Dangerous Waters

by Janice Kay Johnson

  She stole a glance, and found his expression inscrutable, although his gaze was taking it all in. She had the feeling he could see even the Cheerios that Jamie had been poking under the couch that morning. Marian wasn't usually so self-conscious. What was it about him?

  He wasn't exactly handsome; his lean face was too rugged for that. It was also faintly familiar, and yet she didn't remember ever meeting him. It would have been hard to forget a man built like him, tall and broad-shouldered with narrow hips and long legs. And while his straight brown hair matched his daughter's, the level gray eyes that held Marian's sparked no recognition.

  Her awareness of him made her stomach knot. The feeling wasn't wholly pleasant. For heaven's sake, the man was probably married. Anyway, it was the child she should be paying attention to, not the father. The little girl's gaze was still downcast, her teeth worrying at her lower lip.

  "Would you like to color while your dad and I are talking?" Marian asked gently. She stopped herself from reaching out to brush the child's bangs back from her forehead. It was too soon.

  After a pause, Emma whispered, "No."

  "Okay. Why don't you sit down?" Marian wrinkled her nose. "If you can find a place. Sorry. I always pick up, but I haven't found the energy yet tonight. Six kids are like a tornado."

  John looked at her quizzically. "Six is quite a few. Are you sure you can handle another?"

  "I'm licensed for seven." Marian met his gaze, hating the nervous flutter in her chest. "Which I think is too many. But if I understood you, it's this weekend you want to leave Emma?" He agreed, and she continued. "The other children in my care come Monday through Friday, even the drop-ins. On weekends I have only my own."

  He nodded, his expression noncommittal. There was something in his gray eyes, though, an answering awareness, that reminded her of that first odd moment when she had opened the door. She tried to tell herself that she had imagined the way he had looked at her, but failed.

  Feeling the need to fuss, Marian collected a pile of books from the couch and carried them over to the bookcase, talking over her shoulder. "Jesse and Anna are two and a half, so they're a little young to be friends for you, Emma, but they'd be thrilled if you played with them! Did you notice that we have a pony?"

  Still standing stiffly beside her father, Emma nodded again. Out of the corner of her eye she watched the two dark-haired, dark-eyed toddlers who stared silently at her.

  "We have a goat, too, which saves me from having to mow. Goats are funny creatures. Esmerelda likes to nibble on noses and ears, so you have to watch her, but she's really a lot of fun. I save her hair when she sheds, and we dye it for crafts. For Mother's Day some of the kids took home cups decorated with purple goat hair."

  "Emma and I are on our own," John said.

  Marian wasn't sure how to take that—as a warning, perhaps? She met his eyes when she said, "Jesse and Anna and I are, too. We'd love to have your company, Emma, if you think you'd feel comfortable with us."

  The man replied only indirectly. "Do you have an extra bed for Emma? Or would she need to bring a sleeping bag?"

  "I have a bed," she said. "This place is three-bedroom, believe it or not. They're tiny, but—" She broke off. "Would you like to look around?"

  He nodded and stood. "If you don't mind."

  "Not at all. I'm afraid the dinner dishes are still piled up." Marian caught herself apologizing. She wasn't one of the world's great housekeepers and she wasn't about to pretend that she was, just because the girl's father intimidated her. If that was the right word, she thought, all too aware of his long, lazy stride as he followed her, of how big the hand was that hadn't left his daughter's shoulder.

  As she led a silent tour from room to room, the shabbiness of the house made her self-conscious as well. The kitchen cabinets were old painted wood, the vinyl floor cracking, its finish long worn off. The hardwood floors needed refinishing, the bathroom could have used new fixtures. She hadn't been able to afford to do any of those projects. What she could afford she'd done. The wallpapers were bright and airy, the curtains gauzy splashes of color. She'd made slipcovers for some of the furniture, stripped and stained the wood pieces. There were books in every room, and colorful toys randomly stacked on shelves. It was home, she thought, trying to ignore a clutch of sadness. Maybe only for another few months, but while the house was still hers, she refused to feel defensive about it.

