“Probably because you’ve seen me in action,” she countered with the ease of a woman who has taken a good hard look at herself and decided to play the hand she was dealt rather than waste time trying to turn three of a kind into a royal flush. “After all, I’ve been standing here talking your ear off without giving you a chance to tell me why you were looking for me in the first place.”
Her expectant silence was met with another of those cool, shuttered stares.
“I…” He hesitated. “My aunt mentioned you once, and I thought that as long as I was back in town, it would be…uh, interesting to look up some of her old friends and say hello.”
He was lonely, she realized. Lonely and looking for some way to connect through the only person he had known in town, Devora. Rose’s heart went out to him as if he were a stray kitten, huddled on her doorstep in the middle of a storm. If she could have picked him up in her arms and cuddled him, she would have. However, since practically speaking he resembled a tomcat more than a kitten, she quelled the impulse and instead offered him her brightest, most encouraging smile.
“How sweet of you.”
He blushed, which struck her as sweeter still.
“I’m very glad you dropped in,” she told him. Then, with laughter in her voice, she added, “Though from your initial reaction, I suspect I wasn’t quite the sort of ‘old’ friend of Devora’s you expected to find.”
“No,” he agreed. “You’ve been just one surprise after another, Miss Davenport.”
“Rose.”
“Rose.”
“I know what I’m going to do,” she said suddenly.
“What?” He looked vaguely uneasy.
“I’m going to throw a party in honor of your arrival.”
Now he really looked uneasy. Shy, thought Rose, surprised a second time. Shyness didn’t fit with his outward appearance. Or with her first impression of him, she realized, ashamed of herself. Maryann was right. She was so gun-shy around certain men that she never gave them a chance. She would work on it, she decided, and she would begin by making up for her rush to judgment by heralding Hollis Griffin’s move to town in style.
“A party is…out of the question,” he said.
“Nonsense, it’s the least I can do for Devora’s favorite nephew.”
“I was her only nephew.”
“All the more reason to make you feel welcome.”
“I don’t want you to go to any trouble on my account.”
“It’s no trouble,” she assured him. “You’re actually doing me a favor by providing me with an excuse to throw a party between the Fourth of July and Labor Day, a period with a notable dearth of occasions to celebrate.”
“I am not an occasion.”
“Of course not, but your arrival in Wickford is. It’s also all the excuse I need. Ask anyone—I am a party planner extraordinaire.”
“I’m sure you are. But as luck would have it, I am a lousy guest of honor.”
“Let me worry about that,” she ordered, thinking he was probably right. For all his professional skills and accomplishments, he was not very good at making friends. Not if his guarded, taciturn demeanor with her was any indication. No wonder he tended to “keep to himself,” as he put it. Well, Devora wouldn’t have let that happen, and neither would Rose.
She folded her arms and grinned at him. “It’s settled. We’ll work out the details later,” she added as she caught sight of the delivery truck pulling up outside. “Right now, you’ll have to excuse me.”
She moved toward the door.
“No.”
The adamancy in his tone caused Rose to glance over her shoulder as she opened the door.
He smiled stiffly. “That is, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll hang around and—” He cleared his throat. “Browse a little, after all.”
“Fine. Good morning, Charlie,” she said to the deliveryman, whose uniform of brown shirt and shorts revealed a pair of great masculine legs. Charlie was young and adorable. Too young and adorable to be seriously interesting to a grown woman, but he had great legs just the same. Rose shipped and received packages daily, and the mild flirtation that enlivened her dealings with Charlie had more to do with keeping skills sharp than real attraction on either side.
“Am I ever glad to see you,” she said, eyeing his push cart loaded with boxes.
“Me? Or my boxes of chintz?”
“My boxes of chintz,” she corrected, trailing along like an overeager puppy in her attempt to read the return address labels as he moved past her. “Is it really? Are you sure?”
