All Through The House Page 5

  Nate gave a little nod, as though she'd satisfied some inner question. Abigail couldn't resist asking, "Have you ever been married?"

  "No." He leaned back in his chair and smiled, outwardly relaxed but his gray eyes intent on her face. "I had a few close calls, but I guess it just wasn't right. Maybe I was too footloose during the years most of my friends were getting hitched up. Right after college I worked in Alaska on fishing boats for a year. I came back and went to graduate school, but then instead of finding myself a respectable job, I spent another year bumming around in Europe. I had a great time, you understand, but by the time I got back, I was almost twenty-seven and hadn't held a serious job yet."

  Abigail was fascinated by this history. It seemed to reflect the contradictions she had already sensed in him. The devilish gleam he sometimes had in his eyes hardly seemed to belong to the same man as the one who had told her with such single-minded intensity how he felt about architecture. She couldn't help wondering, too, about his family; he hadn't mentioned his mother at all, and there had been an odd constraint in his voice when he had told her about his father.

  At first she'd tagged him as the love-'em-and-leave-'em type, to whom women came too easily. If that was true at all, it was only one shade of his personality. When he looked at her with desire, he was dangerous, no question. But the rest of the time, she was finding him to be sympathetic, compassionate, downright likable. All of which meant nothing, she told herself firmly, except that she was enjoying the evening. There were still too many unanswered questions about Nate Taggart for her to abandon all caution. Like, for example, why Ed Phillips was so wary where Nate was concerned.

  "Can we walk down on the dock before we leave?" Abigail suggested impulsively.

  "Why not?" Nate tossed some bills down on the tray the waiter had discreetly left. "Shall we?"

  For a June day in the Pacific Northwest, the weather was unusually warm. No hint of a breeze came in off the Sound, and the shimmering surface of the water swelled and rolled, but didn't break for even the small lap of waves. The sun was almost gone now, a luminous orange disk to the west that left the sky a deepening velvet blue. Abigail's heels clicked on the floating wooden dock, which rose and fell almost imperceptibly underfoot with the movement of the water. She took a deep breath, filling her nostrils with the salty scent of the Sound.

  She glanced at Nate, who strolled along at her side, tie loosened, his dark sport coat slung over his shoulder, held by one crooked finger. He was idly studying the boats that they passed, his expression one of contentment.

  "Did you enjoy being out on the fishing boat?" Abigail asked.

  He shrugged. "At first. I like boats. It got old fast, though. You're trapped in cramped quarters with a group of people who can really start to get on your nerves. Half the time you're cold, wet, tired. The damned boat stinks." A lazy smile mocked his young self. "Let's just say the romance went out of it quickly."

  "Do you sail?"

  "With friends sometimes. I don't have a boat, but I can borrow one when the spirit moves me. Last summer I spent a week sailing in the San Juan Islands. You ever been up there? It's incredible. Deep channels cut between tiny islands, you feel like you have it all to yourself. Everything is so vivid, green and blue, with the sun-warmed gray slabs tilting into the water...." He grinned. "I almost packed up and moved there."

  "Why didn't you?" she asked curiously.

  "Ah, I have it too good where I am. My partner John and I really work well together. And business is starting to pick up. I couldn't walk away from that. Besides...." He hesitated. "I guess Pilchuck is home. It's beautiful country, too."

  "I like being able to see the mountains," Abigail agreed.

  They turned to retrace their steps. Swinging low over their heads, a gull cried raucously in hopes of a handout before settling on a dark, creosoted piling. Abigail was suddenly very aware of Nate beside her, in a different way than she had been a minute before. When she glanced at him, their eyes met briefly, and she saw that his no longer held that look of lazy contentment. The glint in their gray depths sparked a ripple of reaction in her.

