by Nan Dixon
Furrows formed between her eyebrows. Her hand moved back and forth from the mouse to the keyboard. She chewed her lower lip, a study of concentration.
His fingers clenched. Damn, he wanted to run his thumb along her worry lines and soothe the lips she abused. He wanted to kiss that mouth again. How could she deny them that pleasure? His breath wheezed out.
Her green gaze homed in on him. “A couple more minutes.”
He nodded, sipping his coffee.
Abby joined them at the table, a plate of sweets in her hand. “So you’re interested in the Fitzgerald family?”
Liam kept his eyes off Dolley so her sister didn’t know how interested he was in one particular member of the family. “I want to include your family in the documentary.”
“You do?” Abby almost bounced in her chair.
Dolley looked up, eyebrows arching over her entrancing eyes in disbelief. At least she wasn’t frowning. Then she looked back at her keyboard, and her fingers flew.
He would make so many bloody mistakes if he typed that fast.
“Done.” Dolley shut her laptop with a snap. “What are you looking for?”
Her gaze was like a green tractor beam. He fought against the pull. She’d been firm. Nothing personal between them.
Dolley would have to make the next move.
“I’d like to interview your family and tie James’s journey to the Americas into the documentary.”
“Why us?” Dolley’s head tilted. “Aren’t there other families that are more interesting?”
Not to him. “Trust me, viewers will be interested.”
“I love this idea,” Abby said. “I’d help if I could, but Dolley is our historian.”
He kept the smile from breaking across his face. “Excellent.”
Dolley crossed her arms in front of her chest. Her frown was back.
He kept his gaze on Abby’s animated face. “Do you think I could interview you, your mum and your sisters?”
Abby turned to Dolley, touching her hand. “We could do the interviews when the family is here for my wedding.” When Dolley kept frowning, Abby added, “Besides, Liam is helping us out with my wedding. We owe him.”
He leaned forward. Abby was a coconspirator, even if she didn’t know it.
Dolley eyed him suspiciously.
He sipped his coffee and put on his best innocent look.
She frowned harder.
“This could be good for the B and B,” he added.
“Do we have control over what you say?” Dolley placed her elbows on the table and leaned into his space. “I don’t want to hurt our business.”
Did she think he’d forgotten that’s all she wanted between them? He tipped his head. “You won’t have absolute control, but I can let you review the rough edits.”
And she would have to spend more time with him. Splendid idea.
“I know where the old journals are.” She moved into the kitchen and took a set of keys off a rack next to the telephone. “I don’t know how far back they go.”
Liam stood. To Abby he said, “Why don’t you give me possible interview dates? I’d like a two-hour block of time.”
“Will do.” Abby moved to a pad of paper on the counter and added a note.
Dolley waited for him in the hallway, her hands on her hips. “Don’t think this changes anything between us.”
“This is business. That’s what you wanted, right?”
He wanted her thinking about him. About their kiss. “Thanks for the rental agreement. I’ve sent it on to my producer.”
“Oh. Good.” She blinked, long eyelashes covering her confused stare.
“Lay on, MacDuff.” The phrase seemed appropriate. He waved his arm so she would lead. They were heading into a battle of wills. “I’d like to see these journals.”
* * *
DOLLEY TOOK THE back stairs, not bothering to see if Liam followed. He was. His scent and footsteps filled the narrow stairway.
What game was he playing now?
She rubbed her temples. He was making her crazy. Her vow of business only sounded childish and stubborn.
They moved down the third floor hallway to a recessed door.
“I didn’t know there was a fourth floor,” he said.
“It’s not for guests.” She unlocked the door and entered the narrow stairway. His scent grew fainter, making her want to turn around and take a sniff. Stupid.
She took the last steps in a rush. Flipping on the naked lights hanging from the ceiling, she moved into the room.
The narrow attic was tall enough for her to stand, but Liam had to duck. Maybe he would hit his head and knock some sense in his hard noggin.
“Shouldn’t it be musty and dark up here, with cobwebs?” Liam asked.
“In Fitzgerald House? Cobwebs are not allowed. Marion sends someone up here once a month.”
Old paintings leaned against the wall. Lamps filled a corner next to the chimney stacks. They might be able to use some of the bits and pieces they’d stored here for Carleton House. And there were trunks. Lots and lots of trunks. Steamers in different shapes and sizes had flat or domed lids. Some locked with ornate iron latches. They were made of wood and leather. Her favorites were the trunks with drawers and hidden compartments.
She opened the first trunk. Clothes. Kept opening and closing until she found one filled with Mylar bags.
She started to tug it to the center of the room.
Liam touched her back. “Let me.”
Before she could protest, he picked it up and pulled it to the center. His head rapped against the ceiling. “Damn.”
She winced. She really hadn’t wanted him to hurt himself.
Kneeling, she opened the lid. When cleaning out the third floor, they’d tried to stop the papers and photos from deteriorating by placing everything in Mylar bags. She’d always meant to discover what secrets the past contained.