“Yep.” He parked the cart and began lifting the boxes onto the counter for her. “Unless you’re expecting another delivery from…” He squinted at the return address. “Biddley-on-Kenn. Hell, no wonder they call it Merry Olde England—they all live in circus towns.”
She gave a small whoop of excitement. “It is my chintz. Charlie, you’re wonderful.”
“You don’t know how wonderful. The schedule had me coming by here late this afternoon, but I switched my entire route around for you.”
“Can I help it if I’m irresistible?”
“Actually, I figured since you’ve been harassing me about this stuff daily—”
“I have not harassed you,” she admonished, her fingers itching to tear open the boxes and get at the fine bone china that a British dealer had sworn on the Magna Carta would be there three weeks ago. Some pieces were earmarked for specific customers; others were for the shop; a precious two were destined for her personal collection.
“You don’t call chasing my truck down the street ‘harassment’?”
“Charlie, you wish I’d chase you,” she retorted absently.
The deliveryman grinned. “You bet I do. I wouldn’t be hard to catch, I promise you that, Rosie.”
Jerk, thought Griff, surreptitiously monitoring the interplay.
Rose Davenport had thrown him a curve at first, but the longer he spent in her presence, the easier it was to understand why, in spite of the vast difference in age, she and Devora had hit it off. As Devora might have put it, “Water seeks its own level.” Beneath those smoldering green eyes and that just-begging-to-be-kissed mouth of hers, Rose Davenport definitely harbored the same streak of insanity that had afflicted his great-aunt.
A flaky, clutter-collecting, overly friendly junk addict if he’d ever seen one. Her shop might not be quite as over-stuffed and smothering as Devora’s place, but she hadn’t been at it as long. Give her time, and she’d give Devora some real competition.
Peering at the shopkeeper over a vase the color of moldy roses, he tried to imagine her thirty years older, wearing white gloves and a blouse buttoned high at the neck, instead of that pale yellow dress that hung nearly to her ankles. By all rights the dress should have made her appear dowdy, and concealed the fact that she had a slim waist, perfectly rounded hips and very nice, very long legs. It didn’t. Taking advantage of her preoccupation with the delivery guy, Griff gave the dress his complete attention and decided it was because of the way the material molded itself to her body. Every distracting inch of it.
A sundress. He was no expert on women’s clothing, but he’d removed enough of it over the years to learn the basics, and he was pretty sure that was the name for what she was wearing. Whatever it was called, it was screwing up his attempt to picture Rose Davenport with a brooch at her throat.
The woman had a sexy throat. He’d give her that much. Her shoulders weren’t bad, either. Smooth and suntanned, and the crisscrossed straps of her dress presented a clear-cut invitation for a man to slide his fingers underneath and slowly, slowly peel them down. An invitation he’d bet wasn’t lost on the deliveryman with the salivating grin any more than it was lost on Griff.
His head ached, his leg was throbbing, and being trapped with so much old stuff was making him feel weird. Light-headed, he thought furiously. It was the dust, he told himself, refusing to be dizzy. The fact that he didn’t actually see any dust was inconseque
ntial. Everyone knew antiques attracted dust. Salt and pepper, pretzels and beer, antiques and dust. Just one more reason he didn’t want to be here, looking at shelf after shelf of useless junk when he didn’t even know what the hell he was looking for.
Liar. He knew exactly what he had come looking for, exactly what it was he wanted from Rose Davenport. He wanted her help. The problem was asking for it. He was no good at asking for help. In fact, he flat out hated it. Almost as much as he hated needing it in the first place. Being needy was even worse.
And he ought to know. In the past year he’d been forced to accept more help from more people than most men do in a lifetime. Doctors. Physical therapists. Even neighbors. And shrinks, don’t forget the shrinks. Without their “help,” he wouldn’t have done such a bang-up job of adapting and adjusting and accepting the fact that life as he knew it was over. Kaput. Finished. And the fact that his old life was the only life he had any interest in living? Why, that was just one of those inconvenient, lingering, post-accident stages that they insisted he would emerge from. One of these days.
