"My career is not yours to derail," she said, sincerity and determination darkening her eyes. "I just have to win the bid and then it will be a nonissue."
"But I'm going to win this bid." Of that, he had no doubt. Someone else's happiness hinged on it; someone he owed a great deal to. He wouldn't dream of failure.
"You go on thinking that, McGrath." Her voice was light, confident. Of course. She had no idea that this was more than a pure business challenge to him. "In fact, you sleep on that until late tomorrow morning. By then, I should have my first-floor elevation finished."
But he was going to win this bid.
And then he'd be part of another huge and life-changing disappointment for Gracie Harrington. The thought twisted his chest, but he gave her his cockiest smile and tossed the dish towel onto the counter. "My first-floor elevation's already done."
With a chiding tsk and a shake of her head, she picked up the towel and hung it on the oven handle, adjusting the corners twice until they matched perfectly. "And I'm sure it's just as neat as you are."
Without another word, she tapped the light switch and left him standing in the moonlit room. "G'night, Colin."
"See you tomorrow, Gracie."
He heard a wooden board squeak as she ascended the stairs. "Don't count on it," she responded softly. "I'll be long gone before you're even awake."
That was making the assumption he'd sleep at all.
Who did he make happy? A woman to whom he owed his very life, or one who would never love him?
He couldn't win this one, no matter what happened. So he just yanked the corner of the towel and left it at a satisfyingly messy angle.
* * *
Mr. Harrington has requested daily faxes of your designs and a full report of any information on the competition's progress.
Gracie used the telephone message, written in Leonard's flawless script, as a coaster for her coffee cup. Not that the coffee stayed in the cup long enough to risk a spill. She'd devoured her third cup in an hour and still wasn't awake.
And it was nine o'clock in the morning.
There'd definitely been caffeine in that damn Earl Grey tea. So instead of sleeping off the midnight stroll and Black Forest cake, Grace had returned to a messy bed only to make it worse with hours of restlessness, punctuated by moments of bone-melting memories of one amazing kiss on the cliffs.
And just when she thought it couldn't get any worse, she'd stumbled into the studio to find that her father had called around the time she'd finally fallen asleep.
Checking up on her already. Early Sunday morning. He could have left a voice mail on her cell phone, but no. Much easier to shoot instructions at the help.
The message didn't say she had to call back, but she wanted to. Wanted to connect with him, with something familiar. Even if it was the chilly tones of Eugene Harrington. She felt terribly isolated in this temporary home.
Then she remembered it was Sunday.
Had Leonard told him she was still asleep? Would her father somehow be disappointed in that?
She popped her cell phone off the charger and dialed the number. After the second ring, Grace smiled when she heard the flat south-shore accent of Hannah Dumont. At least she didn't have to deal with her mother.
"Hello, Miss Hannah."
The older woman laughed heartily, as she always did when Grace used her childhood name for the housekeeper. "Hey, pretty girl. I just found out you're back in Rhode Island for a few weeks."
Hannah always knew where she was, and always made a point of letting her know it. It was as though the woman thought one of her many duties in running the Harrington house was to be the caring older woman in Grace's life … since Mother was rarely around to rise to the occasion.
"I am, Hannah. In Newport. How are you?"
"We're fine, dear. Your mother left yesterday for Vancouver, but your father's here."
"Vancouver? Didn't she just get back from the whose-amacallits down in Virginia?"
Hannah laughed. "The Murray-Smiths, yes. But she's been invited to a friend's daughter's wedding and she's off again for the week."
"Well, that's Mother," Grace said with a sigh. "The perennial houseguest."
"Miss Catherine has a lot of friends and she does like to travel."
That was an understatement. Even though her parents' marriage had lost whatever glimmer of happiness it had ever had decades ago, it would be most unseemly for a Harrington to divorce. So Mother's solution was to travel as often and as far as possible, while Dad stayed home and ran the business. In both cases, they'd found lives that were centered anywhere but home. Which left one little girl alone quite a bit.
"Is he busy?" There was only one possibility for "he" in the Harrington house.
"He's in his office, of course. Hold on a moment."
While she waited, a movement outside caught Grace's attention and she looked down at the driveway, just in time to see the back of Colin's dark blue Porsche pulling onto Bellevue Avenue
. Where was he going at this hour on a Sunday? Somehow she doubted it was church. Breakfast with his friend?
"Grace!" Eugene Harrington's booming voice vibrated the phone in her hand. "What have you got to report?"
She hadn't expected a term of endearment, but the thud of disappointment was there just the same. Or was that just residual displeasure from Colin's unexpected disappearance?
"Well, I only arrived yesterday, so—"
"Don't let that McGrath get a head start on you, Grace. I don't know what he's cooking up, but Gilmore likes it. He likes it a lot. But that's all I got out of him."
For a moment, she considered revealing exactly what McGrath was "cooking up," but something stopped her. "I'm not overly concerned about his ideas." That much was true. She wasn't worried about his ideas. It was his face, body, hair and, oh, yes, his mouth that had kept her awake all night. "I think Adrian was impressed with our designs and he particularly liked our approach of replicating the original masterpieces in the mansion as opposed to replacing them with similar items."
