Home Field Advantage

by Johnson, Janice Kay

  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.

  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?"

  The oval center of beveled glass in the elaborately carved front door allowed a glimpse into the wide hallway laid with a muted rose Oriental rug, while the tall leaded-glass windows on each side of the door scattered the sunlight into glittering shards of color. The door opened easily under Abigail's hand, and she put her key back in her purse.

  "Hello?" she called into the silence. The muffled clang of metal against metal somewhere in the far reaches of the house was the only answer. "Hello," she called again, louder, but there was still no response. Abigail hesitated, wondering whether she should track the man down before she started showing the house, but decided not to. He expected them, after all.

  A wide, graceful staircase with beautifully turned balusters rose from the elegant entry hall with its marble floor and polished oak paneling. Mr. Peterson went one way, drawn by the beveled-glass-fronted bookcases in the library, while Mrs. Peterson peered into the front parlor. "The ceilings must be fourteen feet high!" she exclaimed, impressed. "And the floors are beautiful. Are they oak?"

  "No, maple," Abigail informed her. "The wainscoting and woodwork in here are, too." A magnificent marble fireplace dominated one end of the room, made airy by the extremely high ceiling banded with delicate plaster garlands.

  The front rooms were skimpily furnished; Abigail knew that when he'd inherited it, Ed Phillips had emptied the house of the more valuable furnishings, keeping a few treasures and selling the rest. She had to assume the lovely pieces here belonged to the mysterious renter, who clearly had very good taste and loved antiques.

  It was while Mrs. Peterson was opening and closing cupboard doors in the kitchen that Abigail first became conscious of the smell. Faint but unpleasant, it had been with them since she first opened the front door, she realized now. Neither of the Petersons had commented yet, so Abigail glanced around casually, wondering if the renter needed to take his garbage out. Something was certainly rotting somewhere. But the bag under the sink was empty, and the sink itself and the new Italian tile counters were spotlessly clean. Abigail frowned, and wrenched herself back with an effort to answer a question from Mr. Peterson.

  "Yes, the sink and countertops are new. There is a disposal now, and, of course, a dishwasher."

  The Petersons murmured as they wandered through the kitchen with its glass-fronted maple cabinets, and Abigail lapsed into silence again. She liked to give potential buyers the space to really get a feel for what they were seeing. At the moment, though, there was more to it. She was increasingly bothered by the odor, which she was certain was becoming stronger. Mrs. Peterson's nose twitched a little as she, too, looked into the cupboard under the sink as though involuntarily drawn. Another housewife wanting to throw out the trash, Abigail diagnosed.

  She cleared her throat, forcing a chuckle. "Smells like the renter must have made egg salad sandwiches this morning, doesn't it?"

  They both laughed, too, and seemed to relax. "Is there a bathroom on this floor?" Mr. Peterson asked.

  Abigail didn't like the association, but smiled. "Yes, indeed, and three more upstairs. There's a utility room back this way, too, with a chute from both floors above. I'm sure with children you'll appreciate that!" She led the way, her high heels clicking on the polished wood floor.

  The instant Abigail swung open the bathroom door, she wished she hadn't. A condensed odor that any pulp mill would have been proud to claim wafted out, a thickness in the air so palpable it should have been visible. Gagging, she stumbled back a step, bumping into Mr. Peterson, who was retreating just as quickly. Abigail had just the presence of mind to pull the bathroom door with her, sealing the worst of the sulphurous stench in.

  Her desperate need for fresh air took control, leading her at a trot into the utility room. The Petersons were right on her heels. When Abigail flung open the back door, all three of them leaned out, sucking in the blessed spring air.

  Mr. Peterson regained control of himself first, although his expression was still tinged with green. "Did you get a good look? Was something dead in there?"

  Abigail closed her eyes and took one more fortifying breath of air before mumbling, "Unfortunately, no."

  She'd have almost preferred a dead body in the bathtub to the reality, which was a plumbing problem. An acute one. Her one extremely fleeting look into the bathroom had left her with a vision of the back off the toilet and the floor scattered with wrenches and sundry other tools. Apparently the renter was doing his best to fix the problem. Why the hell hadn't he called her with a warning? However, she was looking forward to finding out what was going on.

  "Did I hear someone?"

  Speak of the devil, Abigail thought grimly,
turning to face the possessor of that very interesting voice. "In here," she answered through a pinched nose.

