The Outcast Prince (6 page)

Caspian nodded. He touched the edge of the fame, then shrugged and moved onto the next photo.

“There’s nothing antique or individually valuable here. You can pack them. I’ll just make a note of them in the record.” He took a few photos and she watched his lips move as he did a quick count. Again his gaze seemed to stick on the pretty man.

What was so special about that one?

She glanced at Caspian again. She didn’t really have a clue what was going on behind those pale green eyes. She was sure he’d broken hearts with just a look. He seemed so unobtainable. Or maybe it was because he wasn’t fawning over her like other men. A small part of her wished he’d show a little more interest in her, that he’d hold her gaze when she caught him looking so she’d have an excuse to start a more personal conversation with him. Gran would be having a fine old laugh; she was all for putting the cards on the table and seeing what was there.

He typed something on his laptop. “This was more of a living room?”

“Yeah, Gran used it for watching TV, said it was more comfortable than the parlor.” The more time Lydia spent in the house the more she began to realize just how badly Gran had let the house go. Most of the rooms needed repainting. The garden out back was overrun, and the outside of the house was in serious need of attention, and she suspected the roof had a leak since the half-story attic smelled of mold. She hadn’t been game to go in and examine the damage yet as there’d been something scuttling in the dark and she suspected it was something more substantial than the ghost.

Maybe a quick sale was all she could hope for, and then Callaway House would be gone forever. While she could feel the weight of her name lifting, she couldn’t let go of the rope. If the house became a bed and breakfast, all she’d have left of Gran would be a few pieces of furniture. It wasn’t enough. She wanted the house and all the memories it held. Callaways had lived here for over one hundred and fifty years. Gran had done everything to keep it in the family, and Lydia didn’t want to be the one to fail.

“Aside from the two paintings and the crystal vase there’s not much in here.” Caspian’s voice broke into her thoughts. She didn’t have to decide yet.

“The vase was a gift, she never told me who from.” But her eyes had always lit up when she spoke about it.

Caspian glanced at it again and smiled as if he knew something she didn’t. “Shall we move on? I’m sure you have better ways to spend your evenings.”

Lydia nodded, then shook her head. This was much better than working late at the office. “I’m still sorting through the personal items in her bedroom. I never thought it would be so hard to pack everything. How do you deal with it?”

“I don’t. I assess and move on. I don’t like doing deceased estates because the emotions are so raw. Not everyone appreciates what I have to do.” He shrugged but looked uncomfortable discussing it.

“I appreciate the way you’re doing it. I’d expected someone to come in and be all obsessed with its unusual history.” Maybe that would have been easier; then she would have been able to brush him off instead of wanting to know more about him.

“The sex, drugs, and rock and roll?”

It didn’t sound scandalous when Caspian said it, yet she still felt like she had to defend the house as best she could. “There was no rock and roll.”

Caspian raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t some rock star have their wedding here and then get divorced three months later in the eighties?”

“Not everything you read on the Internet is true… it was almost four months later.” And that had been the end of the wedding location according to Gran.

“Just sex and drugs then.” He was smiling.

She couldn’t stop her lips from curving in response. Was he flirting with her? She took a risk to see how far he’d go. “Mostly sex.”

He nodded, but he was watching her as if he was trying to work out what to say next. Had she just killed the conversation? A flutter of nerves caught in her chest as she waited for him to respond.

“I read the dinner parties were something special.”

Lydia let out the breath she’d been holding. “Well, I guess when you get a whole bunch of powerful men and their mistresses in one room things are going to happen. That’s old though. Later it was more hippie. No mistresses, just people boarding here and partying.”

“Is the ghost a myth too?”

“That depends on who you talk to. Gran believed something was here, but I’ve never seen anything, just lots of odd bumps.” There was definitely something here; however, she wasn’t about to confess her belief in the ghost to Caspian. Not yet. Besides, it would be more fun if he realized for himself that they weren’t alone in the house. And if he didn’t? Well, he wouldn’t be the first person to logic away the ghost. But that crawling sensation that someone was watching when she was alone, or the creak on the floorboard that sounded like steps in the middle of the night—she couldn’t explain them away.

