again she tried to speak, but found words lacking. Taking a deep breath, she faced him squarely, as an equal. "I care about you, Chris. Too much. More than is healthy for both us. Don't you see? This, whatever this is between us, can never succeed. Opposites might attract, but anything we might share would be overshadowed by my love for Harte's Desire and your hatred for it."

Stunned, Chris did not know how to respond because she was clearly, absolutely right. Even if she revealed she was Libby Chatham, it would not change the values each held dear.

Stepping back from him, she said nothing more. And when she turned to leave, he let her go this time, knowing that their separate wishes for Harte's Desire formed a solid wedge between them not to be breached today, if ever.

Chapter Fifteen.

With the precision of a surgeon, Libby carefully sc.r.a.ped through the layers of paint coating the dining room trim. She'd chosen an inconspicuous spot near the sideboard and gently placed the chips from each sample into their own separate container. Tomorrow, she would send them to a laboratory for a.n.a.lysis. She would learn not only the precise composition of each paint chip, but what the color had been when applied. Over time, after exposure to dust, sunlight, and cleaning solvents, paint colors could change, sometimes drastically, from their original hue. But the paint a.n.a.lysis magically turned the clock back. Libby was anxious to see what palette Amanda Harte had chosen when she first decorated the mansion.

Not that it mattered, Libby thought dismally. Rather than be restored to its original beauty, Harte's Desire would be a pile of broken lath and plaster in a few months, anyway. But the state office requested a paint a.n.a.lysis for the major rooms, so today Libby was painstakingly collecting the necessary samples.

She'd waited until Chris left his office for a lunch meeting this afternoon so she could do the sc.r.a.pings away from his watchful eyes. There was no point in crossing paths with him. Their kiss had been electrifying, summoning emotions long hidden. But it could never be repeated.

Unfortunately, Libby's a.s.signment had kept her busy at Harte's Desire. After taking photographs of the mansion, inside and out, she'd had to complete written descriptions of each room. The task hadn't been easy to undertake with Chris there, but she managed to work around his schedule without running into him. Collecting paint samples was her final task and this was the last sample Libby needed before she could retreat to the tranquil safety of her office and write the report. She knew it would take at least two weeks to complete before she could hand it, and her bill, to Chris and get out of this unbearable situation for once and for all.

Until the fundraiser, she thought, which was less than ten weeks away.

With Edwina's help, Libby had managed to coordinate most of the event's preparations while doing her work at Harte's Desire. She'd met with the caterer, who gasped not only at the immense size of the kitchen, but at its ancient appliances. Libby a.s.sured her that they did, indeed, work--she and Edwina spent a morning testing them--and scolded the caterer for not being more thankful to have three ovens and an inst.i.tutional-sized stove with which to work.

The florist was thrilled with the mansion's many rooms and architectural details that would be enhanced by the bouquets and arrangements he was providing at cost. Libby and the members of the fundraising committee had met at Harte's Desire several times, too, finalizing plans for removing furniture, setting up tables, and determining the best locations for serving food and beverages.

Most of this had been accomplished whenever Chris was out of his office. Luckily, Edwina had bought into Libby's story of not wanting to disturb the boss with a constant parade of people involved with planning the dinner dance. Daily, Edwina would appraise Libby of Chris's agenda so Libby could schedule the meetings while he was away.

Libby placed another sc.r.a.ping into a container, blowing away from her face a tendril of hair that managed to escape the bun she wore today. Researching Harte's Desire had been a true labor of love and she would miss being within its hallowed walls on a daily basis. Roaming its many rooms, she had come to know the mansion intimately and cherished the subtle changes wrought to it by over a hundred years of occupancy.

Every building has a story to tell, Libby thought as she sc.r.a.ped, if one was willing to look carefully enough. Like the bell-cords hanging over the bed in the master bedroom. Because one of them was several inches longer than the other, Libby concluded that Amanda was much smaller than her husband and that Chester slept on the side of the bed nearest the door.

After examining the kitchen closely, Libby determined it had been two rooms at one time. The alteration wasn't noticeable in the bright mid-day light, but the longer shadows of the afternoon sun revealed the ghost of a former part.i.tion which had been removed to enlarge the kitchen.

A finely-developed sense of touch was also helpful, Libby pondered, like in the main parlor. Its mantel had the cold feel of marble, not the warmth of plaster painted to simulate stone. The eye could be fooled, but not the hand.

It occurred to Libby so it was with people, too, and she immediately thought of Chris. While he projected an aura of dominance and utter self-control, there were times when the specter of some past trauma flickered across his face, healed now but not forgotten, the scars clearly visible under the right circ.u.mstances.

Libby contemplated what she'd seen. The death of his father, so easily shared with her over dinner, had definitely left its mark. But there was something more, some other personal crisis that defined the person he was today.

