THE FIRE STILL BURNS

by Roxanne St Claire

  "Why would I do that?" she asked.

  "Hunter House is an excellent example of Georgian colonial architecture from the mid-eighteenth century. Besides giving you an understanding of what the competition is presenting, you should just experience it. Just for the pure pleasure of it."

  "I'm not interested in Georgian colonial architecture from the mid-eighteenth century," she said, pulling the blanket tighter. "I don't need to experience anything just for pure pleasure."

  His laugh was low and rich with irony. "Evidently." He lifted a strand of hair and let it flutter back over her neck. "But needing and wanting are two different things."

  Speaking of pure pleasure.

  She shifted away from him and curled deeper into her corner. "Don't tease me, Colin."

  He gave his head a slow, negative shake. "No can do, Gracie. It's too much fun."

  Fun for him. "I can't get through the next three weeks if you constantly bring up the subject of … what I'm missing."

  "You're missing Georgian architecture, that's all."

  She shot him a warning look. "You know what I mean. Everything you say is loaded with … double meaning."

  "You're imagining things," he denied with a laugh. "But I'll make you a deal. I'll promise to speak with one, straightforward meaning if you'll make me a promise, too."

  She started to agree, then caught herself. "That depends on what you ask."

  "Every single day you're here, you will break one rule."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Just something little. Take a risk, break a rule. Like putting your dishes on the floor for twenty minutes instead of running into the kitchen to wash them."

  Those kinds of rules she could break. But what else did he have in mind? "I don't know," she said, with a slow smile. "I don't want to compromise my standards."

  He ruffled her hair again, sending a cascade of tingles down her back. "You don't have to compromise anything, Gracie. I just want to see you have a little fun."

  This was fun, she realized with a start. Being this close to Colin McGrath, sitting in the moonlight, inhaling his masculine scent, watching that tiny gold ring in his ear move with each tip of the glider. This was just plain, unadulterated fun.

  "I don't know," she said. "I like rules."

  "It's all about control, and you're an expert there." Somehow, he'd moved all the way over to her side of the glider and now sat just inches from her. "As long as you maintain control, rules can be broken. That's how I approach architecture."

  "That's how you approach life."

  He grinned. "Watch out. It's contagious."

  That's what she was worried about. "All right. One rule a day. Starting tomorrow. But no more double entendres thick with … implications."

  "Deal. But not starting tomorrow. It's after midnight, so let's start right now." He closed the space between them, slowly lifting the edge of the blanket. "What are you wearing?"

  Grace tried to swallow. "Pajamas."

  "Then you'll need to change."

  "Why?"

  "We're going for a walk."

  "Now? Where?"

  "Cliff Walk."

  "Cliff Walk?" She almost laughed at the absurd idea. "You can't go out there at night. I'm sure it's against the law."

  He grinned and stood up, holding his hand to her. "Precisely why we're going there."

  * * *

  "It gets a little tricky at Ledge Road

  ," Colin warned.

  Gracie paused in the driveway, but he tugged her farther away from the safety of the carriage house. "You're serious about Cliff Walk at this time of night?"

  "Of course. Trust me, it's amazing at night. You can see the moon over the whole of Rhode Island Sound and absolutely no one is around."

  "Which is exactly why it's a bad idea." She yanked up the zipper of the jacket she'd pulled over her jeans and sneakers. She'd had a hard time in her room for the last fifteen minutes, but had effectively managed to rationalize a moonlight stroll with Colin McGrath. Some of her courage faded in the dark, however. "A person could get killed out there at night."

  He draped a casual arm over her shoulder, steering her toward the road. "I ran the entire three and a half miles yesterday morning. There are a few rugged spots on the southern half, but I won't let you get hurt, Gracie."

  She knew the trail fairly well, too. Well enough to know that the "rugged" parts—basically where Bellevue met Ledge Road

  and the historic path started—were difficult to navigate even in broad daylight. The rocks could be slippery, and some of the first few drops were fairly steep until the path smoothed out.

