The House On The Creek (28 page)

“Then I suggest you wait until after our guests leave. We don’t need a blow up in front of the money.”

Everett glanced over his shoulder. “Think she’ll take it that well?”

His assistant’s dour mask cracked slightly. “I suspect she’ll blow your ass to kingdom come. And I’d like to be out of range when she does.”

Everett wanted Abby in the smallest of the guest rooms, a snug triangular space that had windows to the front of the house. The room was farthest from his own suite, but it was comfortable and warm, and was distant enough from the center of the house to afford her some privacy.

He’d have her at his side for an entire seven days and even though every minute was scheduled, doled out to client and guest and the duties of a host, he planned to make sure she was always near at hand.

He was still frightened. Hell, terrified. He could admit that to himself, here in the cozy little room above the world. But he wouldn’t run. He wouldn’t lose her again.

He’d stood alone in his great glass mansion on the West Coast and watched the rain wash over Lake Washington, and known that he wanted her more than he’d wanted anything in his life. He’d always wanted her.

He wanted her with something more than lust, something deep and abiding and bright and safe.

Home, he’d discovered, was Abby Ross.

She was real. She was peace and hope and happiness. She was his future. Christ, she was
his.
She always had been.

Now, he just had to convince her that he meant it.

Abby snatched a free hour she didn’t have to swathe Chesapeake Renovations in ribbons and greenery. She hung lights in the front window and a wreathe from the door. She had climbed the ladder to add fir trimmings to the balcony when she heard Jackson calling her name from the floor below.

She had zip ties between her teeth, and wire in her hands, so she couldn’t do much more than grunt back.

He took the stairs up two at a time, as he always did, and then helpfully plucked the ties from her mouth.

“Looks nice. Too bad we won’t have time to open up until after the holiday.”

She twisted wire, securing boughs to the balcony railing.

“It’ll make a good impression, and that’s the point, isn’t it? Too make a good impression?”

“The guy at the tux shop would applaud to hear you say so.” He squatted to help secure branches.

Abby tried not to cackle. “Good man. Did you remember a cummerbund?”

“And shoes. They pinch.”

“Not more than mine, I promise you.”

Decorations in place, Abby dusted her hands on her trousers, and thumped Jack on his arm. “I’m sure you’ll look very handsome. The ladies will fall at your size twelve feet, Jackson.”

“Huh.” He stood very still and looked down his nose.

“What?”

“You seem good. Better than you have for weeks.”

“Well.” She ducked so he wouldn’t see her face, and gathered up her spool of wire. “The Anderson job’s all but finished and we actually pulled it off. Even the hard bits like food and linens and flagstone patios in sub zero temps.”

“That all?”

“What else?”

He took the spool from her hands, and placed one massive paw under her chin. “Is it the Anderson job or Anderson himself? You wilt all autumn like an unwatered fern and then when he jets back into town you unfurl.”

“Unfurl?” She couldn’t help but scoff. “Nice metaphor, partner. But no one’s been unfurling around here.”

“Simile.”

“What?”

“Simile,” he repeated, and then his mouth came down on her own.

At first she felt only shock, and the crush of his heavy hands on her shoulders. Then her head cleared, and she decided that he kissed quite well. His mouth was gentle, sweet. Questioning.

“Damn.” He released her, and let go of her shoulders so abruptly she swayed. “Damn and bloody hell. You do love him.”

She ran the tips of her fingers along her lips. “I think I always have.”

He nodded once. “I was afraid that might be the case. I never stood a chance.”

She tried not to look as baffled as she felt. “I didn’t know-”

“No, of course not.” He turned his back, started down the stairs. “I should have guessed, the care you took of the old man. I couldn’t figure it out, at first. But I was stupid. You were doing it all for a memory.”

“No. Yes. I don’t know. Jackson.”

She caught him at the door. He didn’t exactly shake her off, but the look he gave her made her tuck her fingers in her armpits. “You never said anything.”

“Maybe,” he agreed. “Or maybe you just weren’t listening.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No.” He grumbled a little. “I’m not the sort to pine away over stupid ideas. Too old to be grounded by a silly thing like a broken heart.”

“Too stubborn,” she agreed, hoping he would recognize her regret for what it was.

“Stubborn. This from the woman who wouldn’t settle for less than Watermelon Quartzite.”

“The color suited the house.”

“You’re obsessive.”

“And so are you. And that’s why we’re good at what we do.” She rolled her shoulders, suddenly miserable. “That won’t change...will it?”

“No.” He shuffled in place. “No, I won’t let it.”

“Good.” The relief was enormous. “Good. Thank you.”

He nodded. “See you tonight. I’ll be the one in the tux, the pretty ladies falling in piles all over my too tight shoes.”

“They’d be lucky to have you, Jackson.”

He stepped over the threshold into a dusting of snow. Abby shut and locked the shop door behind him, and then stood watching through the glass, puzzled, as her partner folded himself into Everett’s tiny sports car.

Chapter Nineteen

EVERETT’S GUESTS ARRIVED IN TRICKLES,
and then in droves. Abby took shelter in the kitchen with the herd of caterers. She wouldn’t be called upon to make an appearance until dinner, but she couldn’t help a healthy curiosity.

For almost a week the entire house would echo with the comings and goings of people who were, if not Everett’s friends, then certainly his compatriots. She couldn’t help wondering what the faces who matched the voices looked like, and whether or not they would be properly charmed by the house.

