by Patti Berg
He didn’t see her slip once, not when he drove toward her, not when he tipped his hat, not when he watched her through his rearview mirror. She was just as self-sufficient as she’d said.
And damn if he didn’t admire her.
oOo
Alex wrapped his legs around the brass arms of the crystal chandelier hanging in the middle of the parlor, leaned against the glass beads suspended at its center, and watched the lady work.
For seven days he’d spied on her. For seven days he’d done a fairly good job buttoning his mouth. Somehow, he’d kept his hands to himself, too. Oh, he’d played a trick or two, but keeping an eye on her was much more fun than haunting had ever been.
She moved kind of nice and graceful around every room, polishing mirrors and wood, sweeping away dirt and cobwebs. She’d even cleaned his favorite chandelier. It sparkled like new, and he knew if he could smell, the scent would remind him of the lemon cleaner Amanda had often used, the sweet scent that had lingered long into the evenings and was often on her hand when he had kissed it goodnight.
Amanda.
Alex sighed deeply and remembered the way his pretty lady had floated from one room to another, polishing this, dusting that. She’d had servants, of course—a dozen or more. But Amanda was never one to sit back and let others do all the work.
She could cook, too. And bake. And he thought back to that church social when Mr. Dalton had auctioned off cakes and pastries the ladies had made. Amanda had tried out a new recipe for berry pie, crimped the edges to look like ruffled lace, and cut two entwined A’s—her first initial and his—into the flaky crust. Alex had doubled every bid, captured his prize, and enjoyed every morsel of pie while Amanda had talked of plans for their future.
They’d have had a great future, too.
If his life hadn’t come to such an abrupt end.
He felt tears forming in his eyes—tears he knew didn’t really exist. But the heartache was real. The loneliness overwhelming.
He didn’t want to watch the lady in his house anymore. Not right now. He swooped out of the chandelier and up the stairs to the attic room, to the window where he liked to stand and look out at the big stone house on the hill that should have been his.
The home he should have shared all his life—with Amanda.
Jon couldn’t remember a longer week. When he was gone, he thought about what he should or shouldn’t do as far as catching Matt was concerned. Thinking of that made him think of Elizabeth, and what he should or shouldn’t do about her, too. He’d damned himself again and again for his actions her first night in town.
He’d been hot about the poaching, and the thought of Sapphire growing and prospering hadn’t set well, either. But he didn’t have any proof she was involved with the first, and as to the second, if she was able to attract a few visitors to Sapphire, what did it matter? They wouldn’t stay long; there was nothing to do in town. On top of that, that old hotel would creak and moan, and if there was a ghost, it would send her guests packing—fast.
But Elizabeth had been there a week and nothing had made her leave. Not his arrogance; not a phantom.
Which proved she was strong enough to stand up to anything—which he liked—and that a ghost didn’t exist, just as the psychiatrist had told him all those years ago.
That meant there was nothing but the animosity he’d built up between himself and Elizabeth to keep him from going back to the hotel and helping her out.
She’d asked for help. She’d need it, too. That place was too big, too old, too run-down for her to do everything on her own. And no one else was going to assist.
He should have told her the truth about why she couldn’t get help. He should have told her that the rumors about a ghost might be just crazy old stories, but they’d long kept the place uninhabited and long kept anyone from venturing into the hotel. He might be the only one with guts enough to go inside—since he’d been there so many times before. But she’d told him to stay away; she didn’t want his help.
That’s why he kept his distance, and when he wasn’t out of town, he sat in his studio and remembered the pretty lady he’d hurt so badly.
The Rubenesque beauty he longed to know.
It was three A.M. Pressing his fingers into clay, he shaped, molded, and smoothed out the facial contours until they matched the vision he’d committed to memory. Her nose was sleek and straight and as regal as her high cheekbones. And her eyes ... he’d captured them just as they’d looked when she’d sat next to him in the cafe, before the arguments had begun. She’d listened to Harry and Andy, yet lowered her eyelids occasionally and given him a sideways glance, as if she didn’t want him to know she was looking. But he knew, and he’d caught her a time or two. That was when the gold flecks in her amber eyes sparkled. He couldn’t capture the brightness of her eyes in clay, but he could re-create that sidelong, secretive glance.