  Footsteps sounded in the hall, and a moment later the man appeared in the doorway of the utility room, his expression inquiring and a little concerned. Abigail promptly forgot the smell. An odd little shiver ran down her spine, almost as though his fingers had lightly traced it.

  He was entirely too attractive for his own good, or maybe it was for her own good. He wasn't handsome in a pretty way like a male model; his looks were grittier than that, wholly masculine. He must have been six feet tall, with wide shoulders, narrow hips, and the long, supple muscles of a natural athlete. It was hard to miss noticing, dressed as he was in faded jeans that clung to his hips and thighs and an equally faded sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up to expose strong brown forearms. In one long-fingered hand he held a wrench. His dark-blond hair, shortish and pushed untidily back from his forehead, was streaked by the sun. A straight, positively aristocratic nose and beautiful cheekbones were emphasized by the strong grooves that ran to each side of his mouth. And then there were his dark-gray eyes....

  Which, Abigail realized with acute embarrassment, were inspecting her just as thoroughly, and with a very disturbing glint in them. More disconcerting, though, was the small frown that creased his brow. He was the one who looked disconcerted, she suddenly realized, as though for some reason she had taken him by surprise and he didn't like the sensation.

  She did her best to gaze coolly back at him, although she was certain some color had crept into her cheeks. She couldn't remember the last time a man had looked at her with such blatant awareness. Especially one who made her own blood race. The timing was lousy, though. She was a professional woman doing her job, with her clients standing at her elbow, for heaven's sake. And here she was blushing like a teenager and nervously smoothing tendrils of her curly dark hair back from her face.

  Only seconds had passed, although Abigail had the disquieting sensation that she and the man had been staring at each other for minutes instead. Neither of the Petersons had said anything, although when Abigail pulled her gaze away from that dark-gray one, she saw that middle-aged Mrs. Peterson was eyeing him with appreciation as well.

  He broke the silence with that unnervingly sexy voice. "Enjoying the view out back?" The question sounded innocent enough, but he was suppressing a smile that showed in his eyes.

  That was all it took for Abigail to identify one of the reasons for her strong reaction to him. The moment he'd appeared in the doorway there had been an undercurrent, even before his eyes met hers.

  On the surface, his expression had been all it should be, but beneath that facade, she was quite sure he had been hiding amusement.

  Even more exasperating, he appeared impervious to the extremely unpleasant odor that had to be filling his nostrils. Abigail gritted her teeth and smiled through them. "Hello, I'm Abigail McLeod. I believe I spoke to you this morning?"

  "Yes, I'm Nate Taggart." His expression cleared in an instant, leaving her to wonder if she could possibly have imagined the laughter in his eyes, or the spark. The small frown remained, although he continued blandly, "Sorry about the mess. And the..." he cleared his throat, "er, aroma. It's just a little problem, really nothing to worry about, even though it doesn't smell like it."

  "You mean it's not a real plumbing problem?" Abigail’s hopes lifted feeble heads. Please, please, bail me out, she begged silently.

  But, not looking at her, he gestured vaguely with the wrench. "Well, I didn't say that."

  "But the plumbing is all new!" she wailed, suddenly not caring what she sounded like.

  Nate's dark brows rose. "Is it?"

  Abigail sensed the cold look Mr. Peterson gave her, and knew damn well what he was thinking. "What do you mean, is it?" she demanded. "Of course it is! Ed Phillips had every pipe in the house replaced! If you know enough to work on it, can't you tell?"

  He glanced from her to Mr. Peterson in apparent confusion, although Abigail, suspicious, thought that glint of laughter was back in his eyes. He shrugged. "Maybe it is. I guess, if you say so, it must be. Anyway, like I said, it's not a real serious problem. You know what these old houses are like. They just take a little patching up every once in a while. I'm only sorry you got caught in the draft." Apparently enjoying his own pun, he gave a little chuckle. "So go right ahead and look upstairs. I don't think it's as bad up there."

  Abigail tried very hard to sound pleasant. "I'm sorry you didn't give me a call. I could have showed the house another time."

  "Maybe it's just as well," Mr. Peterson interjected brusquely. "I had reservations about the idea of buying an old house, anyway. I think Mr. Taggart here is quite right about them. If you're not handy with a wrench and a hammer, you don't belong in one."

