House of Strangers (Harlequin Super Romance)

by McSparren, Carolyn

  This morning he sought Buddy out for a progress report.

  “The kitchen, Buddy? When can I start cooking?”

  “You cook?”

  “Would I have bought that steel restaurant stove otherwise?”

  “Guess not. Since you picked a standard cabinet for the base cabinets and the island, they could be delivered as soon as ten days from now. We install ’em, cut and install the granite countertops, hang the light fixtures, get your other appliances delivered and hooked up, and you ought to have a kitchen. Not much left to be done.”

  Paul looked for the joke, but Buddy seemed perfectly serious.

  “We’ve already sent that old beat-up gas stove to the dump and capped the gas line into the kitchen until the new stove goes in. Gas is turned off outside, but if somebody was to hit it a good lick with a ladder passing by, then the cap came off that gas line in the kitchen, might be enough gas seep in to blow us all to kingdom come. I’ve put a sign on it inside and out. Don’t you go messing around with it.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Good. When you gonna let me tear down that old studio so I can start building you a garage?”

  Paul hadn’t decided whether he wanted the studio demolished. His father had spent so much time there that it seemed to be imbued with the best part of his spirit. Maybe he should restore it and move it to the corner of the property to be refitted as a guest house. He’d have to ask Ann her opinion on whether it could be saved.

  He’d had only fleeting encounters with her for more than a week. Every time he found her, she pleaded work and sent him away. He wasn’t certain what he’d done wrong, but obviously something had put her off.

  He even stopped going to the café for lunch. He still had breakfast there every morning and was finally giving and receiving nods of recognition from the regulars. A couple of the old farmers even gave him a grudging “’mornin’” when they passed. Bernice stuck a newspaper in his hand the minute he sat down. She knew how he liked his coffee. It wasn’t exactly acceptance, but it was a start.

  This morning as he finished his second cup of coffee, a shadow cut across his paper. He looked up to see Trey Delaney standing over him, hand outstretched, broad grin on his face. “Hey, man. How you doin’?”

  Paul half rose and shook Trey’s hand. “Please, join me,” he said. Always be cordial to one’s enemy—especially when you want information from him.

  “Sure. Hey, Bernice, I need some coffee and a big ol’ o.j.” He turned guileless blue eyes to Paul. “Been meanin’ to see how y’all are doing over at the house. Sue-sue wants to see it, too.”

  “Certainly. Anytime. The workmen are there all day, and I’m usually home from the time they leave.”

  “Got a telephone yet?”

  “Still using my cell phone. Actually, I’m glad you’re here,” Paul said. “I’ve been planning to come over to your office. I’d like to track down some of the original light fixtures from the house, especially the big chandelier that used to hang in the front hall. If I can find out who bought them—and if I can afford to—I’d like to try to buy them back.”

  “Sure. I got the records in my office.” Bernice set his coffee and orange juice in front of him. “Thanks, darlin’,” Trey said with easy familiarity. The sort of familiarity Paul would never attain if he lived in Rossiter forty years.

  Not that he planned to. These people were charming and friendly, but he’d heard enough Y’all come see us nows to recognize an empty invitation when he heard one. Tante Helaine and Uncle Charlie had very rarely invited anyone to their apartment, but when they had, they’d meant it.

  “When may I come see the list?”

  “Shoot, how about soon as I have my coffee? I’m headed over that way, anyhow.” Trey tossed back his orange juice and swilled coffee that would have taken the roof of Paul’s mouth off.

  Over Trey’s protestations, Paul paid both their checks and followed him across the square, past the bear chained to the column and into Trey’s office. It held two beat-up old wooden desks, four beat-up chairs, a bank of file cabinets, a pair of enormous computers, a large laser printer, a fax machine-copier, a telephone and a small refrigerator. Except for the equipment, the place looked as though nothing had changed since the first Paul Delaney had used it. “Got that list somewhere,” Trey said. “Sit down. Want a drink?”

