Believe in Me: A Rosewood Novel (14 page)

Even considering such a move was colossally stupid.

If he had been too dense to read the signs before, today’s encounter removed all doubts. This woman had enough emotional baggage to scare off any man who possessed an
ounce of self-preservation. While he might be really good at bringing old houses back to life, tackling a divorcee’s battered emotions wasn’t his thing. The job was too messy and involved, calling for a commitment he wasn’t willing to make for anyone.

So why in hell, an inner voice mocked, was he stepping up to the florist’s window to try and figure out what could have caused those tears?

Because he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Jordan these past couple of weeks, that’s why. And whenever those thoughts popped into his head, he couldn’t help feeling an uncomfortable twinge of guilt for the way he’d handled things when she’d quizzed him about why Nonie hadn’t given her the job of decorating the cottage. Although he’d have liked to blame Nonie Harrison for the whole sorry business, he knew he was partly responsible. Busy with other projects and lining up the crew to start work on Hawk Hill, he’d neglected to tell Emily Carlson, the head of his interior design department, to stonewall Nonie if she called about having her cottage decorated. As a result, Nonie had run roughshod over Emily, insisting that as she already knew exactly what she wanted done to the cottage, all Emily would have to do was order the materials. And that being the case, there should be absolutely no problem fitting her into the spring schedule.

Why people who behaved as badly as Nonie should be rewarded by strokes of good luck was one of life’s great mysteries, but as it happened, one of their clients had been forced to postpone a remodeling project due to an unanticipated surgery. With a newly open spot on the schedule, Emily acquiesced.

“As great a pain in the butt as Nonie Harrison is, Owen, she’s good for business. Having redone her cottage inside and out will boost interest in Hawk Hill,” Emily had pointed out reasonably when he’d belatedly phoned her. “And as busy as I am with my other jobs, it’s kind of nice to have one
that’s a no-brainer. She really does seem to know what she wants, even down to the tiles in the master bath.”

He’d understood the wonder in his decorator’s voice. As a general rule, clients dithered, changing their minds about paint colors and cabinet styles and fixtures about as often as they blinked.

“Yeah, well, as they’re not our ideas, I’d like you to come up with some alternatives for her to consider.”

“I’d be happy to. But as you’ve reminded us in meetings so frequently, the client is always right.”

“Very funny, Em.”

Never having interfered in Emily’s artistic decisions before, and unwilling to jeopardize a very good working relationship, Owen decided to let her deal with the walking talking headache that was Nonie Harrison in her own fashion. He only hoped Emily was going to be able to convince Nonie to use her ideas rather than Jordan Radcliffe’s.

And when he thought of how ham-fisted he’d been in revealing to Jordan that he’d heard some of the stories circulating about her and her family, he had to acknowledge the uncomfortable truth: Jordan hadn’t been too off the mark in calling him a jerk. Perhaps that was a sufficient reason to be standing like this in front of the florist window, critically examining the cream-colored bouquet in the center of the display.

It was nicely done but too cool in its hues and too uniform in its palette for a woman as subtly complex and emotional as Jordan Radcliffe. She deserved flowers that exploded with lush color, whose blossoms carried a fragrance as alluring as the scent of her soft skin.

J
ORDAN SAT CROSS-LEGGED
, flashlight in hand, reading from
No Fighting, No Biting
while Kate, Max, and Olivia lay flat on their tummies, their bodies like spokes on a wheel, a bowl of Goldfish the hub. They listened to the story, munching happily, pausing in their plundering of the bowl every now and again to flip over onto their backs and shine their own flashlights onto the roof. In the darkened interior, which Jordan had created by placing a light blanket over the sheets so that the kids could pretend they were having an overnight camping trip, the beams crossed and dueled to muffled giggles.

“ ‘Willy, you are squeezing me,’ ” Jordan read, her voice pitched in a childish whine.

The chime of the doorbell interrupted her next sentence. “Okay, guys,” she said, closing the book. “You sit tight while I answer the door. I’ll be right back.”

