Harte's Desire Page 7

  “Miss Reed,” he began not bothering to temper the cold tone of his words. “I know I’ve given you a lengthy assignment, but I’m wondering if you could take on one additional task this Saturday, 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 hitting 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 damned 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.

  “Saturday 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 establishing 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 assured 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 relationship 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 relationship 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 damned 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 enou
gh 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 massive 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 passed 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 furnishings, she decided it must have been the master bedroom. It had an adjoining bathroom and not only was the bedroom spacious 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 tassel 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 assortment 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 sunshine 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 shirt thrown carelessly on the floor. Thoroughly embarrassed, Libby blushed deeply. This was the last place she wanted to be found, too.

  She started to arise, pushing 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 cocked 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 assume you've overextended your muscles in some way?"

  "You could assume 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.

  "Not so fast, Cinderella. You look like you're about to make a mad dash for the pumpkin," he admonished with a laugh, enjoying her defenseless position.

  "If that's what it takes to escape you and get back to work, I'll grow a whole patch," she retorted, noticing he hadn't taken his hands off her foot yet.

  "Now, let me get this straight," Chris began as he gently traced the arch in her foot.

  Libby couldn't tell if his actions were deliberate or unintentional, but it suddenly didn't matter. Her legs relaxed in heavenly response to his slow and gentle motions as he stroked the length of each toe through her sock.

  He continued, "I didn't hurt you just now, but you are sore from our workout the other day, and you're only lying on my bed trying to decide which view is the most photogenic? Have I got this right, Miss Reed?"

  He continued his ministrations, moving now from her foot up to her ankle. Chris gently massaged the strained tendons with strong fingers, appearing to be so absorbed in the conversation that he wasn't aware of what he was doing.

  Docilely, she nodded in response. Holy heaven, but she couldn't move if she wanted to. It was even hard to talk, his hands working on her overwrought muscles felt so good.

  "Well, I'm glad you're in as much pain as I am. Misery loves company and misery has surely been my middle name these past two days. Just ask Edwina," he remarked with a trace of humor.

  "But really, Elizabeth. Falling asleep on your client's bed. I'm surprised." He winked at her devilishly, his hands now gently kneading her calves, sending delicious shivers through her.

  "I, I didn't know this was your bed," she stammered with as much indignation as she could summon. "And if I had known, you never would have found me on it."

  His massage made her weak and tremulous despite her show of annoyance. When he started to rub the muscles behind the soft part of her knee, Libby thought she was going to melt. Being touched this way, even through her jeans, had never felt so wonderful. She relaxed even more, floating on the wave of soothing sensations he was creating.

  She looked at him sharply when he began to ease the soreness from her thighs. If he continued and went further up her legs, she didn't think she'd be able to resist him. Slowly, mysteriously, his massage was affecting her senses. Tendrils of desire coursed through her body. Hot, delicious, needy. She was smoldering, ready to burst into flames at any moment.

  Chris stopped and looked at her as if reading her mind. "I promise to keep it clean, OK?" he pledged. "Roll over and I'll rub out your shoulders and back."

  She hesitated, wondering if he would keep his word. She surely didn't trust herself right now and hoped she could trust him.

  "Look," he asserted with authority, "This is the best thing for sore muscles and yours have got to be sore because I tried my best to make them that way!" He laughed, flashing her a brilliant, conspiratorial smile.

  Libby grinned at his honest admission, then, deciding he meant to keep his pledge, rolled over. It did feel great. And if he was willing to give her a G-rated rubdown, she wasn't going to refuse it.

  Chris started at the nape of her neck, slowly and deliberately seeking out each tightened muscle. With steady, circular motions, he eased them into relaxation. Tentatively, his hands
moved to her shoulders, where she moaned softly at his touch. There, too, he gently rubbed the stiffness away. The length of her back was next to receive his undivided attention as he kneaded, probed, and stroked the pain away.

  Surely, no woman has ever looked this inviting in bed, Chris mused, as he bent over the petite form sprawled in abandon before him. At times she looked terribly fragile, but as he ran his hands over her body, he realized she was much stronger than she appeared. And her body, so slim and sleek, felt undeniably wonderful to the touch.

  He felt his body respond, then cursed silently at his promise. It was getting damned difficult to concentrate on what he was supposed to do, as opposed to what he really wanted to do with her up here, in the forbidden privacy of his bedroom.

  Of their own free will, his sturdy hands bore down around her narrow waist, reveling in her smallness, before resuming the familiar, rhythmic rubbing. Remembering his promise, he forced himself not to massage the two exquisitely rounded muscles in her derriere, and moved instead to the backs of her thighs. When he first touched her there, she tensed, until relaxing again with the steady ministrations of his hands. It took all the willpower he could summon to keep from straying to the tempting valley between her legs at the top of her thighs. How he longed to touch her there, gently, with unhurried strokes, feeling the heat of her desire build, then explode.

  Maybe just a kiss, he thought. A little kiss on the back of her neck. How could she object to that? It wouldn't be on her lips, he conceded. She might not even feel it. He would bestow it as softly as a whisper.

  Libby thought the change in position would eliminate the stirring of desire curling through her body. But, if anything, those exciting sensations were now heightened to an alarming degree. No matter where Chris touched her, Libby was surrendering to the sensual magic wrought by his capable hands. As he moved down her back, the passionate currents within her threatened to burst. And when he began to rub the back of her thighs, she had to stop herself from rolling over and pulling him down passionately on top of her. She moaned, knowing she was helpless to stave off the mounting desire.