“I’ll keep an eye out for it,” he said with a smile.

She looked at Caspian again. There was an air about him as if he was from another time and place, like he didn’t quite fit. Like her. But instead of pressing forward she retreated. “Let’s do the parlor. All the best parties started there, or so I was told.”

She turned away but was sure she could feel his gaze lingering on her back as he followed her into the parlor.

There was dust on the shelves and on the chandelier. The two loveseats looked faded and threadbare. As a child it had seemed magical, now it just looked old.

Caspian scanned the shelves, walking the length of the room. “Do you have a list of the books? Are any first editions?”

“I don’t know… is it important?” There were maybe a hundred old books and plenty of other little ornaments; china dancing ladies, ivory animals, and trinkets from overseas. On the table was an empty brandy decanter and glasses.

He nodded.

“I think some of these belonged to Gran’s father-in-law.” She’d kept them because it made the place look better, like they could all read and were educated. “I’ll start listing the books.”

He glanced at the bookcase behind the desk. “Maybe it could be sold as a bulk lot?”

“Do you think I should sell?” She meant the house, not just the contents of the parlor.

“Do you want to?” He put the laptop on the desk, his fingers tracing lightly over the surface. She’d noticed that about him—he touched an object if only for a second before photographing and documenting. He was tactile even though his job seemed cold and impersonal.

“I thought I did. I had an offer this morning from someone wanting to turn the house into a bed and breakfast.”

Caspian looked over his shoulder. “Because Charleston doesn’t have enough historic escapes for visitors?”

“I can’t afford the repairs without taking out a mortgage that will be bigger than I can repay.” She blew the dust off a book and opened up the first page. Shouldn’t he be telling her to sell? Wasn’t that his job, to make people part with precious things in exchange for money? She sniffed and blamed the dust, not the sudden lump in her throat. “Do you want it?”

He looked at her, then the chandelier and the rest of the room. “If I had that kind of capital, I’d buy it and pretend to live like a lord.” He closed his eyes and took a breath as if he could imagine the parties the way she once had. As he opened his eyes, he shook his head. “The divorce cleaned me out.”

One eyebrow rose. Divorced. That was the first personal detail he’d revealed about himself, and it was enough to make her want to know more. She bit her tongue on the more nosy questions like what was his ex-wife like and how long were they married and what had happened. Instead she went for the gentle question that would hopefully lead to more. “Recent?”

“Recent enough. It was amicable, she kept the house, and I kept the shop and started over.”

Meaning he’d walked away, because he’d done the wrong thing? She frowned. How could she ask that without putting her foot in it? But it was important to know.

He continued without looking at her. “At the time it felt like the right thing.” He started tapping on the keyboard. “In hindsight I was overly generous.”

Lydia took the opening. “Guilty conscience?”

“Betrayed heart.” He looked over his shoulder and fixed her with those icy green eyes. “I caught her cheating.”

“Ouch.” But he’d wanted her to know that, and that gave her hope that maybe they were at least looking at the same book, even if they weren’t on the same page.

“Not quite what I said.” The corner of his mouth twitched as he tried to hide the hurt.

“No kids?”

“Fortunately no.” He turned and leaned against the edge of the desk. “You know this would be quicker without the twenty questions.”

“But it wouldn’t be as much fun. Don’t you want to know something about Callaway House? People always want to know what went on.” She walked over and put the book on the desk next to him. If she put out her hand, she could run it down his arm. Her fingers twitched.

He looked up from the screen. “I’d rather know about you.”

She automatically put up her defenses, then stopped herself. Wasn’t this what she wanted—a chance to get to know him better? The only way she could do that was if she let him get to know her. “Ask something then.”

“What is your favorite room?”