Her father made a grunting sound, as if he was drinking his own coffee. "But he wasn't impressed enough to hand us the project, Grace. He told me he wanted the overall design softened. I still don't have a blasted idea what that means. Have you talked to this McGrath fellow about his plans?"
Only when she wasn't kissing him out on Cliff Walk.
She cringed at the idea of blurting out the truth, even though screaming it in the back of her head was a game she'd played with herself since she could remember her first pressure-filled conversation with her father. She longed to tell him exactly what she was thinking. Of course, she didn't dare.
"Not very much. I doubt we'll see much of each other on this assignment. He—he keeps to himself."
"You should use this opportunity, Grace. Get to know him. And get over to the properties that Gilmore mentioned."
"I am," she assured him. "I'm touring the Breakers and Rosecliff today."
"Good. Then sketch out some improved designs immediately, and e-mail me your ideas. We'll work them over at the office."
"Of course." God forbid he just use her ideas, unchanged.
"You know Jack Browder is chomping at the bit to replace you out there."
Ah, the bait. Her father couldn't resist a stern warning about the dire consequences of not being a good girl. She knew all about Jack Browder's campaign to be chief architect on the Edgewater project. "I've heard," she said pointedly. "He's made his desires quite clear."
"There's some merit to the idea, Grace. Perhaps a man could develop a rapport with McGrath. Get to know what he's trying to sell Gilmore."
How many ways could her father find to let her know he was disappointed she'd been born with the dreaded double-X chromosomes?
"Col—McGrath is not very communicative," Grace murmured, her gaze locked on the driveway as if she could will his car back. "I doubt even charming Jack could squeeze anything out of him."
"I'm golfin
g with Browder in an hour. We'll discuss it. Meanwhile, you keep working every angle. I want this job, Grace."
"Yes, sir. As do I."
There was no reason to say anything else.
Grace blew out a breath as she snapped her phone into the charger. Love you, too, Daddy.
She turned to the blank screen on her CAD system, but all she could see was the back of that sports car. Where was he going?
And why did she care?
With one click, she turned off the computer and decided to catch the morning tour of the Breakers, before Jack Browder bogied and eagled his way right into her assignment.
As she walked down the hall to her room, she noticed that the door to Colin's room stood slightly ajar. She slowed her step as she passed, absolutely unable to resist the urge to peek in.
All she could see from the hall was the disheveled, unmade bed and the sweatshirt he'd been wearing the night before, abandoned inside-out on the floor.
She wanted to focus on his sloppy lifestyle, but for some reason, her gaze traveled back to the rumpled sheets, and the imprint left by his head on the pillow. What would it feel like to wake up next to him one more time?
Would he be aroused, as he'd been last night when they kissed? Would he be gentle and tender? Or rough and fast?
That twisty, tingly, melty feeling started again and she forced herself to continue down the hall.
She had a job to do. Hadn't her father made that clear? She'd be damned if that bonehead Browder was going to replace her and develop a "rapport" with Colin McGrath.
If anyone was going to develop a rapport with him, she was.
* * *
Gracie Harrington did everything with systematic precision. If she mentioned the mansion tours in a certain order, Colin felt damn near certain that she'd written it down that way in a planning diary and would visit them in exactly that order. The Breakers, Rosecliff and the Elms.
He really didn't like the Breakers, with its absurd Renaissance opulence and hordes of gaping tourists. Rosecliff was a much better place to meet up with Gracie.
The sprawling mansion sat far off Bellevue Avenue
with a commanding view of the ocean from the back. Colin took up a spot in the front, near the vast fountain and pool, giving him a wide-open view of the acreage and the tour groups as they arrived.
While he waited, he forced himself to study the square lines of the miniature version of Louis XIV's Trianon palace, squinting at the gleaming white bricks and precise rows of windows against the deep-blue September sky. His architect's eye observed the classic exterior details, including paired Ionic columns and arched French doors.
Everything about it was refined, classic and elegant.
Which, of course, was a perfect description of … Gracie.
Then his thoughts were right back where he didn't want them. Gracie coming undone under the pressure of his kiss. Gracie moaning with pleasure as his tongue teased hers. Gracie admitting that her career hinged on the success of the Edgewater business.
Oh, man. There was that circular thinking that had kept him awake all night.
At least his sleeplessness had resulted in a plan. It would take some doing, but if he succeeded, Gracie would get what she wanted … and so would he.
The trick was making Gracie fall in love … but not with him. That was categorically impossible—even if he believed there was such a thing as love, which he didn't. But if he could make Gracie fall in love with a different vision for Edgewater, then they'd both win. That was his goal.
As goals went, it was doable. Far more manageable than his fleeting, momentary hope of being her first lover. Not that he didn't ache for the privilege—ache being the most accurate of descriptions. But not with a girl who equated sex with love. No way. Sex was sex. Love was … stupid.
For a moment he thought of his brother, Quinn, recently engaged and ready to change his life. Maybe Quinn had forgotten what happened when you loved someone. Good for him. But Colin hadn't. And all indications from his oldest sibling, Cameron, showed that he had no intention of taking the chance on that kind of misery, either.
