All Through The House (11 page)

"She made an offer?"

Those eyes, usually as cool and deep and soft as moss,
glittered with unshed tears. "How could you do this to me?" she asked
quietly. "How could you?"

"What are you talking about?" But he knew. She
knew.

"I wanted to believe you couldn't do it." Abigail
shoved curls back from her face, her stark gaze locked with his. "Not once
you knew me, anyway. I wanted to think...you couldn't kiss me and...."

"And what?" he almost yelled.

She yelled right back. "Chase every buyer out of here!
What else?"

They stared at each other for too long. Finally, he swung
around, showing her a rigid back. "I didn't do it." He made himself
finish. "Not today."

There was another silence as empty as the cavernous ballroom
above.

"So you admit it." He heard the incredulity in her
voice and knew that she still hadn't—quite—believed her own accusation.

"Yeah." He turned to face her. "Yeah, I made
damn sure this house didn't sell. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"No." She shook her head blindly. "No, that's
not what I wanted to hear."

"It was a pretty stupid idea, wasn't it?"

"Oh, I don't know," Abigail said bitterly.
"It worked, didn't it?"

The eyes that met hers were bleak. "The atomic bomb
worked, too."

"Let's not exaggerate." She struggled for a cool
tone, though her chest hurt and her eyes burned. "You realize I'll have to
tell Ed Phillips."

Nate took a step forward. "Damn it, I don't care about
Ed! Abigail, will you let me explain?"

"Explain?" She clutched her purse. "You've
got to be kidding! I can't think of anything that would justify...." Her
voice was rising, but he cut her off.

"Please." He reached out as though to touch her,
but his hand dropped back to his side. "Abigail, I didn't do this for fun.
Give me a chance. Listen to me."

She searched his face and saw...what? Sincerity? Fear? Hurt?
She saw the man who had kissed her with tenderness and triumph, who had wooed
her daughter with gentle humor. The man who had made her feel safe, hopeful. At
last she nodded jerkily.

"This had better be good."

"Will you sit down?"

Was this the preamble to more bad news? "Why do I need
to be sitting?" she asked.

Quietly he said, "It's a long story, that's all."

She nodded again, stiffly. "All right."

In the library, Abigail sat straight-backed on a Chippendale
sofa covered in gold-and-green striped satin. Nate sat, too, in a matching
chair facing the sofa, but almost immediately he stood again, as though he was
too restless to stay in one spot.

Abigail looked straight ahead, trying not to watch him pace.
His physical presence could too easily distract her from her righteous anger.

"You have to remember," he began abruptly,
"that I didn't know you when all this started. If I had...."

"You wouldn't have done it?" Her tone was coolly
skeptical.

"I didn't do it today. Whatever it was."

"What about the leak in the roof? You knew then how
much this sale meant to me! You'd already…." She stopped.

"Kissed you?" He faced her, his hands braced on
the back of the chair. Tension radiated between them. "Haven't you ever
had mixed emotions? Wanted two things at once?"

Yes! her heart cried. She had wanted both her independence
and Nate Taggart, even though she'd known better. But Abigail didn't answer,
just waited stonily.

"Did Ed ever tell you about Josiah Irving, the man who
left him the house?"

"Only that he was Ed's great-uncle, and very elderly
when he died."

"Well, for all practical purposes, Josiah was my
father." Nate began to pace again. He talked quickly, intensely. "My
real father was a drunk. I guess I told you that. He was a bastard who beat Mom
whenever he felt like it. After she left—I was maybe six years old—he beat us
instead. Nothing the neighbors complained about. Old-fashioned discipline, he
called it. I called it hell."

Abigail's breath caught painfully in her throat. Nate's
tricks were momentarily forgotten in her pain for the little boy whose mother
had deserted him, leaving him to the mercy of a violent, drunken man. How could
a woman do that? Abigail wanted to demand.

"We lived in a little dump about a mile from here.
Logging is seasonal, but we were never short of food or clothes. My sister kept
the place clean, fed us. She was, oh, about twelve when Mom left. My brothers
and sister are all older than I am. They adjusted better." He grimaced.
"I wanted more. Josiah Irving gave it to me.”

