Spotting Libby, Sister Mary Clare happily pulled her into the circle, giving her a big bear hug and a motherly kiss on the cheek.
"Libby, I am so glad you could come to our 'small' affair tonight," Sister Mary Clare greeted affectionately.
"And here I thought your order lived modestly," Libby teased, "but you've gone all out tonight, haven't you?"
"We're allowed to splurge every now and then," Sister Mary Clare confessed, giving Libby a broad smile followed by a friendly pat on the hand. "How often do we get to celebrate this magnificent restoration and honor the man who made it all possible? Of course, we couldn't have done it without your help either, my dear, which is why I have you seated at the head table with us."
Libby rolled her eyes at the compliment. "You didn't have to put me there, Sister. I'm just happy to share the evening with everyone else."
"Nonsense," Sister Mary Clare huffed. "I tried to convince the Monsignor to honor a man and woman of the year, but he wouldn't hear of it. A chauvinist at heart, he is, but a well-meaning one. He was afraid our generous benefactor would be slighted by sharing the spotlight. But I want you to know that I'm as grateful to you, Libby, as I am to our million dollar Man of the Year."
"That's very sweet of you to say so," Libby replied, visibly moved by the heartfelt praise.
"You know I mean every word," Sister Mary Clare said kindly. "Speaking of our Man of the Year, I want to introduce you to him. Confidentially," she went on, lowering her voice and looking at Libby with a twinkle in her eye, "I'm playing matchmaker with you two tonight. Not only is this man rich and single, he happens to be a terrific guy, too, and I think you would make a great couple."
Libby raised her hands in mock disgust. "You, playing matchmaker, Sister? Well, if you're half as good at finding me a man as you are matching children with parents, then I'd better trust your judgment." Libby laughed while Sister Mary Clare joined in.
"Come on, let's go find him." Sister Mary Clare grabbed Libby by the arm and steered her across the crowded room. “Our benefactor is actually one of our own, my dear, and he paid for your services, as well. Never was able to place him. It's a sad story, but he seems to have risen above it, if his success in the business world is any indication."
They approached a group of well-dressed men and women who stood chatting close to the bar. Sister Mary Clare tapped lightly on the shoulder of the tallest man in the group who had his back turned to her. She cleared her throat to gain his attention.
Libby almost fainted when Christopher Darnell, resplendent in a black tuxedo, white pin-tucked shirt, and red cummerbund, turned to face them. The crisply-starched shirt emphasized his tanned good looks, while the black tux made him seem inches taller and his already muscular build that much more imposing. He couldn't have appeared any more handsome if he tried.
Oblivious of Libby's gape-mouthed reaction, Sister Mary Clare addressed Chris enthusiastically.
"Chris, I'd like you to meet Libby Reed. She's the lovely young woman who..."
Before Libby could regain her composure to interrupt Sister Mary Clare's damaging use of her first name, Chris stepped in with an interruption of his own.
"No need to say any more Sister. Miss Reed and I have already met," Chris explained, extending his hand to clasp Libby's. The instant his large hand firmly but intimately grasped hers, Libby felt the familiar jolt of awareness and sensuality his touch always caused. Her knees weakened as the tingling current passed through her, leaving her awash in a turmoil of conflicting emotions.
His thoroughly masculine hand still wrapped protectively around hers, Chris peered intently at Libby. "I wasn't aware that she used the name 'Libby', however," he remarked casually. "I've always known her as Elizabeth, but I think Libby suits her much better, don't you Sister?"
Before Sister Mary Clare could reply, she was called away to attend to a crisis in the kitchen, making her apologies to them as she hastened out of sight.
Chris stared questioningly, eyebrows arched, at Libby who desperately tried to find a suitable response that would satisfy him without revealing her identity.
"I take it 'Libby' is a nickname for Elizabeth?" Chris said, his blue-green eyes now narrowed and penetrating.
Unable to find her voice, Libby merely nodded.