  Since it was barely nine o’clock in the morning, Paul decided Trey wasn’t offering him liquor. “No, thank you.”

  “Come on, it’s hot. Have a cola. I’m having one.” Even as he asked, Trey reached into the top drawer of one of the file cabinets, pulled out a couple of glasses, filled them with ice from the small refrigerator, poured soda into both and handed one to Paul. “Here’s to you and your house.” He drained half his drink, set it down on top of the second cabinet and began to rummage.

  Paul did not want a soft drink this early, either, but knew it was impolite to turn it down. He took a sip and set the glass on the scarred desk. His wouldn’t be the first ring from a wet glass. The desktop was covered with dark circles and cigar burns.

  “Shoot,” Trey said. “Probably misfiled the darned thing. Tell you what. I’ll crank up the old computer, run you out another list and bring it over to the house sometime today. How’s that?”

  “I hate to put you to that trouble. It’s not urgent.”

  “No trouble. Been planning to visit, anyway. See how my little kissin’ cousin’s doing on that old woodwork.”

  “Kissing cousin?”

  “Ann Corrigan. She’s my second cousin. That’s more than far enough away to kiss.” He laughed. “Glad that little lady’s come home. She had a real bad marriage.” His face turned serious. “Wouldn’t want to see her hurt again.”

  A warning. Definitely a warning. Paul nodded, said his goodbyes and started to leave when he stopped and turned back. “This may be rude, but I have to ask. What’s with the bear?”

  “What? Oh, ol’ Smokey Joe? Long story. You come on out to the house one night next week and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  A real invitation or one of those Y’all come things?

  “How’s Wednesday night sound? Unless Sue-sue’s promised to be somewhere else, we’d love to have you come for dinner. Bring Ann, why don’t you? Sue-sue hasn’t seen nearly enough of her since she’s been home.”

  “I’ll ask her.”

  “You can let me know when I bring that printout.”

  This time Paul went out and closed the door behind him.

  So he was invited to dinner. And with Ann. He wasn’t certain how he felt about dining at his half brother’s table.

  HE FOUND ANN coming out of the living room. The newly stripped and refinished pocket doors to the music room beyond were shut. He’d never seen them shut. The walnut and golden oak gleamed in the morning sunshine pouring through the curtainless front windows.

  “Good, I was hoping you’d show up,” Ann said. She sounded serious.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Not exactly. Close your eyes and give me your hand.”

  Her hand felt small and warm nestled in his. That warmth traveled up his body as she led him toward the salon doors. Even with his eyes closed he knew that was where they were going.

  “Don’t look,” she said, and let go of his hand. He heard the doors slide back almost noiselessly, then her hand slipped back into his. “This way.” She led him forward a few steps, then turned him. “Okay. Open your eyes.”

  She’d finished restoring the overmantel. The golden oak figures now stood out as fresh as the day they were carved. Riders and horses galloped, hounds bayed, stags bolted, and all through fields of grain and under trees tossed by the wind.

  She was staring at him with a broad grin on her face. “Well?” she said.

  “It’s incredible. How did you know that under all that paint and varnish you’d find this?”

  “I knew it was good. I had no idea how good. There were so many coats of old varnish
and dirt embedded in it that it might as well have been flat carving.” She reached out and caressed one of the stags. “When I find something like this…God, I love my job.”

  “Is this where I acknowledge you’re a genius?”

  “You bet.”

  “You’re a genius. You deserve a reward.” He swept her into his arms and off her feet. He kissed her hard and pressed her against his body. For an instant she struggled, then she coiled her arms around his neck, fitted herself against him and kissed him back.

  It was some kiss, at least from his standpoint. She did things with her tongue that left him breathless. The kiss deepened until he didn’t think it could go any deeper. He was hard as a rock against her and could feel her nipples under the thin T-shirt. If he’d been upstairs and close to his bed, he’d have tumbled them both into it without breaking the contact between them. She tasted sweet and as wild as blackberries in summertime.

