The House On The Creek (29 page)

“What exactly does that mean you do, other than harass innocent contractors over the phone?”

He had the grace to look abashed. “I haven’t had a chance to compliment you on a job well done. It might be I didn’t give you enough credit. Everything looks - what was the word your son used? - awesome.”

“Thank you.” She decided maybe the reindeers on his brick red tie were endearing rather than cheesy.

He hesitated a moment, and then sat on the settee at her side, empty glass dangling from long fingers.

“One of the things I do, other than harass innocent contractors, is make sure every agreement Everett signs is rock solid.”

“You’re protective,” Abby realized. “I get that.”

Windsor shook his head. “I like my paycheck, I like my life in Seattle, I like my job. I don’t like change. And I especially don’t like nasty surprises. So I cover every base, best I can. Just to make sure.”

“Okay,” Abby waited. “I get that, too.”

“He didn’t read Edward’s will. He wouldn’t touch it. He wouldn’t even discuss it. But I went over it, top to bottom, line by line. I do a thorough job.”

Abby thought her heart had stopped. And then it began to race so hard she thought it would burst. “I don’t understand.”

“I didn’t suppose it would ever become an issue. But now it has.” He paused.

“I’ve been with him for ten years, Ms. Ross. And I know him. He’s loved you a long time but he’s hated his father longer. And he won’t ever accept Edward’s cuckoo in his nest.”

Abby knew her mouth was hanging open, but she couldn’t seem to close it.

Windsor’s face clouded with pity. “The will was very explicit. Everything left to Edward’s second son, Christopher Allen.” He stood up. “You’ll tell him, or I’ll be forced to do it myself.”

Somehow Abby made it down the hall to the tiny guest room she had been given for the night. She stumbled into cool darkness, and slammed the door shut at her back.

She groped across the bedspread until she found her tote. She dug out her phone, and fumbled in the dim light until she managed to press the correct button.

It rang and then connected to Chris’s voicemail. She snapped the phone shut, and tossed it onto the bed.

He was probably asleep in front of the television. Or in the shower, pretending to shave the bit of peach fuzz he’d recently become so proud of. She wouldn’t let herself worry.

The room seemed dark as a cellar. She wandered to the windows, and jerked back the drapes. She looked out across the patio tent at the gazebo. The sun would soon set, and the icicle lights were already beginning to glow.

She wanted, desperately, to gather up her things and run away to Chris. To reassure herself that her son was safe and healthy and, yes, happy. That, at least, no one could take from her.

Abby pulled the room’s delicate rocking chair away from the hearth, and set it before the windows. She sagged into the chair, hugged her ribs, and pressed her lids together to keep back the ache in her head.

Her sigh was so loud she didn’t hear the door opening. But she heard the slight snick as the latch closed again. Her spine stiffened.

“Abby? Windsor said you weren’t feeling well.”

“Windsor can kiss my ass,” she snapped.

“What?” Everett sounded incredulous.

“Nothing.” She’d tell him about the will herself. She’d make him understand.

“He said he found you overdoing in the upstairs hall. White as a sheet.”

“He fed me two aspirin. I’m fine.”

“You’re still white. Look at me.”

How she loved the sound of his voice. Even when he tried so hard to hide the drawl, the Southern lilt still seeped in. She’d lived around Southern men all of her life, but none sounded so sweet to her ears as Everett.

He crouched in front of her chair, green eyes narrowed in concern. And something else. Fright?

“What happened?” He demanded with an arrogance that gave lie to the uncertainty in his expression. “You’ve been working too hard. Have you made yourself sick?”

“No, I told you. Just a headache.” She scowled, annoyed at herself, at Windsor, at Everett and his concern.

She waved him off, and jumped to her feet, pacing the small room.

Everett followed after and his hands soothed her shoulders. “Nerves?”

His fingers dug the knots from her muscles, and started a pulsing down low. The moan slipped from her lips before she could bite it back.

“You’re tight as a wire,” he said into her hair. “I can’t believe it. Abby Ross, nervous.”

Terrified.

“You’ve already bedazzled Rachel Duncan sight unseen, and she’s the hardest to please of them all. She’s demanding to know where you found the kitchen cabinets.” Gentle hands ran down her arms and caught her fingers. “Your house is a work of art.”

“Edward’s house.”

“My house,” he corrected without hesitation. “You’ve made it my house.”

“Wait until you see the bill.”

He laughed, and turned her until they stood thigh to thigh. “Feeling better? Your color has come back.”

The spare planes of his body burned against her own. The throbbing in her head had traveled to take up a rhythm in her blood.

“It’s you,” she managed.

“Me?” His eyes were full of swirling currents. He lifted a hand, ran a finger across her forehead, down the bridge of her nose, and against her mouth, trailing fire. “And here I thought I’d caught you making eyes at that bull of a caterer.”

“Who?” When she spoke a knuckle slid between her parted lips and grazed her teeth. He tasted of snowflakes and desire. Wanting more, she sucked lightly.

Everett swore a muffled oath as he pulled his hands from her body. His abrupt withdrawal left Abby swaying against the rocker. She put a hand on the back of the chair for balance, and tried to catch her breath.

“Sorry.” He strode across the room, and stood before the cold fireplace. “I’m probably not doing your head any good.”

“No. I mean, yes. Ev.” She couldn’t trust her legs to take her across the floor to him.

“No.” Back turned, he shook his head. “Later. Once this damned week is over, there are some things I need to say.”

Her skin prickled and she shivered.

“This room is freezing.” Still without looking at her, he began arranging kindling in the hearth. “The heat never manages to make it way back here. I’d forgotten. I’m sorry.”