"H-m-m." Chris tore his gaze from hers to idly examine the wine in his glass. After a long pause, he looked at her.
"I wasn't aware it was such a popular pet name. I believe I mentioned I had the misfortune to tangle with another woman named Libby, but that was years ago." He shrugged his shoulders as if to dismiss the subject as insignificant.
"Only my close friends," she declared with emphasis, "call me Libby."
"Libby," Chris repeated, the sound of her name rolling lightly, sensually, off his tongue. "I like it. It has a nice sound to it. May I call you Libby?"
Struggling to stay calm, Libby replied with an air of defiance, "You can use it only if you consider yourself my friend." She issued the challenge knowing that if he guessed her identity, she was forcing him to choose the direction of their relationship.
"To friendship," he toasted, raising his glass in a salute to her before taking a sip.
Libby tried to fathom his intentions, but could read nothing in his half-hooded gaze and neutral tone of voice.
"May I get you something to drink, Libby?" Chris offered, emphasizing her name.
"A glass of merlot would be nice, thank you." She watched him walk over to the bar, admiring his confident stride and devastating good looks. She noticed several elegantly-dressed women eyeing him with unmasked appreciation and somewhat jealously wondered if any of them was his date for the evening.
Accepting the glass of wine from Chris's outstretched hand when he returned, Libby demurely addressed him.
"I had no idea you were the one being honored tonight, Chris. Congratulations."
The tension between them was thick enough to cut with a knife.
"If you'd known, you wouldn't have come, right?"
Ignoring his pointed remark for the truth it presented, Libby decided to direct the conversation into safer territory.
"The restoration is proceeding beautifully, thanks to you. Did you notice how stunning the outside of the building looks?" she asked politely.
"It's impressive, I agree, for an old building. But I'm curious to know your connection with the Orphanage, Libby?" Chris stared at her intently, his blue-green eyes seeking, almost demanding, an explanation.
"I thought you knew, since you paid for my services."
"I did?"
"I was the consultant the Sisters hired to complete the grant application," Libby countered, returning his gaze, willing herself to confront the man so capable of rendering her senseless.
Chris deliberately took another sip of wine, his eyes never leaving hers. "I didn't know," he began slowly, "that you were the one being so highly praised by Sister Mary Clare. She never mentioned you by name."
He pursed his lips and smiled. "By her description, I thought an angel had returned to earth with the sole mission of helping them restore the building."
"Certainly, I'm no angel. And frankly, I'm surprised to find you, of all people, funding the restoration of something historic," Libby countered, enjoying the innuendos passing between them.
"Yes, it's not one of my usual charities, but I have my reasons. Maybe now you'll concede that I'm not the enemy of every old building?" He absentmindedly adjusted the stiff collar of his shirt, making Libby long to touch the corded sinews of his neck being chafed by the tightness there.
"Well, perhaps this does raise you a notch in my esteem," she said with a slight catch in her voice. Watching his strong, lean fingers unbutton and re-button the shirt was having a devastating effect on her ability to think clearly. "You're helping the Borden's Landing Historical Society, too, so I guess you're not the total monster I’m convinced you are." Libby laughed teasingly, feeling the tension between them dissipate during their friendly repa
rtee.
As the band started to play a slow tune, couples headed for the dance floor, arm in arm.
Setting his glass down, Chris held out a hand. "Would the beauty care to dance with this beast?" he asked with a twinkle in his eye.
"Your date won't object?" Libby cautiously inquired, ignoring the loud inner voice telling her to run from him in the opposite direction.
"I didn't bring one," Chris replied simply. "Will your date mind you dancing with the guest of honor?"
"I felt like coming alone tonight, too. So, if you don't mind a partner with two left feet, I'd love to dance," Libby replied, making it known she was single there by choice and not default. The rational part of her mind said she should have pretended to bring a date, while the emotional part screamed not to.