  “Oops. Sorry.” Paul heard the pocket doors sliding closed.

  Ann broke the kiss. “Oh, Lord, I hope that wasn’t Buddy.”

  He held on to her. “You’re a grown woman.”

  “Tell that to my father.” She pushed away from him and smoothed her shirt down. “He knows I was married for six years. He just doesn’t want to consider what that means.”

  “Six years?”

  “I’m not a fast learner. And I prefer the devil I know to the devil I don’t know. I warned you I don’t take risks.”

  Ouch. He looked back at the overmantel. “You may not be a fast learner, but I’d say you’re a good one, at least where your craft is concerned.”

  “What craft would that be?” She grinned at him. “Oh, you mean the carving.”

  He arched an eyebrow at her. “Right. The carving. Although you do show some promise in that other craft. With practice you might turn into a real expert. I’d be happy to tutor you privately.”

  “Thanks, but I prefer to pick the professors I study under—uh… Back to our previous conversation, please. The man who carved that mantelpiece was a genius. I’m just the cleanup crew.”

  “Any idea who he was?”

  “None. I know the Delaney who built the house imported some things from Germany, and this looks like German carving. Beyond that, nada.”

  He looked over her shoulder. “And the bookshelves. How the hell did you get all this done so quickly?”

  “I word hard.”

  “Yes, you do, and you deserve a treat. How about I drive you into town, we have lunch and then I take you flying? The weather’s starting to clear.”

  “That means Hack will have you up in the air dusting.”

  “Not today he won’t. So you’ll come flying with me?”

  “No way.”

  “Why not?”

  “I hate flying. It’s risky and it scares me. I prefer two-dimensional traveling—back and forth and sideways. I don’t do up and down.”

  “You won’t be scared with me. I’m an ace.”

  “You’re an unknown quantity. You know about white-knuckle flyers? I am more of the white-elbow variety.”

  “Then at least have lunch with me. I still owe you a meal, remember. Give Dante an afternoon of sleeping on your sofa and come with me.”

  “Sorry. Give me a rain check.”

  “If it’s raining we can’t go flying.”

  She said over her shoulder, “My point exactly.”

  ACROSS THE STREET Trey called his mother. “Mama? I got a glass he’s been drinking out of. Really good set of fingerprints on it. That’s why you want it, isn’t it? Who is he?”

  “Excellent. Put it very carefully into a brown-paper envelope without smearing his prints. Use a paper towel. Then bring it to me.”

  “Does this mean I don’t have to steal his toothbrush?”

  “Steal it, Trey. Just in case this isn’t enough.”

  “Mama, I feel like a total idiot doing this stuff.”

  “It may save us all in the long run. Now bring me that glass.”

  AT LUNCH Trey checked the parking lot behind the mansion. Paul’s car wasn’t there. Good. After he ate he strolled over to the house. Ann volunteered to take him around.

  He had to admit he was impressed. He’d never seen the house in its glory days, but he felt some strong pangs of jealousy that this stranger, this outsider, should be the one to resurrect his family’s home.

  Sue-sue wouldn’t like it one bit. She’d turned the house down flat after Aunt Addy died and had made Trey put it on the market immediately. But Sue-sue tended to want what other people had. When Sue-sue was angry, she made Trey’s life hell. He could deal with the no-sex part, but having to keep her from yelling at the kids wore him out.

  He was afraid he wouldn’t be able to ditch Ann long enough to go upstairs to steal Paul’s toothbrush, but just as they started up the front staircase, Buddy called her from the kitchen.

  “I know my way around,” Trey said. “You go on. You don’t have to play tour guide.”

  “Okay, but watch your step.”

  He ran up the stairs. He didn’t know which bathroom Paul was using. The master bathroom was a mess. Unusable. The middle bathroom hadn’t been touched, but showed no signs it had been used, either.

  He opened the door to the back bathroom. Jackpot. Paul’s toothbrush hung on an antique rack beside the equally antique medicine chest. He checked for Ann or workmen, then wrapped a paper towel around his hand, snatched the damp toothbrush and stuck it in his pocket.