Why was he apologizing when all she wanted was for him to touch her again?

But when she finally gathered the strength to go to him, he’d snagged a poker, and appeared to be focused on building the fire. She stood behind him, and watched as he jabbed the poker between the flames.

Several tendrils of tow colored hair had escaped his sleek head and fallen over his brow. Abby bent to smooth the strands from his eyes, but he straightened, and stepped away.

“It’ll warm up quickly, now,” he said, refusing to meet her eyes. “Why don’t you take a nap? There are still several hours before dinner and you’ll feel better for it.”

“I should run home and check on Chris.”

“I’ll see to it.” He was already at the door. Abby stood in front of the merry fire, and stared helplessly after.

“Sleep,” he urged. “I’ll come for you at five. Introduce you all around.”

Abby started to protest, and then shut her mouth with a snap. He was already gone, the door swinging quietly shut on his heels. She stood alone, lust roiling unsatisfied through her veins.

“Damn!” Abby plucked her tote from the bed and hurled it at the door. It burst like a ripe melon, spilling her magpie collection of tools and sketches and receipts and paper scraps to the floor.

She stared at the mess, and balled her fists, and tried to summon another spurt of agitation. She couldn’t. Because the fear growing in her heart chilled even the flames of her temper.

She’d find a way to explain. And she’d find a way soon.

Gritting her teeth, Abby settled on her haunches, and began gathering up her strewn belongings.

Chapter Twenty

“WOODEN PEGS, YOU SAY?”
Ignoring the rush of busy caterers, Rachel Duncan crouched down smack in the middle of the kitchen, and studied the cabinets.

Abby’s lips quirked. Rachel was short and dark and definitely tenacious. Her long velvet gown bunched and wrinkled as she moved from a squat to hands and knees. Rachel didn’t seem to notice.

The caterers ignored the woman with professional aplomb, but Abby had a harder time. Suppressed amusement made her nose itch.

“Yes. It’s called mortise and tenon,” Abby explained. “My partner, Jackson Pierce, happens to be the local expert. He put each one together by hand.”

Gathering green silk against her ankles, Abby hunkered down by the woman’s side. A diamond the size of a gum drop gleamed on Rachel’s hand as she tapped fingernails on wood.

“Amazing. How long did it take?”

“Quite a long while,” Abby admitted. “But he does all the work himself, from top to bottom. The molding and stain and hardware.”

Beyond the kitchen Everett’s party was in full swing. Someone had tuned in and turned up
It’s A Wonderful Life,
and Jimmy Stewart’s lovable laughter seemed to rattle the walls.

Dinner, all three shifts of it, had met with success and accolades. After dinner drinks were now being guzzled up at an astounding rate, and the caterers were trying their very best to pass out dessert.

Abby silently wished them luck. She had never seen so many people in one place in her entire life, never imagined so much energy could be contained in one spot.

Everett’s friends and clientele made up a large and diverse group with apparently only business in common. An eclectic mix of young and old, hemp and satin, diamonds and leather, they mingled together in a soup of holiday cheer.

Abby had seen one man in jeans and a floor length leather duster. Another proudly displayed a spiraling tattoo along the curve of his jaw. A pair of identical twins in matching black dresses danced together in the foyer while a cluster of men in Armani business suits discussed the stock market on the floor beneath the parlor Christmas tree.

A woman in a tuxedo sat on a bar stool in the hallway, knitting. As far as Abby could tell, she had spoken to no one at all.

“They’re gorgeous.” Somehow Rachel managed to keep her dignity as she crawled about on hands and knees. “I’ll have something similar.”

“For your kitchen?”

“For my kitchens.” She gathered up her gown, and climbed carefully back to her feet. “I’m having an old home broken into condos. In Tucson. Four kitchens.”

“Oh. My.” Abby put her hand under Rachel Duncan’s arm to keep the woman from stepping on her hem. “Jackson would be delighted, I’m sure. Let me just...”

She poked her head into the hall, scanning the crowd for Jack’s unmistakable height. “There he is.” She steered Rachel from the room. “Let me just introduce you.”

Everett took a welcome break from talk of mergers and acquisitions some time after his watch registered 2AM. He managed to weave his way between crowds of well wishers, and make the basement without spilling the long neck he’d snagged from a caterer’s tray. He settled into leather couch and exhaled gratefully.

He recognized several of the men grouped around the billiard table, and knew that they were hard core gamers. He wasn’t surprised when the betting became as serious as the game.

Farther behind the table a game of roulette was being played out to a chorus of shouting and giggling and general ruckus. Past the roulette, a black jack dealer went quietly about his business, waiting for interested players.

Black jack wasn’t Everett’s game. Roulette could wait. What he wanted most was bed. Bed and Abby and an endless dawn between soft sheets.

But he had learned, over the years, that business often depended as much on the salesman as the product. He had polished his skills and turned hill billy hick into consummate host.

So he ignored desire, and finished his beer, and cut in on a game of billiards, and quickly began raking in Ben Franklins. The table was sweet, the sticks to his taste, and his companions fast and loose with both money and booze. Time rolled by and before Everett knew it he discovered he was enjoying himself.

His funds grew in leaps and bounds, he kept a beer close at hand, and his opponents seemed to be generally decent.

When he glanced at his watch again it was after four, and the early morning was still speeding right along. As the consummate host, he quickly lost back most of the money he’d won and, citing thirst, took a break from the table.

He scrounged a bottle of mineral water from behind the bar, loosened the collar of his tux, and rubbed sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve.