by Sandra Brown
tour of the lower floor.
Of course, this was all a charade. She wasn't going to accept a contract on the
house from James Paden if he trebled her asking price. It almost seemed profane
for him to be moving through the rooms. She shuddered to think of him and his
rowdy friends storming through her house the way they had the movie theater on
Saturday nights, causing a ruckus until the manager threw them out.
That would only happen over her dead body.
"This is Father's office," she said, leading him into a spacious, paneled room at the
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back of the house. It was furnished in leather and heavy oak and still smelled like
pipe tobacco. A bear rug sprawled on the floor in front of the fireplace, and several
hunting trophies mutely snarled at them from above the mantel. An antique
billiard table with old-fashioned leather pouches dominated the center of the
room.
"He played pool?" James asked.
"By the hour," she said, laughing at fond memories.
"So that's the difference."
Surprised by his sneering tone, she turned. "The difference?"
"Between a gentleman and a ne'er-do-well. If you hang out in the pool hall you're
labeled trash, but if you shoot billiards by the hour in your own house, you're a
gentleman." He cast another bitter glance at the pool table, then at her, and said
harshly, "Let's go upstairs."
She didn't like the underlying sinister tone of his voice. It was bad enough to lead
a man, especially a man with James Paden's reputation, up the stairs toward the
bedrooms of an otherwise empty house. But when his "Let's go upstairs" carried
with it the veiled threat that once there he might exact punishment from her for
all the disparagement he had suffered, the sinking sensation in the pit of her
stomach intensified.
However, by the time they reached the second floor, his stern expression had
relaxed. Laura showed him the master suite first, thinking that might appease
him. But when they left it, he merely stood in the hallway, looking at her
inquiringly, until she showed him the other two bedrooms, which shared a
bathroom. She then made a beeline for the top of the stairs. "Now I'll show you—"
"What's that?"
Without even turning, she knew what he was referring to. Sure enough, he was
indicating the corner bedroom. "That's my bedroom," she answered reluctantly.
"May I see it?"
"Is it necessary?"
"I think it is."
Why wasn't Mrs. Hightower here doing her job, earning her six-percent
commission? Laura berated herself for agreeing to show him around without the
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realtor. The woman's effusiveness was irritating, but her presence sanctioned
James Paden's being under her roof asking to see her bedroom.
"I'm sure that if you make a serious offer, Mrs. Hightower will schedule—"
"But I'm here now."
He slid his hands deep into his pockets, cocked his head to one side, and looked
for all the world as if he would stand there until Doomsday or until he got his way,
whichever came first. Such insolence was insufferable, but, short of engaging in an
argument that in the long run would only postpone his leaving, Laura conceded
the point.
"All right." Making no effort to mask her hostility, she led him back down the hall
and stepped aside to let him pass through the door. His eyes immediately homed
in on the bed, which she hadn't had the energy to make when she first got up. The
pillow bore the distinct impression of her head. The pastel sheets were rumpled.
The bed looked comfy and inviting. It looked wanton.
He walked straight to it and sat down. He ran his hands over the sheet beneath
him. "I always wondered what Laura Nolan's bed looked like."
She was tempted to quip something like, "If I weren't flat broke, you'd die
wondering," but she didn't. Instead she said, "I'm sorry it's not made. I didn't have
time this morning."
"That's okay. I prefer my beds unmade."
She swallowed, pushing down the thrill she experienced at seeing his hands
caressing her bed sheets.
After giving her a look that fairly steamed, he left the bed and crossed to her
dressing table. He took inventory of her perfume atomizers, the string of pearls
she had forgotten to replace in its velvet box, her collection of antique hatpins,
and the crystal ring box her grandmother had given her.
The chaise longue in the corner of the room caught his eye. He looked at it for a
long moment, before glancing back at her with a hint of a smile. She got the
feeling that he was thinking of something extremely dirty.
He went to the wide windows and gazed out for a long time, his back to her. Her
bedroom overlooked the sweeping backyard of the property, the fishing pier, the
boathouse, and the waters of St. Gregory's Sound beyond. "Nice view."
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"I've always loved it."
"Has this always been your bedroom?"
"Except for the four years when I went to college."
He pivoted on his heels. "This is where you slept when I first knew you?"
She nodded.
"You always looked so … perfect. Untouchable. Like a doll. This is like a doll's
room." He glanced at the bed again. "Do you always sleep alone?"