  "Why don't we just cruise the Edgewater property and you can show me where you're going to put Pineapple House?"

  He stopped and gave her an incredulous look before breaking into a huge grin. "That's what I call positive thinking, Gracie."

  "I—I meant where you propose to situate Pineapple House," she backtracked, trying not to be further distracted by his handsome white smile against tanned skin.

  He tugged her closer into his side, the solid strength of him warming right through the fleece of her jersey. "I'll show you that tomorrow, in the light. Tonight, I want to walk with you."

  It seemed innocent enough—a late-night walk in the brisk September air. Since he wasn't working in the studio tomorrow, she'd already decided to sleep in a little. Plus, something had her jittery. Maybe the Earl Grey tea had had caffeine, after all.

  As he guided her through the gate that led to a wide shelf of smooth stone, she could hear the surf smash rhythmically against the rocky shoreline far below. The three-quarter moon peeked out from a thin cloud, providing light, but not really enough when she considered the uneven rocks just a few feet ahead.

  "Don't let go of my hand," he said, taking hers as they crossed the first section of the eroded path.

  She wouldn't dream of it. "Just don't go sliding way down…" she tilted her head toward the cliff's edge "…there."

  "I won't. I'm in control," he said, a little wry humor coloring his voice.

  They walked for a few minutes without any more conversation, allowing Grace to concentrate on each critical footstep. But her focus kept returning to the strong, large hand that engulfed hers. And the sheer proximity of one very masculine man on one very dangerous cliff. She took a deep breath to keep her balance. And, of course, control.

  "There's Rejects Beach," he said, looking out toward the shore beyond the cliffs.

  As he reached the end of the rocky area, he stepped in front of her, jumped down about a foot and turned around to help her. Putting his hands on her waist, he easily guided her to the safety of the traditional path.

  "Here we go. The riskiest part is over." It was wider now, with a high rocky cliff on one side, and a low, protective railing along the long drop to the beach. Still, his fingers lingered a moment on her waist, his face a few inches from hers. Her heart did a sudden flutter and she realized that maybe the riskiest part of the walk was still ahead.

  When they had their footing, he looked toward the eastern end of Bailey's Beach, still holding her hand. "Rejects Beach is just another example of the vast separation of the rich and the common man that colors the history of this harbor."

  This wasn't the first time she could hear the passion in his voice on this subject. She'd heard it in the restaurant when he'd revealed his plans. "Don't tell me. You see Pineapple House as a celebration of the common man."

  His grip on her fingers tightened ever so slightly as she waited for his response. Although there was no more immediate danger on this walk, the feel of his hand was too warm, too comforting to pull away now.

  "I see Pineapple House as a celebration of the roots of Newport, which, as a matter of fact, is quite common and had nothing to do with the ridiculous wealth that eventually overtook the place."

  She'd expected a different response altogether. "I thought you'd launch into some speech about the intrinsic beauty of eighteenth-century architecture and
the need to balance the heritage of the blah blah blah…"

  "Blah blah blah?" He tried to sound indignant, but his laugh broke through the quiet of the night. "That's what you think of my brilliant and radical ideas?"

  "Who cares what I think when you have Newsweek asking, 'Is the world ready for the avant-garde genius of Colin McGrath?'"

  "I care what you think." The words, stated so simply, had the same effect as a dropping elevator. "And, frankly, I'm surprised you read that article, considering … our history."

  Read it? She'd bought it the day it hit the stands. "Oh, I, uh, picked it up in the employee break room."

  "That article was a bunch of BS, didn't you think so?"

  "Not really." She didn't think that at all when she'd cut out the single page and stored it in the bottom of her jewelry box. "I thought it was good press coverage."

  He squeezed her hand playfully. "You're lying."

  "Okay. You got me. I thought, 'Wow. I didn't even know they liked opera in Portland.'"

  His laugh was quick, but his expression grew serious again. "I bet you read it and thought, 'Oh, there's the schmuck who snagged me in college.'"