But not today.
Today, this moment, it all added up to one thing; a burning urge to toss the chatty deliveryman out on his behind and get on with it. The other guy might be younger and fitter and faster, but Griff could feel a bigger chip on his shoulder and had been spoiling for a fight longer. That gave him the edge. The only thing holding him back from wiping the grin off Charlie’s face was the look on Rose’s. Pure ecstasy.
The way her eyes had lit up the second she saw the truck, you’d have thought it was Ed McMahon walking in with the grand prize check in his hand. Griff might not appreciate the appeal of a package jockey in shorts, but clearly Rose did—and he wasn’t about to risk ticking her off.
On the contrary, he was going to say and do whatever was necessary to stay in her good graces, until he found out what he needed to know. For starters, that meant keeping his thoughts about almost everything, especially his plans for the house, to himself. It also precluded telling her outright that throwing a party for him was a waste of time since he wouldn’t be hanging around long enough to make friends. And above all, it meant not slipping up and referring to her junk as junk.
With that in mind, Griff picked up a battered metal watering can and tried to look fascinated.
The Jerk held out his clipboard. “Care to sign your life away?” he asked Rose in a tone that made it clear it wasn’t only her signature he was after.
“For you, Charlie?” She smiled as she scrawled her name. “Anytime. And thanks. I owe you.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.” He executed a tight circle with the cart and winked at her. “See you tomorrow, Rose. Enjoy your new chintz teapot.”
“I plan to…and if you’re real good maybe I’ll invite you to tea sometime.”
Griff managed not to snort.
“I’m at your disposal,” said Charlie.
“Don’t you mean ‘mercy’?”
“That, too,” he called over his shoulder, laughing.
“’Bye, Charlie.”
Rose carefully slit the tape on the first box and began unpacking the contents. In her excitement, she almost forgot she wasn’t alone in the shop. Almost. It was impossible for a woman to actually forget the presence of a man like Griffin. As she carefully unwrapped each piece, checked it off on her order sheet and inspected it for damage, she also tracked his movement around the shop, curious as to what he might find of interest.
Not much, judging from his indifferent expression. She, on the other hand, was just bursting with interest. She wasn’t sure how a man using a cane managed to project such an air of invincibility, but somehow Griff succeeded. She had a hunch that it had something to do with world-class shoulders and the way his wash-softened jeans fit his thighs, but she didn’t want to dwell on it. His posture didn’t hurt, either, she decided. She had never realized it until now, but there was a lot to be said for a man with great posture.
He paused to look at some old wooden bookends with woodpecker carvings, and he actually picked up one of a pair of ceramic hummingbirds and glanced at the bottom.
Finally, he came to stand across the counter from her, the purposeful glint in his eye a bit unnerving in spite of his reassuring connection to Devora.
“Look…” he began.
Rose flashed him a smile. “Find anything you can’t live without?”
“Not quite.” The words were hardly out when his forehead creased, intensifying his grim expression. “That is, except for…” His gaze raked across the counter—now covered with plates and teacups named for the brightly flowered fabric that had inspired them—and landed on the hydrangea garland. Looking vaguely relieved, he reached for it. “This—”
Rose was aghast. “That?”
“Right.” He glanced at the price tag without flinching, and reached for his wallet.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Very sure.”
“You don’t think it’s a bit…pricey?”
“Not at all. It’s a bargain, in fact, and exactly what I had in mind.”
“For what?”
He looked up from the stack of bills he was thumbing through. “I beg your pardon?”
“I was wondering what you had a nine-foot-long garland of dried hydrangea in mind for? What do you plan to do with it?” she added, when he stared at her in what looked like bewilderment.
“Do?” He looked at the garland with a blank expression.
Please change your mind, Rose pleaded silently.
“I thought I would use it…on the porch.”
“The porch?” she gasped, horrified. “Aren’t you afraid the dampness will ruin it?”