  Then his big hand closed around hers. Her fingers curled to meet his, and their hands locked in a timeless and curiously comfortable clasp. Abigail looked straight ahead as they walked, trying to make herself think of the beautiful evening, the incandescent water, the white gulls dipping and wheeling overhead. The dock shivered under their matching footsteps. The moment struck Abigail as consummately romantic, with the two of them alone with the sky and water and the boats with their furled sails.

  James had buried her in flowers, wined and dined her, bought her diamonds and pearls, but even then, in love with him as she had been, she'd sometimes longed for the quiet moment. But a stroll on the dock had never been his style; if he had thought she would enjoy a sunset, James would have chartered a yacht, complete with catered dinner. The memory made her grateful for the present.

  Too soon they reached the steps, and once up them were in the mundane reality of the parking lot. Nate released her hand to dig in his pocket for the keys, with which he unlocked first the passenger door and then his own side. They didn't talk until he'd eased the truck out onto Marine View Drive.

  It was Nate who broke the silence, his voice a little rougher than usual, but his tone determinedly casual. "Was your meal good? We were so busy talking, I didn't think to ask. I've always liked that restaurant."

  Abigail could scarcely remember what her seafood had tasted like, so preoccupied with Nate had she been, but she answered with appropriate lightness, "It was delicious. I'm glad you thought of going there."

  The conversation stayed on the same level for the remainder of the drive back to Pilchuck, fueled by determination on both their parts. When Nate at last pulled the pickup into her driveway and cut the engine, Abigail realized how nervous she was. She felt like a teenager waiting for her first kiss, licking her lips so they wouldn't be too dry, hoping she didn't taste like garlic, hoping even more that she remembered how to do it. She wished now that Nate had kissed her that day in her office, so it could have been a spontaneous combustion. As it was, the silence was deafening, Nate's face unreadable in the darkness, and she knew darn well she wasn't going to enjoy the kiss. She was thinking too much.

  Nate didn't exactly dispel her nerves when he murmured, out of the darkness, "Alone at last."

  Abigail's tongue flicked over her lips again. "Yes," she managed. "I noticed."

  "Are you afraid of me?" he asked, the question sudden and unexpected.

  "Of course not! I wouldn't have gone out with you if I were. I'm just...."

  As she groped for words to explain herself without revealing too much, he suggested, "Afraid of what I make you feel?"

  Abigail was stung by his accurate reading of her. "What makes you so sure what I feel?" she retorted with spirit.

  The huskiness in his voice revealed the awakening of amusement. "How about the way you look at me?"

  "Maybe I look at all sexy men that way."

  "And maybe you don't. Then again, maybe the fact that you think I'm a sexy man says something. How about that?"

  Abigail was momentarily silenced before she decided she was being childish, anyway. In her more usual, straightforward way, she said, "Nate, I had a lousy marriage. I've been single for three years, but I don't date often. Don't you think it's natural that I'd be a little nervous?"

  He was silent for a moment. "Yes," he said. "Does that mean you'd rather I don't kiss you?"

  Abigail swallowed hard, trying to think of an appropriate response. It struck her as one of those trick questions, where you were damned if you did, damned if you didn't.

  But Nate waited only a moment, choosing to take her silence for assent. "Good," he said very softly, the arm he'd had draped across the back of the seat dropping on to her shoulders, gathering her in. "I agree. We need to get this first kiss out of the way, don't we? So we can move on to kiss number two, and three, and...." The lo
w, gravelly texture of his voice mesmerized her even as his free hand encircled her neck, slid up it to gently squeeze her chin as he lifted her face to his. The cab of the pickup was still dark, but Abigail was so close to him now that the faint illumination from her porch was enough for her to see the hot light in his narrowed eyes, the shadow below his cheekbones, the lock of hair that had fallen forward onto his forehead.