“Who is it, Mommy?” Kate asked, scooting onto her knees to accompany her to the door.

“Probably the DHL man with an envelope for Aunt Margot.”

Her answer had Kate flopping back down onto the stuffed animal–littered floor. The kids were more than used to the comings and goings of the DHL man delivering envelopes and picking up signed contracts.

“Will he have pictures of her?”

“I imagine so.” Earlier in the week, Margot had flown to New York for two whirlwind days of photo shoots for Marc
Jacobs. “But we’ll have to wait until later to look at them, when we’re all done riding and Aunt Margot’s finished with her work at the barn.”

The doorbell rang again.

“Back in a sec,” she promised. Crawling through the tent’s flaps, she got to her feet and hurried to the door.

Opening it, she was greeted by a riot of lush pinks and lavenders with bright spots of yellow.

“Oh!” she gasped at the enormous bouquet, which arced in a profusion of pink peonies, purple lilacs, tuberoses, sweet pea, and brilliant yellow freesia. “How beautiful.” Her gaze swept down to note black-trousered legs and polished loafers. She looked up again to find Owen Gage gazing back at her.

Every muscle in Jordan’s face tightened.

“Oh.” The exclamation was toneless this time. After what she’d done earlier today, he was the last man she had thought or hoped to see again.

“Here, a peace offering.”

When she made no move to take the flowers, he extended them a fraction more, and she caught a hint of their heady fragrance. She inhaled again.

“Come on, show a little mercy. I really am sorry.” The corner of his mouth lifted in the beginning of one of those compelling smiles that for some reason never failed to make her insides do a little flip-flop.

She narrowed her eyes. “What
exactly
are you apologizing for?”

“I’m not sure,” he admitted, unabashed. “Though I’m assuming it has something to do with Nonie Harrison and her blasted cottage.”

“You took my ideas for the interior and are using them on the cottage,” she accused flatly.

The slight tightening of his lips was the only outward sign that her comment stung. His voice remained calm. “My interior designer has been offering her own suggestions for
the cottage, but Nonie’s apparently quite taken with your ideas. So far she seems bent on following through with your every recommendation. Believe me, I’m not happy about the situation, and obviously I’d like her to be more receptive to Emily’s ideas because she’s got a terrific eye. But there’s not a lot we can do when a client’s mind is set. For what it’s worth, I am truly sorry about the entire business.”

Jordan refused to be mollified. “Nonie’s going around telling people that you’re the one who came up with the design ideas.”

“Ahh. Well, I can promise you that while we may be doing the work on the cottage’s interior, no one at Gage and Associates is claiming credit for the interior design. Emily has plenty of other projects that demonstrate her talent. So you’ll have to go and pour iced tea on Nonie if you want to avenge yourself for that particular wrong.”

Color rushed to her cheeks. She knew it was her turn now to apologize for having dumped her drink on him. She wished she didn’t have to. She wished, too, that his explanation of the events wasn’t so reasonable. Of course Owen wasn’t going around claiming her ideas for himself. He didn’t need to. Any interior designer who worked for Gage & Associates would be top-notch. It would be churlish to hold this situation with Nonie Harrison against him, when it was clear who the guilty party was. The thought of marching up to Nonie and tossing iced tea into her botoxed face made the corners of Jordan’s mouth lift in a reluctant smile.

Taking a breath, she straightened her shoulders. “I apologize for losing my, um, temper. I don’t usually do that sort of thing. I’d be happy to pay the dry-cleaning bill if I stained your shirt.”

He inclined his head. “Apology accepted,” he said simply. “And I pay for my own dry cleaning. Now, are you going to accept my humble peace offering?” He took a step forward so that the blooms of the massive bouquet were tantalizingly close.

The man was dangerously clever. He knew that the flowers were too beautiful to resist. A bouquet like this must have cost him a tidy bundle. If this was his idea of a humble peace offering, she wondered what he did when he really screwed up.

When she made no immediate move to take it, he added cajolingly, “I had the florist cut the stems. They’ll need to be put in water very soon.”

