Of course he was right, and that didn’t make her any happier. She’d spent the day sorting through the Masterson papers, making lists, trying to decide which of the diaries and accounts would be most important to her thesis. She was ready to relax—but how could she relax with Max in the house?
Oh, and the smugglers on the prowl, too. How could she have forgotten the smugglers?
Then, as Laurel stepped through the door of the library, she felt the room embrace her. Going to the lamps that stood in every corner and by every chair, she turned them on and, as night deepened outside, warm highlights shone off the light oak shelves that rose from floor to ceiling. So many of these dusty volumes had yielded their knowledge to her. Thousands of books filled the shelves, some so old she handled them only when wearing soft cotton gloves and with the care of a child for her beloved grandmother. Others were brand-new, kick-your-heels-back adult fiction, made for whiling away an evening. Of course Harry Potter had his own shelf. Here and there, a painting hung on the wall or a spun glass vase reflected the light. She slithered into the depths of the great, over-stuffed chair she had commandeered as her own, and sighed.
Max stood, hands on hips, watching her with a satisfaction that reminded her of last night. Why did he like seeing her here in Masterson Manor? What perverse happiness did he get from seeing her cross the threshold in this domain? In witnessing her pleasure in the hominess of the library? She didn’t understand anything about him. He was a different kind of man than she’d ever met before. Perhaps that was why she loved him. Certainly that was why she couldn’t marry him. One didn’t marry a man one didn’t know.
He cleaned up well. When he wore his well-worn, faded-to-white jeans and denim shirt, and a tool belt sat low on his hips, he looked like every wife’s dream of a handyman; qualified to perform any repair, capable of clearing any mess he made, and given to removing his shirt if he got too warm.
And when he did…she got too warm. But regardless of the provocation, she had kept all her clothes on. So far.
In more formal wear, he looked like every woman’s dream date, with broad shoulders, beautiful long legs, and the kind of sincere, commanding smile that made for polar cap meltdown. He wore black again this evening; black slacks, this time, and a black short sleeved silk sweater that clung to his shoulders and proved decisively that he lifted weights. Add to that the damp, combed back blonde hair, and his fresh washed scent of soap and sex appeal, and he made an irresistible package.
She took a long breath.
She would resist.
She wore her softest gray workout pants, drawstring tied at her waist, a sleeveless blue zip-up sweatshirt, and no shoes. She was no match for his elegance, but then, she didn’t want to be. “Are you going to chase after smugglers?” she asked.
“Why do you ask?”
He had answered a question with a question, not providing information, yet diverting her attention. Or rather…always before he had diverted her attention. “You’re wearing black.”
He looked down at himself. “I live in London. Everyone wears black there.”
“So they do.” Still no answer to her query. What was going on? She stood. “You know, I don’t think I’ll sit here tonight.”
He moved to block her. “No!”
She put her hand on her hip and jutted it out. “No? Why not?”
His eyes narrowed.
“Are you perhaps a smuggler after all?”
“Do you think I am?”
“I think you are an expert on evading my questions, and why you imagine I would marry someone about whom I know nothing, I can’t imagine.” She could see him thinking, weighing his options, trying to decide how to handle this situation. How to handle her. “When you and I spent those three days together, I told you everything about myself. About my parents in Idaho, about going to school in California, about getting my degree. I told you that this was my dream job. I told you all my hopes and dreams for the future.”
With a whimsical smile, he said, “Those were the best three days of my life.”
He was trying to cajole her. She wasn’t interested. “You told me nothing.”
“I know about myself. I wanted to know about you.”
She moved to pass him.
He caught her arm. He didn’t move, but she could see him choosing his words. “I really am a banker.”
She looked at his hand, then looked at him, eyebrows raised. “I suspected that.”
He was a smart man who comprehended very well that she was blackmailing him. She wanted an exchange of information for her continued presence in the library. She could see him weighing the consequences and deciding on his course.
“I was born in Liverpool thirty-two years ago.” All expression smoothed from his face. “My parents weren’t married. My father abandoned my mother before I was even born.”
Chapter Ten
The clock ticked. Around the casement windows, the breeze off the ocean whistled softly. Max looked straight into Laurel’s face, waiting patiently for her to…to do something. Mock him? Walk away? To what had he been subjected in his childhood? The laughter of other children? The taunting of relatives? And poverty, no doubt, for raising a child alone was difficult in any city, in any land.
And he knew Laurel’s childhood had been ordinary. Positively homespun. A mother and father, a farm with haystacks and barnyards, a school bus, a lunch bucket. Public school and college, and always the unending support of both parents.
Well. At least now she knew why he didn’t talk about his past. But she didn’t show sympathy. He didn’t want that. In fact, she would have sworn he feared her pity more than her scorn. Quietly, afraid she might drive him away with the wrong tone, the wrong words, she said, “That must have been rough for you.”
He let out his breath. “Won’t you sit down?”
She did, walking back to her favorite overstuffed chair.
He opened the wine cabinet. “Could I get you something to drink?”
“A pinot noir would be lovely.”