Underneath his steely facade was a man who needed to be loved and who desperately wanted to give love in return. She was sure of it. She'd felt it the first time they met. It was rampant in the undefinable current of emotion that pa.s.sed between them then, and every time since. More than s.e.xual desire. It was the longing to find someone to share a lifetime with, to lean on, to love beyond all reason.

Heaven knows she could relate to that, Libby reflected. She, too, yearned to find a man she could look at ten, twenty, thirty years from now and say to herself "I still love him." To feel that way, unequivocally, despite the tragedies and trials life capriciously dealt out.

Libby leaned closer to the baseboard, examined the area which had been denuded of its paint, and decided she'd collected enough samples. A glance at her watch confirmed Chris was due back soon and she'd better hurry to avoid him.

"Helping me demolish Harte's Desire?" Chris growled from the doorway, startling Libby.

She looked up from her work with chagrin. It was too late to dodge him.

"It only looks that way," Libby replied airily, trying to lighten the somber mood she detected by the harsh scowl on his face. "I'm done here and I'll be out of your way in a minute."

"Don't rush out quite yet. I've got something you might want to see." Chris placed a large cardboard box on the table with a thud, sending a thick cloud of dust in all directions.

Libby looked at the box with interest, intrigued by the tightly rolled sheaf of ancient-looking papers poking out of its top.

"Edwina found these up in the attic. Heaven knows what she was doing up there, but she asked me to give them to you." Libby walked over to the table and peered with uncontained curiosity at the box. Gingerly plucking out the heavy roll, she unfurled it on the table and stared in amazement at what she saw.

Yellowed with age and tattered from years of storage, the original architect's drawings for Harte's Desire lay before her. It was the dream of every preservationist to see what a building looked like when first erected. With great care, she flipped through each large page, her excitement mounting as she saw plans, sections, and elevations for the house she dearly loved. In addition to showing room placement and construction elements, the drawings showed light fixtures, mantel designs, and hardware specifications.

The dining room was silent except for the rustling of paper as she examined each sheet. Libby looked up at Chris, her eyes wide with the thrill of discovery.

"What else is in there?" she asked eagerly.

Chris gestured to the box, "Go ahead, see for yourself." Her excitement was almost contagious.

She pulled out the contents, gasping with delight at the huge stack of photographs, also worn and faded from age. She hadn't seen these when they inspected the attic a few Sat.u.r.days ago.

Each was mounted on heavy cardboard and Libby immediately recognized them as alb.u.men prints, so-called because they were printed on paper with a protective coating made from egg whites. They were glossy but not as brilliantly glossy as modern day photos and their tones were light sepia rather than stark black and white. Each print was embossed across the bottom with the photographer's imprint, "Theo. Baxter, Photographer, Trenton, NJ."

Most of the photos appeared to be taken during the first years after Chester and Amanda moved in. Apparently feeling the need to doc.u.ment their creation, they had photographed almost every room in the mansion. Libby examined each photo carefully, commenting on the differences and similarities between each room past and present. The kitchen alteration was obvious, and some of the furnis.h.i.+ngs had changed, but not many. So had some of the wallcoverings and light fixtures. Overall, though, Harte's Desire had been modified precious little through the years.

At the bottom of the stack, Libby discovered a photo that nearly took her breath away. It showed Chester and Amanda standing in the gazebo, surrounded by Amanda's magnificent rose garden. Despite the absence of color in the photo, the beauty and majesty of the garden fairly leapt from the print. The Harte's were holding hands and Amanda was smiling broadly at Chester, her eyes clearly reflecting the love and adoration she so obviously felt for him. The harmony of the garden in full bloom around them provided the perfect backdrop.

I want to love like that, Libby thought wistfully as she beheld the depth of emotion magically captured for all time in the photograph.

Finding photos of Chester and Amanda made them seem that much more real and Harte's Desire suddenly sprang alive with alarming clarity. Real people lived, laughed, and loved here. When Harte's Desire was demolished, more than plaster walls and wooden studs were being destroyed.

Libby's heart sank as she visualized, yet again, the mansion's unfortunate fate. Not willing to let Chris see her misery, she kept her eyes trained on the priceless doc.u.ments and photographs in front of her.

"These are wonderful, Chris. May I borrow them? I'd like to scan everything in here to include with the report."

"You can have them, Elizabeth. I surely don't need them, do I?"

Libby ignored his sarcastic remark, biting back a sharp retort in fear she'd say something she'd later regret. "Thank you, and with your permission I'll give them to the historical society when I'm done with them." She started rolling the drawings with great care. "I'll be out of your way in a minute."

Edwina's voice crackled over the intercom. "Mr. Whitty on line one, Mr. D."