Right. If she wasn’t going to get a commission any time soon, she might as well console herself with a truly gorgeous floral arrangement. Meeting his gaze defiantly, she reached out to relieve him of the flowers only to realize she was still holding on to the flashlight and book.

“Here, take these,” she said, handing them to him in exchange for the cellophane and raffia–wrapped bouquet. His startled expression gave her a sweet sense of satisfaction. How nice to see the smooth Owen Gage caught off balance.

“Come on inside,” she said, stepping back into the foyer. “Feel free to take a look around while I go find a vase—I know that seeing Rosewood’s a principal reason why you’re here.”

Jordan sorely underestimated her own appeal if she believed that, Owen thought. She’d been on his mind far too often these past two weeks, and somehow every encounter with her left him more intrigued. This despite the warning signs that with any other woman would have had him staying very much away.

He told himself that he kept ignoring all his well-honed instincts because she was uncommonly beautiful.

That was true. Even now he found his eyes fixed on her retreating form. She was barefoot of all things, with her long legs encased in black breeches that ended mid-calf. She looked as fine walking away from him as she had staring up at him with her wide blue eyes. He could now add the fact that she possessed a very lovely ass to the growing list of attractions he’d compiled about her. With her hair pulled
into a casual ponytail and her torso hugged by a snug-fitting top, she looked far too young to be the mother of three … far too sexy as well.

He eyed the book in his hand. Charming title. Had she been reading it as a sermon? The book obviously meant the kids must be lurking somewhere in the house. But what the hell was the flashlight for? he wondered as he stepped across the threshold into the foyer.

But then he beheld the majestic circular staircase with the stained-glass oculus centered above it, and the architect in Owen took over, crowding out the specter of fighting and biting rugrats and the puzzle of what one used flashlights for in the middle of the day.

One didn’t have to be an architect to get lost in the beauty of the house. Its exquisite details hearkened back to a golden age of craftsmanship and design. The examples were everywhere—from the inlaid star pattern in the center of the foyer’s parquet floor to the intricate carving of the door surrounds—and as he looked about he couldn’t help but feel awed. Stepping into the rooms was like stepping back in time.

To his right was the double parlor, its length divided by a screen of slender Corinthian columns, and in the center of each space hung matching crystal chandeliers. Sheer white curtains covered the windows, and where the windows had been thrown open to let in the fresh air, they billowed and shifted like ghosts coming home. Though he wasn’t into whimsy or Ouija boards, he found Rosewood the type of place to inspire thoughts of ancestors who roamed the rooms. The ghosts would be happy here, their spirits at rest in a place so lovingly preserved.

To be honest, he hadn’t really expected the interior to be as fine as the exterior, with its soaring columns and wide porches and magnificent presence. So many generations had lived in the house, it was reasonable to assume that some kind of architectural butchery would have been committed
along the way. It was rather amazing that the family had had the sense not to destroy the place in the name of modernization, and that where they had updated—installing central heating, for instance—the alterations were as discreet as possible.

It was impossible not to get lost in the beauty of the space as he moved about this first room, soaking up the details of cornices and flutes. He only wished that instead of shoving a flashlight into his hand, Jordan had handed him a measuring tape and notepad so he could jot down proportions, sketch a detail of the ceiling’s moldings.

And, God, the antiques. He knew people at Christie’s and Sotheby’s who would cheerfully commit murder to get their hands on some of these pieces. That the furniture was being used daily by Jordan’s family, rather than cordoned off or stuck inside a glass case, would probably kill
them
, though. Auction house people got uptight about original Duncan Phyfes. Owen, however, liked seeing the fuchsia iPod resting on the marble-topped side table and the open laptop on a tall, clawfoot secretary. He even liked the kitschier details of the décor: the lamps whose bases were made from what looked like trophies—horse trophies, he assumed—and the porcelain statuettes of hunting dogs pointing at an unseen quarry. All these prevented the room from feeling like a museum, or worse, a mausoleum.