He’d molded her lips earlier, the slight, innocent smile embedded deeply in his mind. Now he traced his fingers over the full lower lip and wondered if the luscious red ones he remembered would be as soft and sweet as he’d imagined. Memories of her lips and her eyes had kept him awake long into the night. When fatigue made it difficult for him to keep his eyes open, he slept fitfully on the chaise in his studio, his legs and shoulders dangling over the edges. The antique satin lounge had been designed for a graceful beauty, not a giant of a man, and each time Jon tossed and turned, he nearly fell to the floor. When he did catch a few winks, Elizabeth Fitzgerald haunted his dreams.
Finally, he gave up his halfhearted attempt at slumber and paced his studio floor, back and forth, back and forth. He thought about her lips and those big amber eyes, envisioned her stretched out on his chaise in those red hooker boots and nothing else, and he watched the lights in the hotel windows, wondering if she was able to sleep peacefully in that empty hotel. And when pacing and thinking wore away at his nerves, he did the thing that had always given him peace—he turned a lifeless mound of clay into a thing of beauty.
Sitting down on a stool, he took a good look at the bust he’d spent the night creating. Wisps of hair softened the woman’s forehead, and he’d swirled her long, heavy braid over one shoulder, draping it across the slight hint of her breasts, the place where his sculpting had stopped. He hadn’t dared go any further. That he’d save for later, when he had a clearer image to commit to memory.
He drew up his shoulders, stretching out the kinks and tension from hours of painstaking work. Tomorrow he’d make the mold, and later he’d pour the bronze. And when the time was right, he’d break open the cast and polish the roughened figure until it glimmered, just the way he imagined Elizabeth’s skin would glow when caught in the firelight, or after a night of making love.
Damn! He was obsessing about a woman who might never again give him the time of day. Long hours awake, too many hours wrapped up in his work, and a strange, overpowering desire to be with Elizabeth Fitzgerald again were taking their toll on his mind.
Maybe he needed a kick in the head.
He opted for coffee instead.
oOo
Elizabeth opened the kitchen screen door, shivering at the annoying squeak of the hinges, and threw out a bucket of dirty water onto the once pristine snow. She’d already discovered she couldn’t dump anything down an inside drain. If she tried, the water wouldn’t disappear; instead, it bubbled and glugged.
She needed to crawl under the sink or get a plumber. The first she didn’t want to do because she hated tight, closed-in spots—a fear she hadn’t rid herself of after the quake. As for the plumber, she’d called everywhere, but no one wanted to drive all the way to Sapphire. That answer didn’t end with plumbers, either. Carpenters, handymen, housekeepers—no one wanted a job. Not with her. Not in her hotel. Not in the middle of nowhere.
Hauling water had become a necessity. Thank God the stove and refrigerator worked, along with the toilet downstairs.
Closing the door, she latched it securely, wondering if it h
ad been partly responsible for some of the thumps she’d heard during the night, thumps that had interrupted her slumber. Those disturbing thuds hadn’t been the only noises to keep her drifting in and out of sleep. The creaking floorboards and wind howling through the windows had pierced through her subconscious over and over, long before the chandelier lights began to flicker and that horribly sour note pinged again and again on the old upright piano in the parlor.
Thank goodness her brother had warned her about the sounds. If he hadn’t told her the truth about the old hotel, she just might have believed the place was haunted.
Which was impossible.
She set the bucket in the kitchen sink and dropped into a kitchen chair. Her body ached from a week of hard work. She’d mopped the floors downstairs, swept away all the cobwebs, dusted each piece of furniture, and moved every antique knickknack to the kitchen so they could be cleaned and polished.