Liam’s knees popped as he knelt next to her. “This is amazing.”
“You might like to look at these.” She opened a bag with all the Savannah maps they’d found. Some were still in frames. “We should be wearing gloves, so please handle them by the edges.”
“Wonderful!” Liam gently picked up the plot of the city. “It’s dated 1850. Look, another dated 1862. Any chance I could take pictures of these? They’re better than what I found in the historical society.”
“Sure.”
She should have remembered there were things here Liam could use. Instead, she’d worried about her attraction to him.
Her shoulders slumped. She wasn’t nice. He was here to do a job. Not everything was about her and her needs.
Digging through the trunk, she found a shape that felt like a journal. Maybe they should have taken the journals to the historical society, but this was their heritage. “This should be one.”
He sat, his long legs stretched out next to her. Picking up a bag, he asked, “May I open it?”
“Don’t touch the paper.” She looked into his eyes.
And got lost.
She swallowed. His stare dipped to her throat.
“May I?”
What was he asking? Could he kiss her? She’d already explained why that was a terrible idea.
He held up the bag.
She blinked. God, he was asking whether he could open the book bag.
“Of course.” Her voice was as rusty as the light fixtures they’d cleaned for Carleton House.
She shifted, pulling away from the vortex that tugged her close to his lean, wonderful body. Peering into the trunk, she pulled out more bags. She’d always planned to go through the journals, but they’d been busy finishing Fitzgerald House and beginning work on Carleton House. They’d stuffed everyt
hing in bags and forgotten them.
By the time she’d emptied the trunk, ten journals, two bags of letters and a pile of household and business ledgers sat between them on the floor.
“May I get the portable?” he asked.
“Portable?”
“Video camera.” Excitement glowed in his eyes.
He glanced at her, and their connection clicked in place like finding the last piece of the jigsaw puzzle. She was afraid to breathe, afraid to move because it might be toward him and not away.
She forced herself to look away. “Portable. Of course.”
His footsteps echoed on the stairs.
She leaned back, drawing in a full breath. Pathetic.
She checked the other trunks, not sure if someone had stored papers elsewhere.
Bingo. Here were books that looked like diaries. She placed them with the growing pile of documents.
Footsteps echoed on the stairs again, a little slower this time. He reappeared at the top of the steps, and the room shrank. How did his personality fill a space? He was usually quiet, watching, listening. Why was she so aware of every nuance of his expression?
Right now his face glowed. He stopped next to her. “Even if nothing ties into my research, I appreciate you letting me look at the material.”
“I should have thought of the journals earlier.” She stared at her feet.
He touched her chin, compelling her to look up. He was smiling, a rare gift to the world and to her. “The timing is grand.”
He pulled his hand away.
She longed for his touch. How messed up was that?
“I’m thankful you remembered,” he said.
She gazed into the depths of his blue eyes.
His smile faded. Something flickered in his eyes, and they darkened.
She didn’t know how long they stared at each other. She wanted him to close the distance. Wanted his artist’s fingers on her face and in her hair. Wanted his lips, so firm yet soft on her mouth.
“Thanks.” He pulled away, bending to dig in the camera bag.
Her breath whooshed out. Disappointment weighed down her shoulders. He was doing exactly what she wanted—so why did it hurt?
“What can I do to help?” she asked. “Hold something for you?”
He attached a battery and checked settings. “Could you sit behind the trunk?”
“You don’t want me in the shot?” she asked, appalled.
“Of course I do.” He fumbled with switches.
“Umm, sure.” She ran a hand through her tangled hair. Then she crouched next to the open trunk.
He peered through the viewfinder. “How long do you think the papers have been up here?”
He adjusted settings on the camera.
“James Michael Fitzgerald arrived in Savannah in the summer of 1830. He built Fitzgerald House in 1837. There was water damage in the 1950s, and there might have been a fire at some point, but when we stored the papers, a lot of the material was still intact.”
“What do you know about James’s relatives in Ireland?”
“Not much. He was the second son. I think they owned quarries.”
He shouldered the camera. “I wonder if they ever came to visit.”
She waved her hands at the bags scattered on the floor. “I guess when we go through the books and papers, we might discover whether they did. When we packed these up, we probably should have had everything filmed by the historical society.”
“And why didn’t you?” He walked around the room. He must have been looking at how to frame the shot. He was such a perfectionist.
“I guess we were being selfish.” She shrugged. “We didn’t want to give it away because it’s ours.”
He hit more buttons and pulled the camera off his shoulder.
“Not enough light?” she asked.
“Lighting’s lovely.”
“So you decided it wasn’t a good shot?”
“The shot was great.” He grinned. “Thanks.”
She scrambled to her feet. “You didn’t give me any warning.”
“I didn’t want you to tense up.” He pointed to her shoulders. “Like you’re doing now.”
