All Through The House

by Janice Kay Johnson

  "Watch me, Mommy," Kate declared. She jumped and slid a whole foot, secured by Nate's strong grip.

  All the while he hadn't released Abigail. The long, hard line of his thigh and hip were imprinted on hers. She'd instinctively braced herself against his chest, and under her palm his heart beat in a slow, powerful rhythm. When Kate looked inquiringly up at her mother, Abigail struggled loose.

  Her cheeks were hot despite the cold. Flustered, she declared childishly, "If Kate can do it, so can I!"

  Nate's devilish gaze met hers. He held out his hand again. "Care for a safety line?"

  She brushed dark curls back from her face. "So long as it doesn't trip me."

  This time his hand felt both warm and secure. The three of them ran and slipped, falling onto the shockingly cold snow a couple of times. Laughing, wet, at last they stepped off the ice into the heat.

  "Onward and upward," Nate declared.

  They half scrambled up a rocky ridge, following faint, scattered trails and the sound of voices. Abigail had to stop Kate from picking the wildflowers, small red columbines, and purple larkspur. After one last glance at Big Four above, waterfalls tumbling hundreds of feet off its face, they topped the ridge and saw the caves.

  Ice bridges arched above gravelly streams. The underside of the snow field had melted, leaving the top intact and forming caves that reached back beneath the ice. The first one was broad, several feet higher than Nate. The depths were shadowy, but they could see light toward the rear.

  Signs forbade entrance to the caves, which could collapse, especially at this time of year with ice melting. Even where they stood outside, the air was considerably colder than it had been above on the snow field. Icy drips from the ceiling made the rocks slick. The cave seemed to muffle all sound, insulated as it was by the ancient ice. They could just see the end, where sunlight filtered strangely through the ice and through openings to the sky. Water trickled, the sound like tiny bells.

  Abigail shivered with a combination of joy and cold. This space beneath the ice was like a cathedral made by God alone, without man's hand. She saw a look of reverence on Nate's face, too. When his eyes met hers, they shared a glance of complete understanding.

  "Mommy, I'm scared," Kate said suddenly.

  "We'll leave now, pumpkin," Abigail said. Their voices echoed richly.

  "Here we go," Nate agreed.

  After a moment, Kate wriggled to get down. "I want to walk," she said. They could just see other children climbing a huge rock outside the entrance. Safely on the gravelly bank of the stream, Kate skipped in the sunlight to join them.

  Still in the shadow of the cold cave, Nate stopped Abigail with a hand on her arm. Her pulse jumped, then quivered, and she looked up at the tall man. His hair was wet, darker than usual, and droplets clung to his jaw. The curve of his mouth was tender, his eyes gentle. But the hand that pulled her closer was purposeful, not to be denied.

  And though his mouth was still tender when it touched hers, deeper hunger leaped between them. Abigail felt herself melting as surely as the ice, the force of his need awakening hers. She was scared, too, but exhilarated.

  When he lifted his head and smiled, she saw the arrogance and wondered how long she could deny him. And whether she wanted to.

  *****

  Nate dropped Abigail and her daughter off at their house. He kissed her again, lightly, at the door. "I'll see you soon," he promised, and she smiled, her mouth soft and her eyes forgiving.

  Shaken, he stepped back a pace, only distantly noticing the puzzlement on her face. Forgiving? Where the hell had that thought come from? She didn't know she had anything to forgive him for! If he had his way, she never would.

  She stood on her porch watching as he strode to his pickup and backed it out of her drive, a little too fast. Conscious of her gaze, he turned in the direction he would have to go home, even though he had no intention of doing so.

  The animal shelter would still be open on Saturday afternoon. Unless he wanted to add theft to his crimes, he'd better acquire a cat legally. He liked cats, anyway. Maybe he'd get two, to keep each other company. Kate would like them, he told himself. And maybe they'd keep the mice population down. Once, that is, they'd performed their duty—sending the latest potential buyer scrambling for the door.

  CHAPTER 5

  Abigail became aware that she was getting a headache the precise moment she saw the top message on the pile of pink slips centered on her desk blotter. "Call Susan Richards!!!"

  Oh, boy. Either the other agent was ready to present an offer on the Irving House—which should have excited Abigail, and somehow didn't—or she wanted to complain. No storm this week, so it couldn't be a leaking roof. Plumbing gone haywire? Electricity knocked out in a blinding burst? A rabid German shepherd prowling the grounds?