Nope. Sex and love were mutually exclusive. And as long as Gracie was looking for one with the other, he was not her man. Love was for doormats and dreamers. He'd learned that before he could read or write.
At that moment, he saw her enter the main gate with a small group of tourists and that familiar tightness took hold of his body. With her blond hair tucked under a Red Sox cap and a nondescript white sweater over khaki pants, she looked like a million other tourists—but he knew differently.
She couldn't completely hide her subtle, feminine curves. As she walked, he could see her breasts, small, but high and round, move with each step.
He took a steadying breath and watched her in animated conversation with someone in the ticket booth, practically able to hear the music of her laughter across the lawn.
He could live with the involuntary pull at the center of his masculinity. He was, after all, a man. But it was the other ache—the one in his heart—that had kept him awake all night.
As her group of about fifteen was shuttled toward the main entrance, he stayed behind the statue in the fountain. When she entered the building, he dashed to the ticket booth, paid and easily tagged on to the end of Gracie's tour.
In a few moments, after a young guide had droned on about the original owners of Rosecliff, they entered the ballroom. The speaker launched into the story of how The Great Gatsby had been filmed in the room, and the tourists looked around in wonder, as though they might find some evidence of Mia Farrow or Robert Redford in the air.
Quietly he stole up behind Gracie, her attention focused on the massive trompe l'oeil ceiling of painted clouds. He leaned close to her cheek. "Surely you're not thinking of that for Edgewater."
She jumped at the first word, but then closed her eyes and he couldn't read her expression. What was she hiding? Happiness? Or disgust?
"Actually, I was considering it for my bathroom in Boston."
He laughed, still close enough to get a whiff of her light, feminine fragrance. "It's girly, I'll give you that."
She finally looked at him from under the brim of her cap. "What are you doing here?"
"Following you." He grinned and laid a gentle hand on her arm. "I know this place better than the college-girl guide, believe me. Let's take our own tour and I'll give you the architect's viewpoint."
"How do you know Rosecliff?"
"I did a paper on the design for my Psychology of Habitation final." The crowd began to move out of the ballroom, but Colin kept his light grip on her. "I got an A."
He guided her in the opposite direction of the tour, taking her toward the famous heart-shaped staircase of the entrance hall. "Actually, I don't hate this mansion," he said as they reached the white marble floor of the entryway.
"That's damning with faint praise." Gracie laughed as she held a hand out toward the reception salon. "Really, Colin, what's not to like? Just look at that chimney piece."
They walked into the massive room, dominated by a hand-carved piece of Caen stone that filled nearly one wall. Ten-foot-tall crystal chandeliers sent a shimmer of soft light over the peach silk-covered walls.
"It's a little overbearing, but I like it," he admitted. "The owner had good taste. However—" he shrugged and indicated a sweep of the room with one hand "—there's nothing risky in here. It's all been done a million times since the seventeenth century."
She smiled at him, tipping the hat back a little and giving him his first good look at her face that day. She wore no makeup, but her green eyes were more naturally alluring than any colored eye shadow, even with the hints of darkness under them. So … she hadn't slept well, either.
"Considering it was a habitational psych class that got you to appreciate this building," she said, a smile lifting her lips just enough to draw all his attention to her pretty mouth, "you shouldn't be surprised. The designer created a room that reflected the m
indset of the owner."
The urge to kiss her again was suddenly as fundamental as his need to breathe. "I agree with that. These people basically redefined the concept of self-absorption."
"What would you do differently, Mr. Avant-Garde Risk Taker?"
He glanced around the grandeur. "Nothing."
"Nothing? What, no glassed-in first story with a concrete floor to represent the urban carpet? Nothing?"
"Nothing…" He grinned at her, the room forgotten. "Nothing makes me as happy as you knowing my work."
Her cheeks flushed at the comment. "It's my business to know what the competition is up to."
"Good." The decision to take her to Willow House hit him like a hammer to the head. It was time. He took her hand and started toward the main hallway. "Then let's go."
"Why? I haven't finished the tour."
"You don't need to see this place, Gracie," he said, walking her briskly toward the front of the mansion. "If you want to find out what turns the competition on, then it's time to introduce you to someone very special to me."
As they took a few steps into the sunshine, she looked up at him with a teasing smile. "Is this the friend you had dinner with last night?"
"Yep. I hope you love her as much as I do."
Her smile disappeared instantly.
* * *
Six
« ^ »
Colin kept the top down on his car, making conversation nearly impossible. Which suited Grace just fine. Taking off her hat before the wind did, she'd corralled her hair with one hand and kept her focus on the yellow and black clapboard houses, the deepening reds and golds of the trees, and the pedestrians who peppered the streets. Anything but the girl she was about to meet.
No wonder he'd stopped that kiss on Cliff Walk. He was already in love with someone. A local. That was probably why he wanted the job so badly. So he could see his girlfriend on a regular basis.
She'd thought about arguing and refusing to go, but that would just seem small and petty. She was "developing a rapport" as her father had suggested. Surely Jack Browder would have no compunction about meeting the enemy's girlfriend.
THE FIRE STILL BURNS Page 7