She hadn’t tackled the upstairs yet, except for hauling out a few old mattresses that had become home to critters too numerous to mention and ridding the rooms of spiders and their webs.
She’d dozed in a sleeping bag for seven nights. The old chesterfield was soft and big, and she found she could curl up nice and comfortable amid its high back and arms.
The storekeeper’s son had been kind enough to drop a cord of wood at her back door. She’d bought an ax and filled a box with kindling, and she’d managed to keep a fire going almost every night. She’d long ago given up hope of the furnace keeping her warm. The temperature control knob seemed to have a mind of its own. Every time she turned it up, it would slowly wind its way back down.
A week ago she’d halfway considered giving up on the place. The work was more extensive than she’d imagined, she had no help, and she had no friends.
But Jon Winchester’s arrogant attitude had fired her resolve. Every time she thought of quitting, she remembered his words, that insufferable lopsided grin, those crossed arms. No way would she give up.
She had cried, of course. In the loneliness of these rooms her tears had fallen easily. And then she’d reflected on the good things. She had a home and a future; she was alive. A year ago at this time she’d thought she was going to lose all those things. Better off alive and lonely, she thought. Dead didn’t seem such a great alternative.
The grandfather clock just inside the entry—still running in spite of its age and the filth she’d cleaned from it—gonged eight times to announce the hour, and with each gong she heard a thud. Those noises were going to drive her insane.
It wasn’t until she picked up a cloth to polish a silver candlestick that she realized the thud was a knock. Going to the entry, she saw the shadow of a man—a big man.
Oh, heavens! She could think of much more appropriate words, but she’d promised not to swear. It didn’t matter if the occasion warranted it.
She tapped her foot and counted to ten before opening the door and facing the titan.
“‘Mornin’, Elizabeth.” Jon tipped his hat. One side of his mouth tilted into a poor excuse for a smile, his sapphire eyes sparkled, and her feet and toes had the nerve to grow warm. She didn’t like the effect he had on her. He was abusive and rude. How dare she let his looks interfere with the way she loathed the man!
“You didn’t leave anything behind when you left here a week ago,” she said flatly. “Is there some other reason you’ve dropped by?”
“City council’s not too busy at the moment. You need help, and I aim to do the work.”
“I don’t need your help. I think I made that clear before.”
“You made it clear, but I decided this morning that you hadn’t meant a word of it.” He knelt down, picked up the biggest toolbox she’d ever seen, and grabbed a ladder he must have propped up next to the door.
“I meant every word.”
The grin touched his face. He laughed and would have walked right over her if she hadn’t moved out of his way. She was sure he could do it, too. In fact, she had the feeling Jon Winchester could leap tall buildings in a single bound, swing a sledgehammer with his little finger, and drive a nail with just one blow.
He leaned the ladder against a wall in the parlor and turned around. “I’ve watched you hauling water all week. I take it the plumbing’s not working too well.”
“Oh, there’s water, all right. It looks like sludge, and I imagine that’s what’s stopped up the drains.”
He set the toolbox on the floor and walked toward her. Too close... way too close. She took a step back. He moved another step closer, reached out an ungloved hand, and gently brushed a thumb across the tip of her nose. “Y’know, Elizabeth, you’re just as pretty with dirt on your nose as you are without.”
Her eyes widened.
Red hot heat crept up her neck, and she hoped it had stopped before reaching her cheeks.
“If you want to work, fine. But please save the flattery for someone else.”
He shrugged and she turned away, but his words stuck in her mind. You’re pretty and You’re gorgeous were such commonplace words thrown at the models she’d worked with that they meant little or nothing. They were part of the business, the hype. But You’re just as pretty had sounded so much nicer, so much more sincere, coming from Jon. She liked it—but he didn’t need to know.
She walked to the kitchen, coming to a sudden halt when Jon cupped his hand around her arm. “I owe you an apology.”
His words surprised her, but she didn’t turn around. She waited for more.