Her chin went up a fraction. "None of your business."
He grinned. "I meant no kitty cat, no puppy dog, no teddy bear?"
"No," she said stiffly, crossing her arms over her middle, then wishing she hadn't
because the gesture only drew his gaze down to her breasts.
"I like this room. It's cozy. Intimate." She held her ground, even though her
cheeks were flaming and her heart was pounding. His words sounded innocent
enough, but she knew they were calculated to sound suggestive. She wanted to run
from the room, to cover her breasts, which were betraying her by responding to
the evocative mood he was creating. "Is that the bathroom?"
"Yes."
He went to the partially opened door and stepped inside. Laura didn't dare follow
him in. Standing in her bedroom with him had been bad enough. She wouldn't
subject herself to further embarrassment.
A few moments later, he came out. "These were hanging on the shower curtain
rod. They're dry."
Her face went white with dismay to see a pair of her stockings, a bra, and a pair of
panties lying in the palm of his extended hand. "Th—thank you," she said
ludicrously, reaching for the frilly undergarments. They had known his touch. The
silk was still warm from his hand. She dropped the lingerie onto a chair as though
it were condemning evidence of some sordid crime.
"Well, I think that's all for now," he said.
She followed him from the room, still too shocked and embarrassed to speak,
hardly able to move. He waited for her to catch up with him at the bott
om of the
stairs, then let her escort him to the front door. "You'll be hearing from me or
Mrs. Hightower."
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"All right."
Other than to make him angry, it would serve no purpose at this point to tell him
that she wouldn't accept his offer on the house no matter how attractive it was.
Actually, she doubted that he was seriously considering buying the estate. Why
would a man of his means, a free-spirited swinger like him, want to saddle himself
with the responsibility of owning an historical house?
His reason for wanting to see the house in the first place was probably nothing
more than perverse curiosity. He'd never been invited into it before. Now, because
he had money and celebrity, he could come and go as he pleased without feeling
the bite of class restriction. No doubt he enjoyed riding roughshod over
everybody, since the tables were turned. Because he had never been invited to
Indigo Place, he had come to rub her nose in his success.
Thinking along those lines, Laura said snidely, "I hope you got what you came
here for."
She regretted the words the moment they left her mouth, particularly when he
halted on his way out the door and slowly turned around. He no longer looked like
a thirty-year-old millionaire. He was eighteen again, wild and undisciplined and
dangerous. A rebellious lock of hair had fallen over his brow. That sardonic curl of
his lips, which passed for a smile, was as familiar to her now as it had been so long
ago on the pages of the high school yearbook.
He closed the door he had just opened and said, "Not quite."
With one lithe movement he grasped her upper arms, turned her around, and
pressed her against the door. Splaying his hands wide on either side of her head,
he leaned down and forward, at the same time wedging her thighs apart with his
knee.
His mouth swooped down on hers. She dodged it, slinging her head from side to
side. "No. No!"
But he was relentless and persistent and, though he wasn't even using his hands,
the moment his mouth captured hers in a fiercely hot, open-mouthed kiss, she
was defeated. He applied just the right amount of suction. His tongue exercised
the perfect blend of command and caress. The very heat of his kiss melted her last
gasp of resistance.
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It was one of those ravenous kisses she thought only existed in movies. He was
hungry, and feasted on her mouth as if it were a rich, delicious dessert. He came
back for sample after sample, tasting her. Through it all, his thigh was gently
sawing between hers.
When at last he lifted his head, her lips were left rosy and dewy, her eyes limpid,
her body warm and malleable. Her breasts rose and fell quickly. He lowered his
gaze to them, brazenly touched the raised center of one, and made it harder with
three lazy circles of his thumb. "Oh, baby, you're good," he murmured. Then he
groaned and kissed her again.
Laura was humiliated by the liberty he took with her, even more so by her
acquiescence to it. She succeeded in working herself free and shoved him away.
Breathlessly she faced him, her whole body rigid with rage. "Why did you do that?"
She had been shaken to the core, but he seemed merely amused by her anger. "I
just thought you needed a good kissing."
Before she could offer a suitably scathing comeback, he was gone.
* * *
"I don't understand, Laura."
Laura, rubbing her forehead in the vain hope of relieving her pounding headache,
held the telephone receiver to her ear. She had dreaded getting this call from Mrs.
Hightower. It was proving to be as difficult as she had imagined.
"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but the contract isn't acceptable." She could imagine
the real estate agent on the other end of the line slowly counting to ten.
"But he's offering exactly what you're asking!" she exclaimed. "Down to the last
decimal point."
"I know, I know," Laura said, gnawing her lower lip. "It's not the money."
"Have you had second thoughts about selling?"
"Of course not." The realtor's question was academic, because she knew the
necessity behind the sale of 22 Indigo Place.
"Well, then?"
Laura squirmed in her chair. "It's not the money. It's the buyer," she said softly.
"I see."
"I don't think you do, Mrs. Hightower. Please don't think I'm a snob. You must
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understand that this house has always belonged to my family. To me it's not just a
piece of property. In terms of what it means to me, its value can't be measured in
dollars and cents. A lot of responsibility goes with owning an estate like this. I
want to make certain that the person who buys it takes that into account."
"I doubt Mr. Paden would be a neglectful owner. He has the reputation of being
an astute businessman."
And a ladies' man, Laura thought bitterly. She was still disgusted with herself for
what had happened earlier that day. How could she have stood there and let him
use her like that?
She had been several classes behind James in school, but she and every other girl
in Gregory High School had known about James Paden's kissing talents. Girls
who succumbed to it were wont to brag. They were secretly envied, but forever
branded "bad," and were given wide berth by any girl who valued her reputation.
So what did that make Laura Nolan now? She hadn't only succumbed, she had
participated.
"I'm not talking about business acumen, "she snapped, taking out her impatience
with herself on the realtor. In a much more conciliatory tone she said, "I'm talking
about feelings. Attachments. A sense of permanence. I'm sorry, Mrs. Hightower,
but I don't think James Paden is the buyer I want to sell to."
"I was under the impression you were desperate," she said frostily.
"I am," Laura returned in just as chilly a voice. "But if you don't respect the
heritage of the property as I do, there are other—"
"I apologize," Mrs. Hightower rushed to say. "Of course I understand your
sentimental attachment to the house. It's just unfortunate at this point that we
have to be so discriminating. What am I supposed to tell Mr. Paden?"
"Tell him that I said no to his offer."
"He's not an easy man to say no to."
That was an understatement. "Do your best."
"Very well," Mrs. Hightower said dispiritedly.
Laura regretted the difficulty she was causing the realtor, but felt strongly about
her conviction. James Paden would never have her house if she could help it.
But as Mrs. Hightower predicted, he didn't take Laura's refusal lying down. The
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realtor called
back twice that same afternoon with amendments to the original
contract. Though James had sweetened the pot considerably both times, Laura
stubbornly refused the offers. Finally, weary of his doggedness and the realtor's
subtle reproach, she left the house to keep from answering the telephone again.
It was Friday afternoon, and the streets of town were thronged with pre-weekend
shoppers, workers chasing to the bank to have their paychecks cashed, and young
people getting a head start on "cruising the main drag," which was one of the
prime forms of recreation in a town as small as Gregory.
Thanks to a sultry breeze off the sound, the air was humid. Laura dreaded the
thought of eating anything hot for dinner, so she stopped at a fresh-produce stand
to pick up the makings of a fruit salad.
She was selecting the most succulent of Georgia peaches when a car slid to a stop
close behind her. The passenger door swung open, nearly catching her on the
backs of her calves. She turned around and met James Paden's brooding stare as
he leaned out the car door.
"Get in."
Chapter 3
She ignored him, turning her back.
"I said to get in."
She continued to give the peaches her undivided attention.
"I don't mind making scenes, Laura, as I'm sure you know. But I don't think you'd
like it much if I caught you by the hair and hauled you in. Now, unless you want to
give the good folks of Gregory something juicy to discuss over supper tonight,
you'd better get your sweet tush in this damn car."
His voice was soft and low, but carried with it a very real threat that Laura
thought she'd be wise to heed. So far, no one had noticed that he was speaking to
her, but he could change that in an instant. On top of all her other problems, the
last thing she needed was to have her name linked to his. He might be wealthier,
but he was still disreputable. The people of Gregory had long memories.
In his present frame of mind, it would be less chancy to go with him while he
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remained undetected than it would be to risk his carrying out his threat and make
a scene.
"I'll be back later, Mr. Potee," Laura called to the proprietor of the produce
market. He was busy with another customer and only gave her a cursory nod.