His heated gaze sent shivers of desire down Libby's spine. Realizing she was taking a calculated risk by dancing with him, Libby quickly decided she really could bury any physical response being in his arms might bring.
Although she loved to dance, Libby had never been that adept at following music in an ordered rhythm. Kicking herself for not having taken the lessons her mother suggested in high school, Libby followed Chris onto the dance floor with dread and trepidation.
Chris gently pulled Libby close, placing one arm solidly behind her narrow waist, while cupping her hand and bringing their entwined arms to rest intimately on his broad shoulder.
Libby quivered with his nearness and the havoc it was wreaking on her senses. His smell was thoroughly masculine and infinitely alluring, a heady combination of soap, aftershave, and something so personally him as to be undefinable. His hold on her was possessive but not threatening and she felt his muscular strength scorching through every point their bodies made contact.
As he whirled them around the dance floor, Libby marveled at the fluidity of his motions and the ease with which he led her, transforming her usual clumsiness into something more closely resembling grace and accomplishment. He was a marvelous dancer, she noted, with the natural ability to make her feel an equally-talented partner.
She relaxed against him with a small sigh and felt his powerful arms tighten slightly around her in response. With his hand gently guiding her at the waist, Libby allowed herself to get lost in the music and the utter thrill of being held captive in his protective embrace.
Chris leaned down to whisper in her ear. "I thought you said you had two left feet! You could've fooled me."
His breath was so close she imagined him kissing the soft folds of her ear.
"I usually do have two left feet," Libby replied, suppressing the growing excitement that was spiraling downward in delicious waves. "But you seem to have taught them to behave properly tonight. I'm as surprised as you are!"
Libby laughed, and drew back to look at him, hoping the distance would break the sensual spell she was falling under. His eyes were dark and impossible to decipher in the now dimly-lit room.
Chris pulled her back into him with tender forcefulness. "I'm surprised we didn't meet before I came to Borden's Landing, Libby," he whispered huskily. His hand was now traveling lightly away from her waist, tentatively exploring the upper curves of her back through the red silk that softly covered it.
Libby stifled the urge to moan in response to his exploring touch, taking a deep breath instead to dispel the riot of emotions surging unchecked through every muscle and pore.
"I'm surprised, too," she replied, thinking of the many times she'd thwarted his development plans. "But when you consider we travel in entirely different circles, it's probably not that unusual."
The closeness of his hold brought her hips provocatively next to his, each step causing sensuous friction between them.
Libby hoped her pounding heart and sweaty palms wouldn't alert Chris to the effect he was having on her.
"You look beautiful tonight," Chris murmured, now caressing the sensitive valley between her shoulder blades before pushing her hair aside to tenderly stroke her neck. Libby thought she would surely die from the passion unleashed by his touch. She longed to trace his hard jawline, looking so smooth, freshly-shaven, and inviting.
A moment later, the music abruptly ended. Chris gently released her and she felt reason flooding back into her veins.
"They're announcing dinner. May I escort you to your seat?" Chris made the suggestion with what sounded like a trace of annoyance.
Just in time, she thought, or else she would be repeating past mistakes, making a fool of herself again. Chiding herself for falling under his spell, she nodded in response to his question, grateful to have an excuse to escape his alluring embrace.
"Any idea where you're sitting?" Chris asked.
"Sister Mary Clare mentioned putting me at the head table," Libby replied, hoping desperately that their place cards would be at opposite ends.
As they approached the table, Sister Mary Clare appeared almost magically to direct them to their seats.
"I put you next to each other," she declared, giving Libby a conspiratorial wink. "I thought, since neither of you brought a date, you might enjoy each other's company tonight."
She looked up quickly as someone called her name. "Oh, dear. Sister Roberta needs me again. I'll be back to join you in a minute."
Chris pulled out Libby's chair, then helped her get seated before sitting down next to her. Gallantly, he withdrew the elegantly-folded linen napkin from the glass in front of Libby and handed it to her. Glad that he hadn't volunteered to arrange it on her lap, Libby accepted it with a faint smile as she watched him deftly place his.