Kneeling, he rummaged through the bottles. “I was tough. I was okay. But we were poor. You can’t imagine how poor we were. Without a pot to pee in or a window to throw it out of, my mother used to say.” He laughed, but there was no merriment in the sound. “She’s a good woman. Too good for that kind of treatment.”
“Oh.” Oh. No wonder he was so insistent Laurel marry him. His mother had been an innocent, abandoned by her lover. Max would not be a man like his father.
Max brought forth a bottle and after an examination of the label, he pulled the cork with an elegant twist of his wrist. “All my childhood she worked too hard, trying to put money away so I could have a chance in the world. All she wanted was for me to go to university and make something of myself.” He poured a bit in one glass, lifted the ruby liquid to the light, sniffed it, and tasted. “I think you’ll like this.”
Laurel accepted the glass he offered. “Does your father know who you are? What you’ve become?”
“He’s dead. Killed in a fall from a horse during a foxhunt. He was a minor aristocrat, you see, impoverished but far too good for my mother, or me.” Max sneered as elegantly as any English aristocrat who ever graced a portrait.
“He was stupid, then,” Laurel said briskly.
Max blinked as if taken aback.
“Your mother must be very proud of you.”
“So she is. I bought her a house. I was going to get her a place in the country, but she said no, she liked London. She’s lived in a city all her life, and she’d miss it.” He chuckled, and pulled one of the upright wooden chairs to sit right in front of Laurel. He seated himself. “She likes to check up on me. She’s quite a character.” He lifted his glass in a toast.
Laurel loved the look of pride and affection that lit his features. She clinked her glass against his. “I’d like to meet her.” Before he could make anything of that, she asked, “How did a banker learn to be a handyman?”
“I learne
d to be a handyman first. When I was a lad, I worked to help out.”
Yes, he would work from the moment he was big enough. Anything to help his mother. The man burned with ambition.
Laurel sipped the wine. Lean, ripe and tasting of current and cherry, it was just what she needed as she struggled between jubilation and dismay. Jubilation that he trusted her enough to tell her. Dismay that her heart was melting.
She had wanted to know about him. She had needed to know about his past and why he was like he was. Now…now it seemed indulging her curiosity was not such a good idea. The things he had told her about himself only made him more attractive. The expression on his face, that wariness, as if past experience had taught him to expect rejection…as if he expected her to turn from him with disgust, when in fact his confession had done nothing more than make her admire him more than ever. “Are you really a millionaire?”
“What do you think?”
“I think…you’re a multi-millionaire.”
“And I think you’re smart.”
She loved him. She loved his face, his body…his expression, his character…but she couldn’t marry him. Not for that reason. She didn’t know how to say it with any finesse, so finally she just blurted, “I’m not pregnant, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Very gently, he said, “If you were pregnant, I would be very upset with some quite famous pharmaceutical companies. I take extensive precautions.”
“Oh. Of course you do.” He wouldn’t take a chance of fathering an illegitimate child of his own. She stared down at the wine. “Do you…like children?”
“Very much. I’d like to have kids someday. When I’m married.” He moved his chair closer, until his knees touched hers. “Laurel.” His voice ached with longing.
Like the fool she was, she responded. She placed her glass on the end table. She took his glass and put it beside hers. Leaning forward, she took his face in her hands, and she kissed him. This was not simple lust. She put her heart into that kiss, showing him how much she admired him, loved him…he accepted each gentle touch with such appreciation, she couldn’t stop. She slanted her head to seal their mouths together. She touched him with her tongue.
His lips opened and he welcomed her inside.
She slid her hands around his neck.
He slipped his fingers up her arms. He slid under her sleeves to massage her shoulders. He moaned slightly, as if the feel of her skin beneath his hands gave him such sensual pleasure, he couldn’t keep it to himself.
Was he really so effected? Did her kiss mean so much to him?
She rubbed his earlobes with her thumbs. She loved touching him; he was gorgeous, sexy, gentle…ruthless, determined, unstoppable…
From upstairs, a sharp noise blasted through the house.
They sprang apart.
“What was that?” she shouted.
Before she had finished the question, Max leaped up. He knocked over his chair, and ran for the door.
She jumped to her feet. “Was that a gunshot?” she yelled after him.
He pulled the library door shut behind him.
“Damn you.” By the time she got it open again, he was pounding up the stairs.
She followed, chasing after him like a demented woman. From inside the Masterson bedroom, she could hear shouts and thumping. She burst through the door to see Max wade into the knot of four struggling men and drive his fist into Constable Frank Shelbourn’s face. Frank’s head jerked back. His knees sagged. He hit the floor.
One of the other men grabbed Max’s arm, and indicated the chips of wood scattered across the floor. “No, mon ami. He shot only the Masterson Bed.”
Max nodded, once, brusquely. Leaning down, he picked Frank up by the shirt front. Frank’s head rolled back. His eyes squinted open. Max said, “You little coward. I’ll kill you if you ever—”
“Max!” she said.
He turned his head, and she saw a facet of Max she had only suspected. His expression was grim, deadly. If left alone, he would have murdered Frank.