One of the caterers, a stocky frat boy with golden curls and a Roman nose, stumbled against the kitchen counter, and nearly dropped a tray of hors d’oeuvres. Abby ducked forward and caught the tray as it wobbled, saving stuffed mushrooms from a precipitous demise.

“Oh.” The boy’s entire face turned deep red. “I’m sorry.”

Abby set the tray on the counter, and sent a quick peek in the direction of the head chef. “No harm done. I don’t think anyone noticed.” She gave the caterer a sympathetic pat. “First time?”

“Yeah.” He nodded and rubbed his chin. “It’s really my girlfriend’s. The job, I mean. But she’s sick and I promised to fill in for her, and I’ve never even folded a napkin before.” The flush on his neck turned from red to purple. “I’m a bit nervous.”

“Me, too. But we can only do our best. And it’ll be over sooner than we think. Thank God. Nerves do terrible things to my stomach.” To fill the queasy hollow in her gut, she stole a warm mushroom, and popped it into her mouth.

“Lord.” Ignoring the chef’s distant grumbles, she closed her eyes, and enjoyed the brief taste of heaven. “If all the food as is good as this, dinner might just be worth the trouble.”

“Didn’t you pick our menu, Madame Hostess?”

Abby’s eyes popped open. The awkward caterer had vanished along with the tray of hors d’oeuvres. In his place stood a smug devil with an innocent’s grin.

“I went over the menu with Windsor, tooth and comb.” She returned, and licked mushroom from her thumb. “But the food’s only as good as the chef and his kitchen. So far, I’m not worried. I built the kitchen and I’ve met the chef.” She gave the man in question another wary stare. “He’s as temperamental as they come.”

“Always a good sign.” Everett bent close and lowered his voice to a whisper. “What’s he doing now? Looks dangerous.”

“Something to do with the pecan pies.”

“Pecan pie.” Everett’s eyes lit. Abby licked her thumb again to keep back a laugh.

“What’s a holiday party without it? So. You’ve lit out on your guests?”

“We’ve had a lull. Windsor’s showing our latest couple to their room now.”

The green heat of his gaze made her insides flutter. “Really.” She caught herself nibbling her thumbnail. “So you’ve got a couple of minutes.”

“One or two.” Everett drifted across gleaming tile, and gently plucked her thumb from her mouth. “Is there a problem?”

“No problem.” A tiny pulse beat in his neck. Abby couldn’t seem to look away from the flutter. “Just a question. About the last of the sleigh bells.”

“You’re my guest, now, Abigail. Your contract’s up. Leave the bells alone.”

“I need to put them somewhere. They’re bothering me.”

“Fine. Put the damn bells wherever you like.” Everett murmured.

Abby was sure, for one crazy moment, that she could taste him even though he didn’t touch her.

“Wherever I...?” Abby trailed off. She wanted him. Lord, she wanted him to take her right there in the kitchen, among hors d’oeuvres and centerpieces, in front of client, caterer, and temperamental chef.

“...like.” Everett finished. And then she
could
taste him, as he covered her mouth, crushed, delved deep.

The kiss quickly became molten. Everett groaned, and pulled until she overbalanced against him. Abby felt her senses spinning out of control, and didn’t care. She met his demand with equal intensity, equal desperation.

Her hands clasped behind his neck. Everett groaned again and dragged his mouth away.

“Abby.”

She could feel the rise and fall of his chest through her sweater. The expression on his face almost stopped her heart.

“Abby,” he started again, voice rough. “I-”

He swallowed and took an audible breath. Then paused as she made a small, irritated noise. He stiffened, and turned his head, following her stare.

“You’re needed,” Windsor said from his place in the doorway.

Everett swore under his breath, and stepped away. “What is it?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence Duncan are in the foyer. Apparently they forgot to book a hotel room.”

“Apparently.” Everett returned, bland.

He touched Abby’s cheek with the tip of his index fingers. “Put the bells wherever you think best and then stop working. It’s time for you to relax and enjoy.”

“Thank you,” she said, heart pounding. “I will.”

She watched as he followed Windsor away through the house, and then brought a shaking hand to her forehead.

“Amore.” The chef said from behind her.

“What?”

“Love,” he repeated in a thick Brooklyn accent. “Best to go with it. But not in my kitchen. Get out.”

Abby fled.

The afternoon raced by. Determined to keep busy, Abby found herself spinning from room to room so quickly that time began to blur. She kept one eye on the caterers and another on the workmen hanging the last string of lights around the gazebo.

She ran through the few unoccupied rooms with a rag and a can of furniture polish, and then discovered that the Christmas trees needed more water. She rechecked the twine anchoring swathes of greenery to the banister, and scraped a fresh batch of snow from the porch.

One of the heaters under the patio tent needed an adjustment. She found Jack, and set him to the task with only a little twitch of awkwardness.

Then she went back to check on the caterers.

Somewhere in between doing this and checking that and pretending that her nerves weren’t jangling, Abby developed a monster headache. When the pain became too loud to ignore any longer, she paused in between watering baskets of amaryllis and re-knotting the bow on the kissing ball hung in the upstairs hall, and decided she needed to sit.

Halfway down the hall Windsor met her with a glass of water and a dose of aspirin.

“Thank God,” she accepted his offering with wonder. “How did you know?”

“The Grand Canyon has settled on your forehead.” He said, succinct. After she swallowed the pills and all of the water he nodded at a nearby settee. “Rest for a moment.”

Grateful, she took his advice. “Why aren’t you dead on your feet?”

“I always have energy to spare. It’s one of the reasons Everett hired me.”

“As his agent.”

“Yes.” He took the empty glass from her hand.