As the other guests took their seats, Chris introduced them to Libby, effortlessly remembering their names along with their connection to the Orphanage which he then shared with Libby in the course of their conversation.
Libby marveled at the apparent ease with which he conversed, speaking variously with a banker, lawyer, school teacher, and mother of four, ultimately drawing them all into a lively discussion about dog breeding, of all things.
Libby watched him respond with genuine interest to each person's comments and observed he was a man who could make anyone, from any background or occupation, feel at ease.
Libby recalled Sister Mary Clare's earlier words. Chris had never mentioned being put in an orphanage. Only that his father had died. Libby naturally assumed his mother was still living. Silently wondering about the circumstances which brought him here, she didn't notice the conversation around her had stopped.
Jolted out of her thoughts, Libby found all eyes looking at her expectantly, obviously waiting for an answer to a question she hadn't heard.
"Libby," Sister Mary Clare quickly intoned, "we were wondering if you would give us a short tour of the building after dinner and before the awards ceremony? You know, show us the highlights of the restoration from your professional point of view?"
"Sister, you're probably a more knowledgeable guide than I am," Libby demurred. "Besides, I noticed Harvey Faunce, the preservation architect here, tonight. Surely he'd do a better job than me."
"Unfortunately, Mr. Faunce has to leave right after dinner. Maybe between the two of us, we could explain the process to these laymen," Sister Mary Clare quipped, gesturing to those seated around the table.
"I never could say 'no' to you Sister, and I'm not about to start now!" Libby grinned. "I'd be honored, but only if you promise to help out."
Dinner proceeded smoothly, with easy bantering among the guests as each delicious course was served. Although seated next to Chris, Libby carefully managed to keep any contact with him, personal or otherwise, to an absolute minimum.
Libby enjoyed learning where each person lived and relied on her intimate knowledge of the greater Philadelphia area to provide her with a mutual topic of conversation. She knew most people were familiar with at least one historic building in their neighborhood or town and were more than eager to discuss its current status with her. Libby found herself avidly listening to various tales of mis-guided restoration, clever adapt
ive re-uses, and several instances of demolition by neglect where the owners allowed the building to deteriorate beyond the point where it could be saved. One story of outright demolition by a local developer was told, and Libby heard Chris grimace audibly at the topic which was such a sore point between the two of them.
Silently, Libby was thankful to find several ardent supporters of historic preservation among the group gathered around the table. She hoped that some of their enthusiasm for old buildings would rub off on Chris.
Several times she felt Chris watching her closely. Always, though, he kept any personal reaction to her comments safely hidden behind a mask of indifference.
Did he suspect she was Libby Chatham? She doubted it. He'd asked her to dance, hadn't he? Surely, he wouldn't dance with the enemy he’d sworn to avenge.
Finishing the last morsel of moist chocolate cake, Libby indicated to Sister Mary Clare that she was ready to start the tour.
Libby assembled the small but curious group in the wide hallway and carefully explained the process of making scagliola along with the steps for its restoration. After taking a quick look at the freshly cleaned brick and sandstone exterior and telling about the water wash used to gently scrub it clean, Libby brought the group back inside to examine several other rooms slated for restoration.
The indoor playroom, with its innovative built-in toys of sliding board, swing, and monkey bars elicited the most reaction from the group. Libby had fun explaining how missing pieces were being replicated with the use of plaster molds, how the room was to be repainted in its original bold and lively colors as determined by a paint analysis, and how the leaded glass skylights, long ago boarded over, were to be uncovered, recreating the sunny indoor haven envisioned by its famous architect.
Every so often, Sister Mary Clare would inject a comment, but the tour was largely Libby's responsibility. She found Chris listening intently to her dialogue and was surprised when he asked several astute questions about the project. She couldn't decide if his interest was motivated by personal curiosity or, more likely, by the desire to know how his million dollar contribution was being spent.
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