  By the time his mouth lowered to hers, Abigail had forgotten to worry about whether she still knew how to kiss. Her heartbeat was thundering in her ears and she felt utterly unlike herself, weak and shivery and pliable. And, when his lips met hers with heartstopping tenderness, the last walls crumbled. She'd expected bruising, soaring, passionate force from him. It was there within him, she was certain of that, but for her sake he had banked those fires. Instead, he brushed her lips with his, teased them, took soft nips. Her mouth parted in response and his hardened, showing a stirring of the more dangerous hunger inside him. The hand that had held her chin cupped the back of her head now, his fingers tangled through her undisciplined dark curls. His other hand caressed her silk-clad shoulder, kneading and smoothing. It had taken so little, just this first kiss, and already Abigail was mindless, weak with the stirrings of almost forgotten passion.

  Then, just like that, it was over. Nate had set her away from him and straightened in the seat. He didn't pause or look at her again before opening the pickup door and climbing out. Abigail was held immobile by her own reaction for a moment, but by the time Nate had come around to her side and opened her door, she was ready.

  They walked silently up the path, Abigail ahead, holding her head very high. She found her key and inserted it in the lock, trying to block out her acute awareness of Nate standing just behind her. At last, her hand on the knob, she turned to face him with a determined smile.

  "I enjoyed myself tonight, Nate."

  "I did, too." There was a wry twist to his mouth, and in his eyes was both desire and a spark of humor. "Especially the end."

  Abigail stared at him wordlessly.

  He reached out and stroked her lips with the tips of his fingers, a feather-light caress that was in its own way as intimate and sensual as the kiss had been. He smiled. "I'll call you, Abigail."

  A moment later, she stood in the dark living room, watching the red taillights of his truck recede down the road.

  CHAPTER 4

  "What the hell?" Ed Phillips exclaimed.

  Abigail pulled the phone an inch or so from her ear and grimaced. "I'm sorry to bring bad news…."

  "Not your fault," he growled. "But are you sure?"

  "Water was dripping from the ceiling to the floor. Enough to make puddles."

  He swore again. "That'll teach me not to inspect it myself. I hired a subcontractor who usually does good work. He picked the wrong job to screw up on."

  Abigail winced. Ed Phillips's bluff tone was usually genial, but she could easily imagine him raking someone over the coals. She was only grateful she wasn't the one who'd screwed up this time.

  "Must have been embarrassing as hell," he said. "Did you, uh, happen to mention it to the renter?"

  There it was again, that odd note of constraint. "Yes," she said. "He was home when I showed the house. He headed off to find buckets to catch the drips. He said something about saving the floor, at least."

  "That bad?" He sounded genuinely incredulous, if also angry. "Did you lose a real prospect?"

  "I'm afraid so," Abigail admitted, trying to hide how glad she was. "They were representatives of…" she glanced at her appointment calendar, "Chartwell Development. Just opened a Seattle office, I understand. They were considering the possibility of dividing the house into condos. A leaky roof made them leery."

  "Would it do any good if I called 'em?"

  "I don't know," she said. "Let me give you the number...."

  A moment later they signed off, after Ed had promised to have the roof repaired within the week. Actually, what he'd said was, "They'll have their butts out there at eight o'clock tomorrow morning if they ever want another job from me."

  After hanging up, Abigail leafed through her phone messages yet again. Definitely no call from Nate. Three days, and he still hadn't called.

  Impatient with herself, Abigail reached for the phone. Other people had phoned, and the possibilities of sales and listings were far more important than a man she'd dated once. Obviously, she needed to remind herself of her priorities.

  Still, as the phone rang in her ear, it was Nate's dark-gray eyes she saw, his gravelly voice she heard. We need to get this first kiss out of the way, don't we? So we can move on to kiss number two, and three, and....

  "Realty World," a cheerful voice announced.

  Abigail stumbled, "Uh, Susan Richards, please."

  A moment later, "Susan Richards here."

  "Susan, this is Abigail McLeod at McLeod and James. I have a message from you. What can I do for you?"

  The strange woman's voice brightened. "Believe it or not, I have a client interested in the Irving House. I plan to show it Tuesday or Wednesday. Anything you can pass on that might help?"