“I was rude the other day.”
“Overbearing and judgmental, too,” she added.
“You’re probably right.” His hand slid up her arm and rested on her shoulder. “I’ve got faults, Elizabeth. You’re bound to find even more flaws in my character—if you’re willing to get to know me better.”
She stepped forward, away from the grip of his hand. She thought about turning around, she thought about giving him some kind of response, but instead she continued into the kitchen. Behind her she could hear Jon’s boots on the hardwood floor. “You could start with the plumbing,” she said.
“I could,” he said, circling Elizabeth until he stood right in front of her. He leaned against the counter, and slowly she looked into his eyes. “Am I going to be just the hired help,” he asked, “or will you give me a chance to make up for an unfortunate case of bad manners?”
Her smile came too easily. She wanted to hold it back, but she couldn’t.
“Does that smile mean I’m forgiven?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Fix the plumbing for free and I’ll consider it.”
He laughed. “Ever the businesswoman, right?”
“Successful businesswoman,” she corrected him. “I learned a long time ago how to deal with stubborn, egotistical men. That helped me succeed.”
“That’s part of why I like you.”
“Because I’m successful?”
“No, because you think you know how to deal with me.”
“You’ve already informed me that a two-by-four doesn’t work. Guess I’ll just have to stick with words.” She turned away from his grin and ran a hand over the old and cracked linoleum countertop.
“This needs to be replaced,” she said, effectively changing the subject, “and the wallpaper needs to be stripped in every room. My first priority, though, is the plumbing. I’d like it to be your first priority, too.”
He laughed. “Are you always this dictatorial with your hired help?”
She tilted her head and smiled. “It didn’t endear me to anyone, but it got the job done.”
“Good thing I decided I liked you long before I decided to be your slave.”
And he did like her. He liked her spunk, he liked her drive. He liked the dirt on her nose and the wisps of ebony hair that had fallen out of her braid and encircled her face like a halo. But she was no angel. Hell, no! He’d dated angels, even been in love with an angel once—and he’d been bored to tears.
There was nothing the le
ast bit dull about Elizabeth Fitzgerald.
“Before I shove my head under the sink, why don’t you give me a tour of this place?” he said. “Haven’t been in here since I was a kid.”
“I doubt it’s changed.”
“A little boy’s memories aren’t always the same as a man’s. Things seemed immense back then... of course, I’ve grown a bit since I was a kid.”
Slowly her eyes traced the length of his six-foot-six frame from head to toe, and he just stood there and let her peruse him. A hint of a smile touched her face, tinting her cheeks a pale shade of pink against her porcelain skin. He thought she might comment on his size. Instead, she returned to talk of the hotel. “I guess there’s time to show you around. The upstairs, at least. Once you finish the plumbing down here, maybe you can figure out how to add a few bathrooms.”
“You have high hopes for my plumbing skills, don’t you?”
“I would imagine a man like you thinks he can do anything,” she fired back, and he liked the pretty grin that accompanied the words.
“I imagine I could, with the right incentive.”
She laughed, and he sensed some of her animosity draining away. “Come on,” she said, opening a narrow kitchen door that led to a small landing with steps going up and another flight leading to the basement. “The furnace is downstairs. Maybe you can check it out in the next few days. The fire’s nice, but it doesn’t warm the entire place.”
She led the way to the rooms above and Jon followed closely behind. ‘There are two floors above us and the attic, with four bedrooms on each floor,” she said, “far more than I’ll need. What I’d like to do is put in four suites, two on each floor. One for me, the others for guests.”
Jon listened to her talk as he followed her up the stairs, so similar to the spiral stairway leading from his kitchen to his studio. It was close, quiet, and dark. He could smell dust mixed with the light scent of Elizabeth’s perfume. And then an odd sensation he remembered from his childhood caught hold of him: he felt as though they were being followed, that each step he took was matched by another step—that wasn’t Elizabeth’s.