“I...” She was tensing up. She hated public speaking. Her back felt like there were rocks instead of muscles there. “Well.”
He waved a hand at the papers. “What do you think is the best way to go through the material?”
They kicked around ideas and finally decided the attic was a good place to work. “I’ll get Nigel to bring up tables and chairs. We’ll need gloves.”
“You’ll help me?” he said.
He’d muttered the words so softly she had to lean in.
“I thought I was your research assistant.” She tried to infuse her voice with lighthearted banter. But it just came out breathy.
“I wasn’t sure you still wanted to work with me,” he said.
She touched his arm. “That’s what I don’t want messed up.”
He covered her hand with his. “Did someone hurt you?”
Oh, no. Not going to happen. She was not telling him how guys used her and tossed her away. “Too many to mention.”
“They were fools.” His lilt did funny things in her chest.
“Yes, they were.” She slipped her hand out from under his.
This conversation was not about business.
Standing, she escaped his irresistible pull. It didn’t matter that each day it got harder to ignore her fascination with Liam. She had too much at stake to give into a momentary attraction.
It was up to her to stay in control.
CHAPTER NINE
Your photography is a record of your living, for anyone who really sees.
Paul Strand
DOLLEY TUGGED HER coat tighter. “I thought the forecast called for warmer weather?”
“Warm on January 10 is still frigid.” Bess rubbed Dolley’s shoulder as they headed to Carleton House for a final walk-through.
Dolley chewed her lip. Tonight, she would ask her sisters about moving into the Fitzgerald carriage house. She’d chickened out last night when they’d all been together.
“How’s the attic research going?” Abby asked.
“Good. Great.” Dolley’s hand tapped a staccato beat on her jeans. “We work a couple of hours most nights. We’re getting things organized into decades first.”
“I thought you were his photography apprentice?” Bess asked.
“I am, but I’m also his research assistant.” She stuck her hand in her pocket. “He rented time in SCAD’s developing rooms. Tonight, I’ll be a photographer. I haven’t done darkroom work since college.”
“It’s probably like riding a bike.” Bess swiped a card against the reader and opened the kitchen door. “I can’t wait for y’all to see how Carleton house looks.”
At night, no workers pounded or painted. The silence was—weird. “I should run back and get my camera. I need to update the blog.”
“No.” Bess grabbed her arm. “There’s only a few things we need to finalize. You can come back later.”
The official Carleton House opening was three weeks away. The cleaning crew had worked for the last week chasing construction dust.
As they headed to the front of the house, Dolley knelt and ran a hand against the heart of the pine floors. “I haven’t seen the floors since they pulled up the protective paper. They’re beautiful.”
Bess nodded but shooed them upstairs.
Everything gleamed.
Bess led them into one of the bedrooms.
“Oh, my.” Dolley swallowed. The room was pink. Hot pink. “Is this the color we picked?”
Abby shook her head. “No way.”
“Bad, isn’t it?” Bess asked.
“It’s awful.” Dolley shook her head so hard her curls whipped her eyes.
“Unless we want a Pepto-Bismol room.” Abby grimaced. “Should we advertise it?”
“I have got to capture this.” Dolley pulled out her phone and took pictures. It was so pink, her stomach twisted.
“We can call it the Pretty, Pretty Princess room.” Bess touched the wall.
“And fill it with toys.” Dolley grinned. “Maybe a play castle.”
“It reminds me of Dr. Seuss,” Abby said. “I’m afraid the Whos will come running out.”
They laughed. Dolley snapped a picture of Abby and Bess bent over, the hideous wall behind them. These pictures were definitely going on the website.
“We could advertise this as the most atrocious room in the inn,” Dolley said.
“Guaranteed to keep our guests awake,” Abby added.
“Or give them nightmares,” Dolley said.
“Daniel already knows this is wrong.” Bess waved them into the hallway. “Come check the others.”
“Did you tell him in bed?” Abby elbowed her.
“Maybe.” Bess winked.
Her sisters shared a knowing look. What was next, a secret handshake for engaged women?
Dolley hung back as her sisters walked down the hall. She sighed, but it didn’t release the ache in her chest. Being odd woman out of the Fitzgerald sisters sucked.
They double-checked the paint colors in the other rooms.
“The rest are fine,” Dolley said. “When do we move in furniture?”
Bess checked her phone. “The twentieth.”
“We have guests booked through end of March,” Dolley said.
“It helps to have Liam and his crew here.” Abby looked out the French doors to the balcony. “The wrought iron looks like it has been here forever.”
When Liam’s crew arrived, he would move out of the main house. Maybe then she wouldn’t wander through Fitzgerald hoping to run into him.
She kept waiting for him to kiss her again.
Abby looked at her and frowned. “You’re flushed. Are you getting sick?”
“No.” She redirected her sisters’ attention from her to the room. “We haven’t bought tables for the balconies.”