  Don't tell the renter you're coming. The vehement thought was instinctive, her reaction to it alarmed. She couldn't blame Nate for the two debacles. Could she? Abigail took a deep breath. "If you can possibly put off showing the house for a couple of days, it would be a good idea. As I mentioned in the write-up, the owner has completely remodeled, but unfortunately the storm last week showed up a couple of leaks in the roof. He promises to have the problem cleared up immediately, but.…"

  "I don't want to have to explain leaks in the roof," the other agent agreed. "I'll do that. Tell me, is there any chance of the owner carrying part of the contract?"

  Abigail explained that Mr. Phillips was willing, providing certain conditions were met. At the end of the conversation, just as they were about to hang up, Susan Richards said, "Oh, by the way, I see there's a renter in the house. I don't suppose you know if he has cats, or whether the last owner did?"

  Startled, Abigail said, "Well, I don't remember seeing any, but I'm not sure. Perhaps you'd better ask him."

  "My client is asthmatic. She can hardly stand even to look at a cat, apparently. If there've been any living in the house recently, it wouldn't do for her. Well, thanks for your help. I'll let you know how it goes."

  For the second time, Abigail hung up the telephone in a pensive mood. She forced herself to put reluctant words to her uneasiness. This would be a litmus test. If another agent showed the house with no problem, no unusual problem....

  What? Should she apologize to Nate? Gee, I'm sorry I thought for even a moment that you might be sabotaging the house's sale?

  Ridiculous. Of course, he wasn't. The two unfortunate showings had been just that. These things happened. She wouldn't be sulking over it if the Irving House were a hundred and fifty-thousand-dollar rambler that she got a dozen calls a week about. The trouble was, she might not have another shot at showing it to a client who could qualify for a million-dollar plus house. She'd had more calls since her first ad, but none from serious lookers. There were too many people whose favorite Sunday recreation was reading the real-estate pages of their morning papers, then calling about ads or wandering through open houses because they thought it might be fun.

  She was being greedy to wish for both the listing and the selling halves of the commission. The object was to find a buyer for the house; who the actual selling agent was wouldn't matter to Ed Phillips. He would be happy with the job McLeod and James had done. Abigail was beginning to think it might be just as well if she didn't show it again, her emotions toward the house were becoming so mixed. Partly thanks to its renter.

  Who had promised to call, and hadn't.

  *****

  "Well, we're ready to go now," John said.

  The two men stared at the muddy hillside. The hundred acres had been ruthlessly clear-cut, the cleanup not completed. The previous owner was responsible for burning the
slash and putting in a road, neither of which had yet been accomplished. Right now it took a little imagination to see the site as John and Nate intended it to be, a sensitively planned development of fine homes on two-and-a-half-acre lots.

  The view of the Cascade Mountains was spectacular. On a whim, Nate had camped out here one night before the logging and awakened to the dawn painting the sky with colors no human artist had ever touched. Now, however….

  He shook his head. "I didn't picture it so stripped."

  John shrugged massive shoulders. "Stripping is what some of the cut-rate developers do. Looks like the moon by the time they're done. Hard-pan and rocks. We've got some topsoil here, anyway."

  Hard-pan and rocks. That'd been one of Nate's complaints about Ed Phillips. He'd scraped building lots down to hard-pan and sold the topsoil. He had laughed about the idea of young homeowners buying their own dirt back again.

  This development was to be everything Phillips's hadn't been. Except that now the city had decided to have a moratorium on hook ups to the overloaded sewer system. Permits were being denied, even to those who had received assurances in advance.

  Nate grunted. "You talked to any city council members yet?"

  "Yeah, and they put me off. Do they care if we were promised permits before this whole damn sewer thing blew up? Lucky we have other projects, so we're not stopped in our tracks. We'll be busy enough, at least. Especially if we build the school."