  The small hallway ended at the three bedrooms. The door was open to hers, which lay straight ahead. Marian's instinctive reaction was hurriedly to pull the door shut, as though by doing so she could salvage some remnant of privacy. But that was ridiculous. He had seen a bed before. Hers would tell him nothing about her.

  But Marian was wrong. Although he didn't allow his expression to change, John had guessed quite a lot about her from one leisurely glance. The quilt, in an unusual and striking mix of teal and orange, was clearly handmade. The room was untidy in a casual, homey way; books were piled haphazardly on the end table, a stuffed rabbit lay at the foot of the bed, and one slipper hadn't quite made it into the closet. A ball of bright red yarn had rolled out of a bag. The bedroom was emphatically hers, without any sign that a man had ever belonged there.

  The two children's rooms duly inspected, John followed her back into the living room, Emma silent at his side. He should have been thinking only about his daughter, about her reaction, but instead he seized the opportunity to admire Marian's narrow hips and long legs, revealed by snug jeans. Above her slender back, her hair was like thick, dark silk, carelessly bundled. His fingers almost tingled as he imagined how that silky mane would feel, slipping through them. He had a vivid image of her naked, slowly turning to face him, her hair flowing to her waist, an impossibly sensual contrast with her porcelain skin.

  John blinked, and realized he stood beside the couch staring at her. She had turned to face him, her gaze wary. Before he had thought of anything to say, she spoke abruptly.

  "I keep thinking how familiar you look. Have we met before?"

  "No." He wouldn't have forgotten her. "I'm, uh..."

  "Daddy was a football player," Emma interjected proudly. "Everybody knows who he is."

  "Well, not quite," John said wryly.

  "I'm afraid I've never followed football." She didn't sound apologetic.

  "Daddy has scars all over his knees," Emma added. "Big ugly ones."

  Marian's dark gaze lowered to his jean-clad legs, and then she flushed slightly as she looked back at his face.

  "Thank you, Emma," John said, then grinned ruefully at Marian, who was, if anything, more beautiful with her cheeks tinted pink. "I retired because of knee injuries," he explained.

  "I'm sorry," she said, sounding awkward.

  He shrugged. "It's a rare football career that lasts over ten years. I couldn't ask for more than that."

  Her small daughter tugged at her sweater, and Marian bent to pick her up. "This isn't a business trip, then?"

  "I'm a color commentator for network television," John said. "Which means I'm on the road a lot for five or six months a year, and home the rest. We've had a housekeeper for the last couple of years who took care of Emma, but she left to get married and the woman I hired to replace her called today to let me know her father had a stroke and she wouldn't be able to come. Obviously, I'm going to be hunting for a new housekeeper. In the meantime..." He shrugged again.

  As he talked, her expression changed, becoming shuttered as her brow crinkled and she studied him. Suddenly the warmth was gone from those velvet dark eyes. But, damn it, what had he said?

  "Is something wrong?" John asked, taking a step toward her.

  She held her ground, raking him with an unexpectedly cool gaze. "No. No, nothing." And then she turned away from him as though he didn't exist, carefully setting her own daughter down before crouching in front of his. He saw again her gentleness as she smiled at Emma. "I'll be delighted to have Emma this weekend if you'll feel comfortable leaving her here."

&nbs
p; John glanced at his daughter, but her face stayed averted. "Suppose I bring her about noon?" he said.

  "Good." She hesitated, then looked up at him. "Would you like a cup of coffee? Or tea?"

  The offer was obviously no more than polite, and even so he refused only with reluctance. "You must be tired. And Emma and I both have to pack."

  Marian told herself firmly that she was relieved. He had a strangely unsettling effect on her, one she didn't even like to acknowledge. If she were ever to fall in love again, which at this point in her life she found difficult to imagine, it wouldn't be with a man who spent more time away from home than he did with his motherless daughter.

