Harte's Desire Page 8

  Libby was shocked to realize that, with a mere touch of his hand, Chris had gained complete and total mastery over her. If he were to explore any further, she would surely lose what little control she had left.

  Through half-closed eyes, Chris gazed with longing at the delicate neck partially hidden by waves of golden hair. Just a kiss, he thought, no more than a kiss. With a trembling hand, he reached out to expose the tender skin concealed there. So as not to alert her, he pushed the tresses aside with infinite languor and slowly leaned closer, his full lips pursed in anticipation.

  "Mr. D.? Oh, Mr. D., are you up there?" Edwina yelled from the bottom of the stairs.

  Chris pulled quickly away from Libby before she could discover his intent. Libby, with a swiftness to match his, bolted upright and looked at him with alarm, the spell broken by Edwina's voice.

  "I'm up here, Edwina," Chris called out tersely.

  "You said to let you know when the call from England came through. Mr. Bickers is on the line now."

  "I'll be right down." Chris hastily stood up and wordlessly strode to the bedroom door. He turned and gazed intently at Libby, who remained on the bed, frozen in apprehension.

  The intensity of banked desire radiating from Chris's eyes scorched her. Surely he knew the erotic effect the massage had on her? Couldn't he feel the desire coursing through her body in uncontrollable waves? Even now she was wet and slick and ready for him.

  “I suggest it’s time for you to get back to work, Miss Reed. I trust you’ll feel better tomorrow.” Desire had been replaced with cold disinterest, his face now dark and dismissive.

  Angry he could so easily flip-flop his emotions where she was concerned, Libby blurted the first thing that came to mind. “Thank you, Mr. Darnell,” she said with stiff politeness. “But, it was you who waylaid me, if I recall the chain of events correctly.”

  “The ‘chain of events,’ Miss Reed, began when you decided to rest on MY bed this afternoon when you should have been working.”

  “Believe me, it was never my intention to lure you into your bedroom.” she retorted. “I’m not so desperate for a man that I would resort to a tactic as school-girlish as that.” She could never admit that even though she hadn't been with a man, in that sense, for several years, she'd built up a wall of defense around herself that he managed to breach through a mere touch. He didn't know the shattering effect he was capable of wreaking on all her senses. Her momentary loss of control was frightening.

  She tossed her head defiantly and continued, throwing all caution to the wind. “Why would I ever want to seduce someone whose goals are the polar opposite of mine?”

  “Your reassurances comfort me,” he mocked, his lips a thin, hard line. Chris opened his mouth to say something more, but was so furious with himself, and Libby, that he abruptly closed it, fearing that if he said anything else he would lose the self-control he’d spent a lifetime cultivating.

  He'd vowed never to get close to another woman again, particularly Libby, yet here he was mooning over her like a love-sick puppy. Gallantly offering her a massage, when he should've woken her up and ordered her back to work right then and there. She did have a deadline, after all. If he was upset with the way he handled things, he was equally livid—for reasons he didn’t care to examine or admit—with her response to the whole incident.

  Chris threw her a look of contempt and stalked out the door.

  Libby stared after him, wondering what he was going to say before he changed his mind. Oh, she'd made a mess of things this time, she decided, as she slowly put her shoes back on, tugging at the laces with unaccustomed strength and gathering anger. She'd been the fool today, melting in his arms like butter.

  It wasn't safe to be near him, but until she finished this project she had no choice.

  Chapter Eleven

  With a slim notebook tucked under one arm, Libby stepped off the patio and headed to the overgrown garden. It had been two days since "the bedroom incident" as she had come to call it, and she and Chris had studiously avoided each other ever since, barely acknowledging the other's presence beyond a polite nod or a stolen glance.

  She felt him watching her closely, though, when he didn't think she noticed. And she was always aware of him, as if some hidden intuition leapt forth to announce his proximity.

  It was pointless to strike up a conversation with him. They obviously had nothing to say to each other.