  No point in putting it off. Abigail tossed her purse in a bottom drawer and sank into her chair, kicking off her shoes. Resigned, she punched the numbers on the phone. She didn't know whether it was good or bad when the woman proved to be in.

  ''The renter assured me his cats were mostly outside. He'd make certain they were outside Friday afternoon. So I show the house." Abigail could hear the gritted teeth. "We get to the second floor, a hell of a long ways from the outside door, we poke our heads into a bedroom, and guess what? A cat pounces off a chest of drawers practically at our feet. What's it do but rub against my client's legs."

  "Oh, Lord."

  Abigail didn't realize she'd said it out loud until Susan Richards snorted. "You got it. My client screamed, tripped on her high heels and almost fell, then ran down the stairs still screaming. Let me tell you, I've had some ugly showings before, but this took the cake. I had to drive her straight to the emergency room. She was positive she was going to have an asthma attack."

  "Did she?" Abigail asked.

  "Nah. To tell you the truth, all she did was blow her nose a couple of times. But if she had..."

  The rest was better unspoken. Who would be liable? Abigail didn't have the faintest idea and didn't want to know.

  "Would you like me to pass this episode on to the owner?" she had to offer.

  There was a pause. "Oh, hell, I don't know," the other woman said. "Maybe the damn cat sneaked in. Maybe an old place like that has holes. Who knows? And I've got to give it to the renter, the place is clean. He was cooperative enough on the phone, too. It's up to you. I just wanted to let you know."

  After thanking her and apologizing ten or twelve times, Abigail hung up and slumped in her chair. "Oh, Nate," she groaned.

  Was there any way it could all be coincidence? Could the cat have sneaked in, the roofers been careless, the plumbing have had a minor problem? Or....

  She wanted to reject the alternative. She didn't even want to think about it. Because, if Nate was sabotaging the sale of the Irving House, he was doing it even though he knew it would hurt her.

  But why? What did he have to gain? He couldn't fend buyers off forever. Sooner or later he wouldn't be home. Sooner or later an agent would get smart enough not to call him ahead. All he'd gained was time. What difference did a few weeks or months mean to him?

  Or was the Irving House symbolic? Was this a petty form of revenge on Ed Phillips?

  Maybe the why didn't even matter, she thought miserably. The big question was, what was she going to do about it?

  She massaged her aching temples with her fingertips, then automatically thumbed through the rest of the phone messages. In her present mood, none of them struck her as very important—until the last one.

  She dropped the rest on the blotter and sat up straight. Natasha Waldstein, calling about the Irving House. Abigail had never been very interested in the doings of the rich and famous, but even she recognized the name. The Waldsteins owned a chain of department stores and heaven knew what else. Race horses and a pro football team, Abigail seemed to recall. For whatever reason, they'd stayed in the Northwest.

  And now Mrs. Waldstein was interested in a magnificent h
istoric mansion. What's more, she could afford it.

  This time, Abigail picked the phone up with considerably more enthusiasm. By God, she was going to sell that house yet, Nate or no Nate. And this time, she wouldn't make an appointment.

  *****

  Since she had spent the day hoping he wouldn't call, the last thing on earth Abigail wanted was to run into Nate at the hardware store. But there he was, ten feet from her. He was leaning against the counter, back to her, laughing at a joke the balding owner was telling with evident relish.

  She actually contemplated fleeing. How could she hide her suspicions? But he had such a beautiful back; long and lean, his shoulders broad without being beefy, his jeans just tight enough to show how gorgeously he was put together. His sun-streaked hair brushed his collar, and even his chuckle was low and husky. Her entire body flooded with pleasure at the sight of him, and she desperately wanted to see his slow smile awakening when he turned and saw her. She wanted his gray eyes to darken as they lingered on her face. She wanted...

  He turned suddenly, as though he'd sensed her presence. She felt ridiculous standing there staring at him. "Nate!" Her voice squeaked as she tried to sound surprised. "I didn't notice you."

  "Abigail." His smile was as devastating as she remembered. It crinkled the skin at the corners of his eyes, carved deeper lines in his lean cheeks, weakened her knees. "Hey, I was going to call you later."

  "How nice," she said inanely.

  His gaze fell on the shower-head assembly in her hand. "Taking up plumbing? I thought that was my role."

  Her eyes narrowed, but his held nothing but good-humored amusement. "I'm a little like you are, Nate," she murmured. "A jack of all trades."