  When he and Emma were gone and Marian was involved in the nightly rituals of bathing her twins, of cuddling them and reading stories and tucking them in, a peripheral part of her consciousness puzzled over the two who had left—the child with the frightened brown eyes and the man who had looked so tenderly at his daughter but was prepared to leave her with a stranger for the weekend—not just this weekend, but all the ones to come in the next—what?—three months? Four months? Did all men lack some basic instinct for nurturing? she wondered, giving her own sleepy children a soft kiss as she pulled the covers up to their chins and left them in the warm glow from their mouse nightlight.

  Tired, she began to run soapy water into the kitchen sink automatically, wanting nothing more than to finish cleaning up so that she could go to bed herself. But tonight her thoughts were relentless, the remembered ache of betrayal sharp in her throat. She knew the unfairness of turning her bitterness on John McRae, who at least had not abandoned his child. But he had sparked too many memories, ruffling the hard-won serenity she had achieved. Unfair or not, she resented that.

  ALL THROUGH THE HOUSE

  By Janice Kay Johnson

  CHAPTER 1

  "You'll be able to catch a glimpse of the house as soon as we go around this next bend."

  Abigail McLeod was looking forward to her passengers' reactions. She deliberately hadn't prepared them, not even showing them a picture. That way the impact would be greater. Abigail was convinced that the old Irving House was perfect for the Petersons, a middle-aged couple in the market for an executive home. She had become the listing agent for the historical mansion only two days before, and she was determined to sell it herself. Having the Petersons walk into her office this morning was pure luck. Buyers who could afford the million-dollar plus price tag were few and far between.

  The last curve of the narrow country road circled up and around the flank of a small grassy hill crowned with an orchard of ancient, gnarled apple trees. Wild flowers bloomed beneath them. Abigail heard Mrs. Peterson's drawn-in breath, sensed Mr. Peterson's stillness after he'd leaned sharply forward. It was the sight of the first turret that had done it, with the delicate pattern of shingles and the tiny round window high up catching the afternoon sunlight. Abigail smiled with quiet satisfaction, although she didn't take her gaze from the road. It was too easy to miss the drive, which these days was little more than two ruts that cut through the waist-high, golden-green grass of the pasture.

  As soon as she'd turned her red Honda Accord into the lane, however, her own gaze stole up to the house. With its conical towers and small balconies, the intricate patterns of the fish scale shingling and the delicate gingerbread, it would to Abigail be forever evocative of princesses and dragons, of Rapunzel letting down her hair from the tower.

  "It's magnificent!" Mr. Peterson murmured as the car crested the drive and the house came into full view, down to its granite-block foundation. "When was it built?"

  "Eighteen ninety-one," Abigail answered matter-of-factly. "Locally it's called the Irving House. William Irving was a timber baron. His wife was English, and apparently he promised that if she married him, she wouldn't have to give up anything. Remember that Washington had only been a state for two years and the Puget Sound area was still practically a frontier. It probably sounded like the ends of the earth to a well-bred Englishwoman, but when the house was finished in 1893, she married him."

  Mrs. Peterson looked enraptured with the story. "How romantic! And did they live happily ever after?"

  "They had eight children," Abigail informed them. "Who fought tooth and nail over Papa's empire after he'd died. In the end two of them won. The oldest son took the timber business and the house, and another the railroad and shipping interests. A couple of the daughters married other local businessmen, and several of the children went back to England with their mother, never to be heard of again. The house has been occupied by a member of the family until the old man who owned it died just recently. That partly explains why it's in such excellent condition."

  "But you said it's occupied?"

  A tiny frown creased Abigail's forehead, although she didn't let her tone reflect her uneasiness. "Yes, by a renter. I called to let him know we'd be coming."

  Abigail couldn't entirely explain, even to herself, why she was so worried about the renter. He'd been perfectly pleasant on the telephone, informing her agreeably that he would be there, but he'd try to stay out of their way. The man couldn't help the fact that he had such an unusual voice, low and a little gravelly. Actually, it was rather sexy, bringing to Abigail's mind a fleeting but all too vivid image of the rasp of a shaven chin against softer skin.