“Good point.”
“I have a wicker plant stand that would be perfect on Devora’s porch,” she told him. “Maybe with a gorgeous Boston fern? Ferns love humidity.”
He shook his head.
“Geraniums?”
“I’m not much for plants. This thing is fine. I’ll figure out what to do with it once I get it home.”
“I see.” She grabbed a stack of pastel tissue and began wrapping it, doing her best not to look perturbed. As he had pointed out, this was a place of business. How was he to know that just because a “thing” had a price tag did not mean it was actually ready to be sold?
With the garland lovingly wrapped and gently arranged in a shopping bag, she wrote out a receipt and calculated the sales tax.
“That will be two hundred and sixty-seven dollars and fifty cents,” she said to him.
The creases suddenly reappeared on his forehead, but if he was having second thoughts, he didn’t say so. With the same ease he’d shown in handling the cane, he tucked the cash away and produced a credit card. “This okay?”
“Sure.”
The transaction complete, Rose handed him the bag, resisting the urge to tell him to take good care of it.
“I’ll be in touch,” she said. “About your party,” she added when he gave her a puzzled look.
“Oh. Well, we’ll talk about that. In the meantime, there is something else I’d like to ask you.”
A date? Rose braced herself, not sure how she felt about that. It was one thing to be neighborly, another thing entirely to risk thinking of him as anything other than Devora’s nephew.
“Shoot,” she invited.
“Devora collected some kind of birds. Glass birds, I think, but I’m not quite—”
He broke off, his expression visibly relieved, when she started to nod.
So he wasn’t going to ask her out, thought Rose, telling herself she wasn’t disappointed.
“Devora collected works by Boris Aureolis, specifically his first nature series. They’re not glass, though I can see how you might think so. They have such a wonderful clarity. They’re actually hard-paste porcelain from the mid-eighteenth century. Aureolis started out as a colorist for Meissen, but ended up a major creative force. He worked with an alchemist to develop the special
glaze that distinguishes his work.”
“That’s fascinating,” he said, looking anything but fascinated. “Do you happen to have any in stock?”
He scowled when she laughed and shook her head.
“Heavens, no. Aureolis is too rich for my blood.”
He gave a small grunt. “Really? Just how rich are we talking?”
She nibbled her bottom lip thoughtfully. “I’m no authority, you understand, but they do turn up at auction once in a while, and I was always keeping an eye open for Devora. If I remember correctly, she was missing only four of the series of twenty-five.”
“Three.”
“Three?” She nodded. “That’s right. She snagged the falcon from The Snooty Fox in Burlington.”
“Did she mention what she paid?”
“Probably, but my head is always so full of prices, it’s hard to remember exactly.” She fiddled absently with the sliver of a gold moon that hung on a slender chain around her neck, stopping when she noticed his attention lingering there. Again. “It seems to me it was in the neighborhood of four…maybe high threes.”
“Hundred?”
“Thousand.”
“Figures,” he muttered, then added, “Devora always did have expensive taste.”
“Are you thinking of selling the collection?”
“Actually, I’m looking to complete it.”
Rose’s heart melted a little around the edges. “What a sweet, thoughtful thing to do. Oh, Devora would be so pleased.”
“Trust me, it’s not thoughtful. It’s not even my idea,” he insisted, looking uncomfortable with the approval she was beaming his way. “It’s what Devora wanted. Her last request, you might say. She wants the completed collection donated to the Audubon Society.”
“She always talked about doing that someday. It was her dream. And it’s also something a lot of people wouldn’t understand, or else would simply write off as the crazy whim of an old lady. No wonder she adored you.”
He looked horrified by her praise. “You’ve got it all wrong. I don’t understand anything. I certainly don’t understand why anyone would spend their time and money chasing after some old glass…excuse me, porcelain birds, just to give them away. I think it’s the single wackiest, most senseless thing I ever heard of.”
Tall, Dark And Difficult Page 3