Abigail listened in silence, not knowing what to say. She
watched as Nate prowled from one end of the library to the other. He ran his
fingers along the marble fireplace mantel, traced a carved rose in the door molding,
touched the satin of the chair. It was as though the textures reaffirmed his
love of the house. As he talked he stayed in constant motion, not looking at
her.

"I used to walk over here just to see the house.
Everybody in town was proud of the Irving House. Pilchuck wouldn't be here if
it weren't for the Irvings. Josiah wasn't as rich as his father had been, but
he still owned the lumber mill out on the south end of town. He was a decent
man who tried to protect his employees. Layoffs were a last resort. When people
around here needed help, they got it.

"Anyway, Josiah caught me one time trying to peek in
the window. Scared the hell out of me, I can tell you that." Nate paused,
a faraway look in his eyes. "If he'd told my father.... But he didn't.
Instead, he invited me in. Gave me a tour. Talked about William Irving and what
architectural traditions he was influenced by. Josiah was interrupted before he
finished, so I came again. And again. The Greek Revival. Adams. Georgian
decorative details. Did you know that the ceiling rose," he gestured
upward, at an elaborate, carved plaster medallion from which the light fixture
hung, "got bigger and more complex depending on how important the room
was? That the fireplace in the drawing room was imported from France? That the
glazing bars on the windows are mitered?"

She shook her head, but he didn't even seem to notice.

He was talking faster and faster, gesturing. "I learned
every board of this place. How it was made. Why. Josiah loved this house, and
he taught me to love it, too. He taught me that I could do something with my
life, that I didn't have to be like my father. He made me believe that somebody
gave a damn about me.”

"Nate...." What had she meant to say?

But she didn't have a chance, anyway. Nate stopped pacing to
face her, but he went on talking without pause, seemingly afraid to let her
speak. His eyes were dark with passion, and the air fairly crackled with his
intensity. With words he painted a picture of the stark contrast between his
home and this one, of the man who had encouraged him to read, to study and
travel.

"He lent me books, some of them valuable. He helped me
decide where to go to college, was always there to listen when I had troubles.
Josiah never had children. Some old-fashioned sense of family made him feel he
had to leave the house to Ed, but he really wanted me to have it. That's why he
put a clause in his will giving me the first right to buy the Irving House."

"Why didn't you buy it?"

Nate laughed without humor. "I can't afford it.
Yet."

Yet. They had finally come to the crux of this monologue.

"It's not as simple as it all sounds." Nate sat
down at last, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Josiah died
three years ago. Ed knew this place was a white elephant and that he'd have a
hell of a time selling it. He and I reached an agreement, a lease-to-buy deal.
Informal, no problem. I worked for him at the time."

Abigail remembered Ed's distraction whenever the subject of
the renter came up. She had wondered then what lay between the two men, and she
wondered more now.

"So what happened?"

Nate's gray eyes were steady. "You won't want to hear
this. Not if you intend to sell his houses."

He was right. She didn't want to hear it. But she repeated,
"What?"

"He cuts corners. Nothing illegal, but he buys the
cheapest materials he can find. If they warp...." Nate shrugged.
"Water under the house.... Hey, try to get him back to fix the
problem."

"Is he worse than any other builder?"

"I think so." Nate's gaze held hers. "I
didn't want my name on his houses."

Abigail felt dizzy. Her dreams had become centered on Ed
Phillips. If she could sell the Irving House, if he gave her more
commissions... If, if, if. She had at last seen security within reach, maybe
even a house of her own. And now Nate was trying to tell her that she would
have to compromise her principles for that security.

"I don't know what to think," she said.

His expression didn't change. "That's something you'll
have to decide. What I did was to quit. I didn't have as much at stake as you
do; maybe that made it easier. I don't know. The point is, he didn't like my
jumping ship. He liked even less having me open shop in competition with him.
Our handshake about the Irving House...." Nate shook his head. "Gone.
Next thing I knew, he was putting a new roof on, replacing the plumbing and
wiring. A few months after that, the For Sale sign went up by the road."

"But he's still letting you rent?"