  Maybe that was the only reason she had this odd feeling about him; he'd unwittingly reminded her of her own vulnerability, something she'd as soon not think about these days. She was too busy supporting herself and her four-year-old daughter, as well as trying to be a good single mother, to waste time on romantic—or sexual—fantasies.

  She suspected, however, that the small worry in the back of her mind had originated the day she'd looked over the house with the present owner, Ed Phillips, a great-nephew of the old man who had died. Standing out in front by her car, she had asked him about the signs of occupation. The unwashed breakfast dishes, the faded jeans tossed on the bed, the razor lying by the bathroom sink, had made her wonder if whoever lived in the house had expected this visit.

  Ed Phillips was the area's biggest contractor, a strongly built man in his early forties who was starting to put on a little too much weight, although in his case it simply made his presence more imposing. He could be very charming, although Abigail had a feeling that charm would disappear quickly if he were crossed. She wasn't sure she liked the man, but she was very eager to sell this house for him. He'd promised to throw more business her way if she did, business she desperately needed.

  At her question about the house's occupant, he had frowned and glanced over his shoulder, as though he expected someone to appear on the porch. It remained empty, of course, but for a moment he continued to stare moodily up at the house. Clearly, Abigail had reminded him of something unpleasant. It was an odd reaction, one that made her apprehensive.

  But then, few things were ever as perfect as this deal seemed to be. Wasn't there always a catch? The only question now was what Ed was going to spring on her. Did the renter keep a killer Doberman pinscher roaming the grounds that she would be expected to decoy whenever she wanted to bring buyers out? Or did the man work at night, so that she would never be able to show the house during the hours any sane person would want to see it? Or... She rummaged in her mind through past experiences for something suitably unpleasant.

  But then Ed Phillips gave himself a little shake and turned back to her with an easy grin. "Sorry. Did you ask about the renter?"

  Abigail raised her brows slightly and nodded.

  "He won't be any problem," Ed said. "I'm lucky to have someone to keep the place up. Really lucky. And quite a bit of the furniture in there is his. Dresses the house up a little. So don't worry. It's a good thing he's here."

  Abigail didn't probe. She also didn't believe him. He'd sounded too much as though he were trying to convince himself. She could only trust that he would have been honest with her if the renter was likely to present her any particular problem.

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nbsp; Now, as she eased her car to a stop in front of the house, Abigail could see the rear end of a pickup truck in the shadowy recesses of the old clapboard-sided carriage house. She ignored its presence, however, as she switched off the ignition and smiled at Mrs. Peterson, who was in the front seat with her.

  "It's too bad that the landscaping has been neglected," she commented, having found in the past that bringing any sore points out into the open worked best. In this case, the knee-high weeds that choked the formal flower beds and the straggling boxwoods could hardly be ignored. "But there are plenty of beautiful old plants here to work with. Well, you can see that for yourself. It wouldn't be at all like starting from scratch with a new house."

  It was true. Huge old rhododendrons promised a spectacular spring. Following the curve of the drive was a row of peonies with only a few gaps, the plump deep-pink and white heads showing through the long grass. The scent of the roses that scrambled up trellises beneath the front porch drifted in the open car window along with the faint buzzing of the bees. Abigail didn't make a move for a minute, subtly letting the sheer quiet of the country make its effect felt on the Petersons. At last she opened her car door.

  As they climbed the front steps, Mr. Peterson said, "You're sure the place has been completely redone? It's impressive, I'll grant you that, but Betty and I aren't prepared to pour time and effort into the bottomless well I know these old houses can be."

  "People do get in over their heads, don't they?" Abigail agreed pleasantly. "But the Irving House is different. As I explained to you, the owner, Mr. Phillips, is a highly respected local contractor. Under his direction, the roof, the plumbing, and the wiring have all been replaced. Mr. Phillips supervised the work himself. All that's left to be done is decorating. I'm sure you'll find the wallpapers old-fashioned, for example. But picking your own is the fun part, isn't it?"