  "Mr. Phillips assured me," Abigail began, cursing how feeble she sounded, "that—"

  The older man interrupted again without apology. "Do you have any other houses to show us?"

  Abigail supposed she should be grateful that he was willing to give her another chance. It wouldn't have been surprising if he had come to the conclusion that she'd been trying to pull a fast one on him. "Yes, several," she said, forcing a smile. "The Heights have some beautiful new homes with spectacular views of the Cascade Mountains."

  Normally she might have gone on with her sales pitch, but this time she decided to reserve it for the drive. She was much too conscious of Nate Taggart standing there listening with bright-eyed interest. All she wanted to do was escape. The sooner she could forget this last half hour, in which she'd managed to combine abject failure and reawakened adolescent hormones, the happier she'd be.

  "Why don't we go on out the back door?" she said to the Petersons. "At least we can enjoy the spring weather."

  They didn't need to be asked twice. A polite nod at Nate Taggart and the older couple was gone. Abigail took only the time for a very faint smile. She didn't trust herself to say anything. Although she wasn't sure why. It wasn't his fault that the plumbing or septic tank had decided to erupt at a particularly inopportune moment.

  Abigail had to step carefully in her heels on the overgrown brick path that meandered around the house. Just before she reached the corner that would put the kitchen wing between her and the utility-room door, Abigail glanced back. She couldn't help herself.

  He was standing on the top step, watching her with an inscrutable gaze. When her eyes met his, he grinned, the grooves in his cheeks deepening. "It was a real pleasure to meet you, Ms. McLeod," he said.

  Abigail forced another smile, then hastily put the building between herself and Nate Taggart. Either the guy was remarkably insensitive to atmosphere, or he was slightly sadistic. At the moment, she leaned toward the sadistic explanation.

  *****

  Nate Taggart propped one shoulder against the wall in the front parlor and crossed his arms. He watched through the small-paned window as the trio walked across the front lawn, the only part of the grounds he'd succeeded in taming, and, with a production, opened the doors of the bright-red Honda and at last climbed in. He could see their mouths moving, and several telling gestures, but couldn't hear what was being said. It was like watching a silent movie. Or being a peeping Tom, lurking in the shadows. His mouth tightened with annoyance at himself as the small car made the circle and departed down the lane. A cloud of dust lingered long after the Honda had disappeared.

  He ought to feel triumphant, or at least pleased with himself. Instead, he felt guilty. It had nothing to do with Ed Phillips. That bastard deserved anything he had coming. The woman, though, Abigail.... He startled himself by saying her name aloud, savoring the old-fashioned sound. He liked her name, and he liked her looks. She was tall, with remarkably fine bones and subtle curves in just the right places. He had a suspicion that the soft, wavy dark hair she'd had pinned up so primly would be perfect to tangle his fingers in. And her eyes were glorious, a foresty green-brown that could turn a man poetic. In fact, for just a minute she'd
stunned him, and that didn't happen often.

  So now he felt guilty for her sake. She'd been upset, and he couldn't blame her. He wished he could explain how important this was to him. Already, though, his defenses were kicking in, and he told himself it wasn't that big a deal. She'd been embarrassed in front of a couple of clients; so what? Any adult would have done that to themselves a few times.

  The odds were that the people she was showing the house to weren't even serious. They were probably Lookie Lou's, out for a fun weekend of seeing how the other half lived. Chances were it would be weeks before Abigail McLeod found any other buyers even interested in seeing this old white elephant. By that time, his own problem might be solved.

  In the meantime, he'd better get to work airing the place out, if he wanted to be able to eat breakfast here in the morning. Forget dinner. Once he had all the windows open, he'd grab a hamburger out, maybe go watch the baseball game at John's house.

  And tomorrow.... He shoved his hands in his pockets and smiled. Tomorrow he just might drop into the real-estate offices of McLeod and James and see if Ms. McLeod was any friendlier than she'd been today. Maybe she'd like to have lunch with him, once she found out he really was a respectable guy. If it turned out she was married, well, with a little effort he could forget those magnificent eyes and long, slender legs.

  He took one more reminiscent look down the drive, on which the dust had long since settled, then sighed and pushed himself away from the wall with his shoulder. Too bad he didn't have a gas mask. Next time—if there was one—he'd go a little easier on the stuff. Or maybe try something different. Yeah, there ought to be an easier way. He grimaced and plunged back into the noisome depths of the house.