"He may not like me, but I write him a big check every
month. Letting me stay is no skin off his nose. He intends to get his the day
the house sells."

"So you decided to keep that from happening," Abigail
said.

"You got it."

"How long did you think you could fend buyers
off?"

"Long enough. Abigail...." He leaned forward, his
gaze hypnotic. "If we win the contract to build the elementary school, I
can buy the house. I'll pay a fair price, I'll buy it through you. You won't be
hurt. I promise."

Now it was she who jumped up. She twined her fingers
together and looked down at the man who had made her feel things that scared
her. "You lied to me," she said. "I was humiliated in front of
clients. I've had to explain leaks and cats and now rats to the owner. You're
telling me I shouldn't agree to sell the houses of the biggest developer in our
area. But I won't be hurt? Bull! You're lying again, Nate. Don't kid
yourself.''

He stood, too, with a lithe grace that infuriated her
because she was so aware of it. "Abigail, I don't even know what went
wrong today."

"Rats," she said. Damn it, her eyes were damp. She
refused to cry in front of him. "Big fat brown rats."

"I had nothing to do with them," he said quietly.
"I did not try to scare that lady off."

"So?"

"Abigail, I didn't want to make a choice, but I did. I
couldn't do it to you again."

"What about the mouse trap?"

"The house has mice. And rats. I've only had the cats
for a few days."

Oh, God. She'd almost forgotten the cats. "Do you know
you sent that woman to the hospital?"

There was silence. Nate seemed to sag as he let out a long
breath and closed his eyes. "No. I didn't know. I thought she was probably
just scared of them."

"She's all right," Abigail admitted unwillingly.
"No thanks to you."

He stiffened and opened his eyes. "Damn it,
Abigail...."

"Damn it, Abigail, what?" Her tone was fierce.
"Do you expect me to tell you it's okay? No problem, Nate, I
understand?"

They glared at each other. "Is understanding so damn
hard?"

"Yes!" she cried. "It's a house, Nate! A
bunch of old boards nailed together. It's not yours. Maybe when you were twelve
years old you wanted to be an Irving. Well, you're not, and you're all grown up
now. Face it."

He retreated, as though she'd struck him, taking refuge
behind the chair. His hands gripped its back so tightly his knuckles were
white.

"Is the past so unimportant to you?" he asked.
"Is there something wrong with wanting to hold on to your roots?"

She tried desperately to cling to her sense of betrayal. She
would not let herself be convinced only because Nate spoke so passionately. He
had been willing to hurt anyone who stood in his way. She couldn't forget that.

"The past isn't a house," she said. "It's
people. Would Josiah want you to lie to keep his house? If he'd wanted you to
have it at any cost, wouldn't he have left it to you?"

A mask closed over Nate's face. After a moment, during which
they stared at each other, he said with icy calm, "The only person I was
hurting is Ed Phillips, and, by God, he deserves it."

"What about me?"

His calm abruptly deserted him and she saw anguish on his
face. "I didn't know you," he said again. "If I could go back....
But I can't. Abigail, do you want me to pack my stuff and move out of here? Is
that what it would take for you to forgive me?"

She didn't want to forgive him, she realized with a shock.
She was afraid of him. Of his charm and his wicked smiles and his achingly
sweet touch. Of the hope he had given her and Kate, who talked of little else.
She wanted to hate him, because it would be safer.

"I trusted you," she said, her throat hurting. No,
that was a lie. She had almost trusted him.

"I didn't know you," he repeated.

"Don't keep saying that!" she snapped.

"What the hell else should I say?" he demanded. He
came around the chair in a couple of long strides. His hands closed on her
shoulders and he yanked her against him. His voice was as rough as his
childhood had been. "I want you, Abigail McLeod. I want you so badly, I'd
torch this place if it was the only way to have you. Do you understand?"

She couldn't breathe. He was hard against her and his
fingers bit almost painfully into her upper arms. She could see the dark spikes
of his lashes around eyes almost black, his pupils were so dilated. Beneath
starkly high cheekbones, his cheeks were shadowed with a faint growth of beard.
His teeth were clenched, his mouth a compressed line.