  Unfortunately, Libby's assignment had kept her busy at Harte's Desire. Today she was documenting Amanda’s rose garden. Having found a fairly comprehensive description and some detailed photographs of it in an 1895 horticultural magazine, Libby wanted to see how much of the original design remained. It was a perfect spring day, sunny and not too hot. She headed for the highest terrace and was so busy comparing the photos with the bedraggled garden that she nearly collided with one of the surveyors who’d set up his gear there.

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized, moving out of his way.

  “Not a problem,” he replied, placing a wooden stake topped with a pink plastic ribbon in the ground near her feet.

  “What is that marking?” she asked.

  “Oh, we’re mapping out the footprint of the new conference center. This represents the northwest corner of the main block,” he said, gesturing to the stake.

  Libby’s heart sank, as it did every time she faced, head-on, the impending demise of Harte’s Desire. “Does it really have to be right here in the middle of the rose garden?” she asked, knowing the answer even though she had to ask it.

  “That’s not up to me, lady. Mr. Darnell and his architect worked out the plans. I’m just following what’s on the drawings.”

  “Is there a problem, Joe?” Chris Darnell called from the patio as he strode toward them purposely, approaching Libby and the surveyor with a scowl on his face. He glanced at Libby, barely acknowledging her presence, then turned to Joe.

  Libby sensed he was in a foul mood and hoped she wasn’t the cause. Secretly, she studied the handsome figure he made, his crisp robin’s egg blue shirt rolled up at the cuffs exposing tanned, muscular forearms and jet-black pinstriped pants that accented his model-like physique.

  “Damn it, man,” Chris snapped, “you were supposed to be done with the layout two days ago, but here you are, still plodding along. You can’t blame it on the weather. It’s been gorgeous.” He glared at Libby as he added, “I hope Miss Reed here has not been detaining you.”

  Libby wanted to turn and run, but that was not possible. Dear heaven he was in a rage.

  “No, Mr. Darnell,” the surveyor responded evenly, obviously not cowed, “she’s not the problem. Your legal description is the problem.”

  “My legal description?”

  “Yes, I can’t get it to close.”

  “What do you mean you can’t get it to close?” Chris eyed him with knitted brows.

  “I’ve followed the description of the property’s boundaries down to the last compass heading and inch, and the beginning point doesn’t meet the end point. They’re hundreds of feet apart. I’ve spent two days re-doing my work to no avail. Something’s wrong.”

  “That’s the description used in the deed, Joe. What could possibly be wrong with that?” Chris replied, wishing Libby were anywhere but here. She was a distraction he’d been doing his best to avoid, and so far had managed to quite nicely.

  “I don’t know. Some of the lines are fine, others are not. It just isn’t working.”

  Libby could keep silent no longer. “I suspect you need to look at the first deed, when the Harte’s bought the property in 1878,” she stated authoritatively. “Back then the county clerk transcribed each deed by hand and it is entirely possible that over the years the numbers in the compass headings and the distances were written down incorrectly from one deed to another.”

  At first, Joe looked at Libby like she had two heads, took a minute to consider what she said, then grinned with recognition. “You could be right, missy. I don’t su
ppose you’ve got that original deed handy, do you?”

  “I can have it for you this afternoon,” she assured him, noting that Chris seemed relieved to have the problem solved.

  Libby turned to continue her work when his strong arm shot out to restrain her.

  “Could you spare a minute in my office? Now?” he asked, his face emotionless. “I’d like your opinion.”

  “Sure.” What else could she say to the boss?

  Libby followed him into the dining room and immediately noticed the colorful drawings pinned to the wall.

  “My architect stopped by this morning with three different designs for the new conference center and I’d like to know which one you think is the best.” Chris posed the question as innocently as he could, then watched as a riot of warring emotions danced across her face. Excellent, he thought. This part of his plan for revenge was working exactly as desired.

  Libby said nothing as she studied the different renderings, wishing anew that the mansion was not to be razed. Each design was sterile, devoid of character, and unimaginative. And the thought of Harte’s Desire being replaced by one of these nondescript steel-and-glass boxes almost made her nauseous.

  She looked at him, a frown pulling at the corners of her mouth. “I don’t like any of them,” she stated flatly.

  “That answer’s not good enough,” he taunted. “I need you to pick the best one of the bunch.”

  “There is no best one, Chris. They’re all dull and ordinary,” she rejoined.

  “Explain.”

  Libby chewed her bottom lip in contemplation. “Well, their designs are boring. You could place them in any suburban metro setting and they’d blend right in. The first one here focuses on the façade, but totally ignores the beautiful river view in the back. The second one looks more like a cruise ship than a conference center. And the third one is just plain ugly.”

  Chris’ face was a blank slate as he digested her comments. “I have to disagree. People want modern, not old-fashioned these days.”

  “Well, then, aren’t you asking the wrong person’s opinion, Chris? You know how I feel about your plans for Harte’s Desire.”

  “Ah, yes, the demolition,” he said brightly, not bothering to couch it in more palatable terms for her sake.

  Libby cleared her throat. “I need to get back to work. Find someone else to weigh in, Chris, because I refuse.” She met his gaze head-on and found his steely blue-green eyes watching her carefully.

  “I’ll take your comments into consideration and will see you Saturday Miss Reed.”

  Chapter Twelve

  At the appointed time on Saturday afternoon, Libby appeared in his doorway and announced her arrival. Since their tangling over the conference center’s new design, she’d taken time away from the mansion to do some research in the archives and at the county court house in Burlington. But today they’d be forced to work side by side.

  Standing patiently as Chris finished a phone call, Libby groaned inwardly, knowing that as much as she needed the extra income, the work this afternoon would also be both distasteful and demoralizing. After reveling in the mansion’s beauty the past week, she’d once again have to acknowledge its demise for the next five hours or so.

  Chris put the phone down, signed one last document, and glanced over at her as he set his pen aside. “Ready?” he asked brusquely. “Let’s start in the attic and work our way down.”

  Libby nodded and followed him as they headed up two flights of stairs, glad that his businesslike manner announced he’d put their disastrous personal confrontations this week behind him. She would do likewise.

  The attic was musty but the day’s clouds had kept the heat down. Soft light filtered in through the mansard roof dormers providing an almost ethereal glow. Earlier in the week Libby had photographed the room without paying any attention to what was in it, but the many steamer trunks, stuffed-to-overflowing cardboard boxes, and wooden crates strewn about immediately caught her eye today, as did the antique furniture--dressers, beds, and chairs--taking up the rest of the space.

  She opened one trunk and found it filled with photographs, the old-fashioned kind mounted on dark sturdy cardboard. There were street scenes of Borden’s Landing and portraits of folks from babies to aged spinsters. Other images were even older, portraits framed in velvet-covered embossed metal cases.

  “Chris,” she started hesitantly. “I know you’re auctioning the contents, but could you possibly let the historical society go through these? These old photographs of the town and its residents would be a welcome addition to our collection.”

  “Do you have a budget for acquisitions?” he asked coolly.

  “Well, we did until we took on the schoolhouse restoration.” She kept her voice upbeat as she looked at him hopefully.

  “So you have no money to purchase the photographs, is that what you’re telling me?”

  She gulped. “Yes. That’s what I’m saying.”

  “I’ll consider it, but I make no promises.” He tried hard to keep his voice firm and steely, but he was having a hell of a time ignoring her and the charming visage she presented today. And when she regarded him with those big brown doe eyes, it was all he could do to turn away.

  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 brass knobs 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 glass globes. The expensive hardwood flooring could be recycled, as well. All of these details she knew by heart, having photographed and documented 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 balusters, ornate newel post, and mahogany handrail that, once cleaned, would shine with a special gleam. She assured him that even though some balusters 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 glass 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. Hell, 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 assessment 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 glass artist’s talents were showcased to perfection in the piece.

  “I don’t know anything yet. It’s plac
ed 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 petite 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’ assistance. Starting at the window’s left side, her eyes wandered each piece of leaded glass 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 documented 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.