“Max,” she said again.
Max looked down into Frank’s bloody face. “Don’t you ever come near her again.” He dropped Frank to the floor and straightened up. His lethal look had vanished as if it never existed. Spreading his hands, he said, “I’m sorry, darling. He shot the Masterson Bed.”
Chapter Eleven
Max saw Dennis and the other Interpol agents off, Frank in tow, and went looking for Laurel.
The library was dark. She wasn’t in her bedroom. And really, where else would she go after an evening like this?
He strolled down the corridor to the room where the Masterson bed sat enthroned in all its regal glory.
Laurel sat on the bed, on top of the comforter, the pillows propped up behind her, her arms crossed behind her head. She still wore her sleeveless zippered sweatshirt and gray sweat pants, and she managed to imbue those pedestrian garments with a lean elegance that tugged at his senses. The lone spotlight that lit the glittering gold cross provided all the illumination in the room, leaving the wooden behemoth—and Laurel’s face—in shadow.
He walked to the side of the bed, slid his hands into his pockets, and tried to gauge her mood. Her face was placid as she stared at the cross, at the array of Masterson portraits on the wall, at everything but him. She was giving nothing away. And, obviously, she wasn’t going to start the conversation.
“How did the Masterson Bed survive this latest assault?” he asked.
“The bullet’s buried in the footboard, but it didn’t really hurt anything.” She sounded almost dispassionate. “This old bed has survived worse.”
“You’re right.” He nodded. “Of course it has.”
She said nothing.
“Fires. Raids. Other smugglers. Other thieves…”
Still nothing.
He ventured, “I’m relieved we caught the thief.”
“Yes.” She paused. A clock ticked on the nightstand, the only sound in the quiet room. “I wish I’d known what was going to happen ahead of time, but I suppose Interpol considered me a threat to international security.”
“I didn’t want you involved.”
“Of course not.” Her tranquil mask slipped. “Why should the primary suspect be involved in clearing her name?”
He tried to reassure her. “You were only the primary suspect for Interpol. I always knew you were innocent.”
“That makes it all better.” She was testy. Definitely testy.
The silence fell again.
He rocked on his heels and watched her. Her black hair tumbled around her shoulders. Her lean, strong body glowed with health. Her skin had the fine grain of pale porcelain. Never mind her informal wear; with her arms behind her head and her ankles crossed, she looked like some ancient queen relaxing on her royal divan. He wanted to be her consort. He would be her king. “I wonder what you think of the things I told you earlier.”
“About you?” She looked him over as if the sight of him irresistibly drew her gaze. Then she looked away, but her breathing quickened. “I thought it was a start.”
“A start?” He’d bared his soul, and she called it a start?
“You can’t sum up thirty-two years in a few terse sentences. I don’t know where you live now, what your hobbies are, if you have pets…”
More? She wanted more? He didn’t want to talk about himself—but if he had to, he would turn it to his advantage. With the decisiveness that marked all his best tactical moves, he said, “Okay. Scoot over.”
“Wha…?”
“In fact, hop off for a second.” He scooped her up and stood her on her feet, then peeled back the comforter and the blankets to expose the white sheets. “Now.” Picking her up, he deposited her back on the bed. He took off his shoes and climbed in beside her.
The whole operation had taken less than a minute, and while she was still formulating her objections and he was arranging the pillows, he said, “When I met you, I was buying antiques fo
r my new house.”
Her jaw sagged. She forgot all about protesting his highhanded treatment. “You have a new house? Where? What is it? When did you buy it?”
“I started negotiations about six months ago. I thought the owners might be willing to sell; it’s an old place, and the upkeep is always hell. The owners made a lot of noise about family and living in the country, but I knew right away they’d give it up. They knew I would pay a premium price, and I’ve seen that voracious look often enough in my career.” He reclined on the bed and sighed with pleasure. The mattress was really quite comfortable. He turned his head and looked straight at her from across the pillow. “So I started shopping for antiques.”
As he spoke, her eyes were narrowing.
She knew. She finally knew.
He continued, “I wanted to find the original antiques that had been in the house—”
She bounced up on her knees. “You’re the new owner of Masterson Manor?”
“Yes, but I could have been hired as the handyman on my own merit.” He sounded quite sure of himself.
“Let me get this straight. You made an offer, you went looking for the old furniture and knick-knacks, you met me.” She ticked off the facts one by one on her fingers. “We spent three days together. You knew I was from Masterson Manor, and you never said a word?”
He couldn’t help but smile.
That did not seem to ease her ire.
Hastily, he said, “You were so charming, so happy in your job and so pleased to be teaching me everything about antiques. I couldn’t tell you I would probably soon own Masterson Manor—”
“And fire me?” Her eyes flashed. “I can see that would have put a crimp in your style.”
He sat up, faced her and leaned forward aggressively. “I have not fired you. I simply wish you to assume a different post in the house.”
She backed up, her brow knit warily. Apparently she decided she didn’t want to broach that subject, for she said, “No wonder Interpol told you that the antiques were on the international market. They were your antiques.”
Once Upon a Pillow Page 26