  She looked up at him. Was that remorse in his voice? His eyes were teasing her, but he wasn't smiling. Unable to stop herself, her gaze dropped to his mouth. He was so close, so kissably close. Grace had to stop herself from lifting up on her toes and placing her lips on his.

  With one finger under her chin, he raised her face to his, bringing her so near to him that she could already imagine what he'd taste and feel like.

  "Tell me the truth," he said. "What did you think when you read that article?"

  She'd thought that she still had a crush so deep and profound that just looking at his picture made her heart ache. And looking at the real man—with the spidery shadows of his eyelashes that the moonlight cast over his cheeks and the faint dark stubble in the hollows of his cheeks—made her ache all over again.

  Her crush was as deep as ever.

  But she'd had another emotion when she'd read that article, one that was safe, if not flattering, to admit. "I was jealous."

  "Jealous?" He inched back enough to give her a look of utter disbelief. "Of a little press coverage?"

  "Of your ability to buck the trends and make it work. That structure was breathtaking and you know it."

  "Wow." He dipped just a fraction of an inch closer. Perilously close. How could she stop herself from kissing him? How? "That's quite a compliment from you, Miss Harrington."

  "I recognize good work. Even if it is … risky." She tried to take a breath, but couldn't. She could practically feel her brain shutting down as her physical response to him took over.

  "Be very careful, Gracie." His warning was delivered in a hushed, husky voice. "Once you live life without rules, you might not be able to stop."

  I'll take that chance. Wordlessly, she rose up and covered his mouth with hers. He drew her into him, parting his lips and tilting his head. His warm, silky tongue glided into her mouth, sending a shower of sparks straight through her.

  She heard her own low throaty response as her arms wrapped around his neck and she could finally, finally bury her fingers into the glossy strands of his hair.

  With each exchange of their tongues, with each increase of pressure against her stomach and breasts, a melty feeling threatened her stability, turning her legs into rubber and creating a whirlpool of wild vibrations deep inside her. Through the sweatshirt, she could feel the steady thump of his heart as his whole being hardened in response to her.

  Slowly, agonizingly, he ended the kiss.

  "Gracie," he whispered into her mouth.

  He pulled farther back, breaking the connection of searing heat that had formed between them.

  She tried to say something but that shaky, needy feeling nearly obliterated her ability to speak. "I—I just—"

  "Shh." He put one finger on her lips and she considered opening her mouth just to—lick his finger. God, was she insane?

  The thought made her jerk backward and he grabbed her sweatshirt before she actually touched the guardrail. "Hey, hey, careful," he said, pulling her back. "Remember. Control is everything, Gracie."

  Control. Yes. Right. She'd had that, once.

  She inched backward, aware of the dangerous drop behind her, but far more terrified of the granite-hard man in front of her. Once again she was standing between two treacherous alternatives. She gave him an unsteady smile. "I'm fine," she tried to reassure him. And herself.

  "I'll say." He matched her half smile. "That was an excellent demonstration of rule breaking." Then he turned them in the direction they'd come, a glimmer of regret in his expression. "But I think we've pushed your limit for today."

  "No."

  He halted midstep. "No?"

  "I have one more rule to break."

  He let out another one of those sexy, teasing laughs. "What d'ya have in mind, honey?"

  "You'll see."

  Before he responded, she took off in a slow jog toward the gate.

  * * *

  Five

  « ^ »

  "Mmm." Gracie closed her eyes as a soft, sensual moan escaped her lips. "The man is truly gifted."

  She slowly drew the chocolate-covered fork from her mouth, her delicate tongue dabbing at a tiny crumb of Black Forest cake that clung to her lips. Colin simply stared, slack-jawed and in wonder, his own piece of cake untouched on the plate in front of him.

  Suddenly her eyes popped open and he knew he was busted. Staring, gawking, gaping. But certainly not eating.

  "Aren't you even going to taste it? It's out of this world."

  He leaned on the country kitchen table and propped his chin on his knuckles. "Watching you eat chocolate is about as far out of this world as I want to go."