  He opened the door to the back bedroom. The suitcase beside the bed showed just how primitively Paul was camping out. He might be able to search Paul’s luggage, after all, but as he started across the room, he heard voices coming up the stairwell. He barely had time to back out, shut the door and meet Ann and one of the crew coming up the stairs.

  “You see everything?” she asked.

  He knew his face looked guilty. “Wonderful, wonderful. Can’t wait to see it all done. Well, gotta go.” He pushed past her and raced out of the house and to his truck in the square. He called his mother from his cell phone. “Got it, Mama. I’ll bring it to you right this minute.”

  SINCE THE RAIN had changed its mind again and decided to continue, and since he couldn’t persuade Ann to come with him to lunch in town, Paul spent the afternoon in the library morgue. He found the story about his father’s wedding to Karen Bingham. He looked further back without finding an announcement of their engagement. In a socially prominent family like the Delaneys, he would have expected a story on an engagement party and a formal photo of the bride-to-be.

  Four bridesmaids and a champagne brunch at the Delaney mansion didn’t exactly constitute a shotgun wedding, but it wasn’t the big shindig he’d have expected of the Delaneys. He noted that Karen Bingham had been given away by her grandfather, because Mrs. Bingham was widowed. At the end of the story the reporter slipped in a statement that the combination of the Bingham and Delaney holdings would eventually make the young Delaneys the largest landowners in the county.

  He checked the byline at the head of the story. Wilda Mae Hepworth had written it. He remembered seeing the name somewhere recently. He went to the desk and asked the librarian, Vivian, if he could look at her copy of the county paper.

  He was right. The byline was still at the head of the society news column. Either Wilda Mae had started reporting when she was in diapers or she was still writing in her dotage.

  “Vivian,” he asked, “do you know this Wilda Mae Hepworth?”

  Vivian giggled. She was given to giggling and turning bright red every time he spoke to her. “Know her? She’s my great-aunt on my daddy’s side. I’ve known her all my life.”

  “And she’s still writing this column?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Do you think I could talk to her, off the record, that is?”

  “I don’t see why not. Aunt Wilda Mae loves to talk. There’s precious little about this county she doesn’t know.”

  “Would you mind call
ing her for me?”

  “When would you like to see her?”

  “Does she live in Somerville?”

  “About four miles out toward the interstate.”

  “Then how about now?” He looked at his watch. It was four o’clock.

  “Okay.” Vivian’s pointed little face was avidly curious, but she didn’t ask questions. She went into her small office and came out smiling a few minutes later. “She says come ahead. She’ll brew some fresh sweet tea. Let me give you directions.”

  Twenty minutes later Paul pulled into the gravel driveway of a white cottage that had been well maintained and probably predated his house by fifty years. The garden would be a riot of color in a month or so. At the moment there were butter pats of jonquils everywhere and a carpet of purple hyacinths.

  He’d expected a fragile little lady in a lace collar. Wilda Mae, however, outweighed him by at least fifty pounds, was nearly as tall as he and had apparently put on eye shadow and lipstick just before he arrived. Her white hair was short and crinkly and he could see pink scalp beneath. She leaned slightly on a twisted blackthorn cane with a silver fox head as big as his fist.

  After he had introduced himself and gone through all the formalities and given the information he knew would be required of him, his hostess, who sat stiffly in a large Victorian velvet armchair, asked, “So why do you want the dirt on the Delaneys?”

  He blinked. She had a voice as big as the rest of her. He hoped there was no one else in the house.

  “Don’t worry. I live by myself. Put three husbands in the ground and don’t plan to follow them in any time soon.” She paused. “Drink your tea.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I asked you a question.”

  “Can this be off the record?” he said.

  “Unless you’re planning to commit a crime, then I have to report it. Otherwise, I never tell anybody anything.”

  “I don’t exactly want the dirt on the Delaneys, but I would like some information.”