Of all the questions he could’ve asked, he’d picked that. She wasn’t sure what to say. Was there even a wrong answer? “It depends. In winter I used to like sitting in the kitchen. It was always warm and smelled of homemade treats. But in summer evenings Gran would open up the glass doors and the scent of jasmine would fill this room. I’d sit and read and pretend I was a princess in a palace. Do you have a favorite room yet?”

He blinked. His dark lashes rested against his skin for a heartbeat before he opened his eyes again to look at her. This time there was almost a sadness in his eyes. “Your gran might have let me in, but I couldn’t afford a drink in here. My mother’s a nurse. My father’s a mechanic descended from French pirates. I don’t have class, money, or artistic talent.”

Lydia titled her head. Was he saying what she thought he was saying? That she was out of his league? She would’ve laughed except he looked deadly serious.

Her hand covered his. Skin to skin, her breath caught.

“Callaway House was never about the money or mistresses. It was about the party. Sure, the rich spent up big when they came to play and make deals, but without the struggling artists and the musicians who played for a meal and drinks—and to say they’d played here—Callaway House would’ve been no better than the motel that charges by the hour. It was about atmosphere. People had to want to come here.”

“But they stopped coming.”

“Nightclubs and bars took over. No one wanted to spend a weekend listening to poetry and getting high, or hearing some up-and-coming blues guitarist work on his next album. I wish I’d seen it in action.”

“It would have been some party.” His hand trailed up her arm.

Before she could second-guess herself again, she leaned in and kissed him. Her lips brushed his, testing to see if she’d like the feel of his mouth. She did. She liked the way he smelled of soap and that his cheek was rough because he hadn’t shaved before coming around.

He didn’t respond. His lips didn’t move. She pulled back.
Awkward.
“I’m sorry. I don’t usually kiss men I’ve just met.”

“I don’t usually kiss while on the job.” This time there was only heat in his eyes, like someone had lit a match and held it to his soul.

She couldn’t move away as she waited for his next move. If he made none, that was it. She’d go and sit in another room while he worked and pretend as if it had never happened. Then he placed his lips to hers. Softly as if the kiss was something he shouldn’t be taking. Her eyes closed and her mouth opened, letting his tongue slip inside. Tasting and teasing. Her hand snuck around his waist, drawing him closer.

In return his hand swept over the curve of her butt. Pressed against her he felt good, his body was firm as if he spent his spare time keeping fit, not sitting. She relaxed into his hold as heat spread through her body. It had been too long since she’d had a man in her arms. He ended the kiss with a couple of slow ones as if he couldn’t bear to pull away. That made two of them. His breath caressed her lips as he took a final taste and then released her. Neither of them moved. All she could think about was her body and the way it melted in his hands like he’d seduced her with just a touch.

“That’s going to complicate things,” he murmured as he tucked a strand of her dark blond hair behind her ear. His lips still felt the pressure of hers, and his skin was hyperaware of every subtle move she made, her body pressed against his in a way that was far too intimate. He wanted her, he couldn’t remember wanting anyone quite so much, and he was sure she would have noticed his attraction.

A look of surprise lifted her eyebrows. “That’s not what I was expecting to hear.”

He let his hand fall away from the silken strands of her hair. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

Caspian’s hand touched the desk and his head was filled with images of another night years ago and what had happened on the desk.
Skin
and
sweat.
Clothing
being
peeled
off
in
a
rush
to
find
satisfaction
. Driven by lust his heart pumped a little harder.

It was the house.

It was what he was seeing.

He looked at Lydia.

Hell, it was the woman.

“Will you get in trouble?”

He paused before answering. She meant with work, but he was thinking about the Grey who’d been making threats. Not that he could explain how he was mixed up in a deadly game of fairy politics. He hadn’t lied to her about his lack of social standing… in the human world. The fairy world was a whole other festering kettle of fish.

“Depends. Are you seducing me to get a favorable valuation?”

That could be a problem if someone thought he was fiddling the figures. Surely no one could contest a will that left the estate to the only child and grandchild?