  "You're crazy." Her eyes sparkled as she opened her sweet mouth for another bite. "This, my friend, is a work of art."

  He didn't know which he liked more—her lips pursed around a fork, or being her friend. "It's too rich for me."

  "Oh, God, just have one bite." She gingerly slid her fork between the layers of cake, filling its tines with creamy chocolate. She held up the fork to his mouth, and then jerked it back, flicking the edge with her tongue. "Control, remember?" She grinned just before she ate it.

  Of course he remembered. He'd dug deep for every ounce of control he could muster out on Cliff Walk half an hour ago, and had barely come up with a handful of the stuff. But how long would it last? Gracie was the most tempting woman he could remember who continually surprised him and easily aroused him.

  Control—never his strong suit, despite his claims—would be his constant companion for three weeks. That and the icy-cold waters of First Beach. That would be the only way to get through this without making a total fool of himself. But what about all the hours they'd spend together during Adrian's little experiment? More meals, more walks, more mouth-to-mouth. How much control was a guy expected to exert?

  He shifted in his chair. "What if Lenny's a spy?"

  She looked at him questioningly, but didn't answer, her mouth busy with her last bite.

  "Really, Gracie. What if he's Adrian Gilmore's plant to make sure his plan is working?"

  She swallowed and dabbed her mouth with a paper napkin. "He'll know his plan worked when we present our final ideas in three weeks," she said. "No big mystery there."

  "Maybe. Maybe not."

  "What are you getting at? Do you still think this whole thing is some elaborate scheme that he'd planned?"

  "I think that's worth considering."

  "So what if it is?" She stood and took her empty dish to the sink, where she'd left her teacup and saucer—unwashed—when they'd left for their walk. He considered it a small victory. "We're the firms he picked, so it really doesn't matter."

  He idly pushed his plate away, not the least interested in eating the cake. Unless it was from Gracie's mouth. Now that held some serious appeal.

  "Sure," he a
greed. "We duke it out at the final presentation, but why us? Why alone? Why here?"

  She turned from the sink. "Why not? We're the best there is."

  "Why not, say, someone else from H&H?"

  He watched the glow fade from her expression. "You, too, huh?"

  "What do you mean?"

  She stepped over to the table and picked up his plate. "Are you finished?"

  "You want that piece, too?"

  With an exasperated look, she added it to the pile in the sink. "You have no idea how hard I had to fight to get this assignment and everyone at my firm thinks it was handed to me on a silver platter, one that had my family name engraved on it." She flipped the faucet with a jerk. "Even my father doesn't think I can really handle it."

  He had no doubt her colleagues cried nepotism, but her father? Her father thought the sun, the moon and all the stars were placed in the sky for the sole purpose of shining light on his Grace. That much was obvious from one conversation with the guy.

  "Screw your co-workers," he said, more willing to address that issue than the one of her father. "They're just jealous because you're talented and beautiful and you're going to be their boss someday."

  Her hands stilled under the running water, then she finished rinsing the plate she held. "Thank you for the compliments." Her voice was noticeably tighter than when she was singing Lenny's culinary praises. "If I am their boss, I want to earn the privilege, not have it handed to me."

  "And I'm sure you will." He reached over and took the clean, wet plate from her hand and wrapped it in a kitchen towel.

  "I will if I win this bid."

  Somehow he managed not to drop the expensive piece of china he held. Dabbing at the delicate pattern, he paused to swallow the myriad of cynical retorts that rose up. "I guess that's one way to squash a guy's enthusiasm for the job."

  She pushed a strand of blond hair away from her cheek with her wrist and glanced at him. "Come on. You thrive on competition, Colin."

  "Competition, yes." Opening the glass door of an antique china cabinet, he set the plate on top of a pile of others. "Career derailment, no."

  When he turned back, she was holding out the next plate for him to dry. Funny how fast a couple formed a domestic assembly line in the kitchen. Well. Two people. Not exactly a couple.