  "Really." His smile faded, replaced by wariness. Or was she imagining things?

  Bud, the hardware store owner, was ringing up Nate's purchases. She couldn't help noticing that one of them was a live trap for rodents. "You look like you have problems of your own," Abigail said casually, nodding at the trap. "Don't you have cats?"

  Something flickered in his eyes, though his tone was bland. "Yeah, two of 'em. It's a big house, though. Figured I'd give the cats a hand."

  "And you don't like to kill things."

  Behind the counter, Bud chuckled. "The little lady's got ya there. No killer instinct. You'd have been a hell of a ball player if you'd just had that instinct."

  "Yeah, but you used to tell me I took my punishment like a man."

  "Well, what the hell." Bud shook his head. "Can't all go on and play pro ball."

  "How's Billy?" Nate asked, as though it were a logical extension.

  Bud told him, at some length. Abigail gathered that Billy had made it to the pros, though it sounded like he was second string. And probably still made ten times her yearly income.

  After she'd paid for her purchases, Nate walked her out to her car.

  "Old friends?" she asked.

  "Bud's kid and I played football together. I was the quarterback. My offensive line was so bad, I hardly ever got a pass off. Plastered every time. Took it like a man, though. I remember Bud slapping me on the back and telling me so."

  Abigail had to laugh, too. How did he disarm her so easily? She could see him as a teenager, so youthfully masculine every girl in the high school was in love with him, but probably sullen, too. She pictured him lanky under the oversize pads, the streaks of paint on his cheekbones. Dirty, bruised, furious as he dragged himself from the mud, but swaggering into the huddle every time, taking the snap, dancing back…. Wham. Did he ever throw temper tantrums? Had he been flattered by Bud's pronouncement?

  "The first time I went into the hardware store," she said, "Bud came over to help 'the little lady.' Asked why I let my husband send me on errands."

  Nate opened her car door for her. "Bud means well."

  Do you? She wanted so desperately to ask, the question almost slipped out.

  Nate didn't seem to notice how strained her silence was. "I was going to call you this evening," he said, his voice lowering. "Can I talk you into dinner again this weekend?"

  By this weekend she would have showed the house one more time. The die would be cast. They might not be speaking. But she didn't want to think about that possibility.

  "Why don't you let me make you dinner?" Abigail offered on impulse. "Of course, Kate'll be there…" But then, he might as well be reminded now that she and her daughter came as a package deal. Romance and four-year-olds didn't go well together. That scared most men off. Nate had seemed comfortable enough with Kate on the hike, but that'd been a special occasion. Seeing mother and daughter at home, real life, would send a stronger message.

  "Hey, I like Kate," he said. "Friday night?"

  "Any time after five." She climbed in behind the wheel, but Nate still didn't close the car door.

  "You getting any interest in the Irving House?" He sounded oh so casual.

  A spark of anger lit in Abigail's chest, allowing her to meet his eyes and lie through her teeth. "Well, somebody from Realty World showed it the other day. Looks like the woman might make an offer."

  His mouth tightened. "The one allergic to cats?"

  "Yes. I understand one of yours had slipped in, but she'd seen most of the place by then, anyway. The fact that you have cats might have been a problem if the place was carpeted, but since it's not, she figures a thorough cleaning would do the job. The agent commented particularly on how nicely you keep the house up. That's a big help, Nate. Thank you."

  Had she laid it on too thick? No, his face was stone hard now, and he almost growled, "No problem. I'll see you Friday, Abigail."

  "I'm glad I ran into you," she said brightly, just before he slammed the car door.

  Driving home, she almost felt guilty. No, she did feel guilty. If he was innocent.... Dear Lord, please let him be innocent. If he was, she'd done him a terrible injustice.

  But then, he would never know, would he?

  *****

  Abigail parked her red Accord well out of the way, beside the carriage house. She'd arrived before Natasha Waldstein, who had insisted on meeting her here. Abigail didn't want her car, a modern intrusion, to spoil her client's first, all-important glimpse of the house. Her experience was that sales were most often made or lost then, before the front door was even unlocked.

  And what a first impression it would be today! Summer was at its height, which meant that the old roses were in bloom. A formal garden to one side of the house must once have been magnificent. Abigail could see that Nate had begun to tackle it, because the surrounding boxwood hedges had been recently trimmed. Inside, the roses sprawled and climbed and massed with weeds and lavender, the scent intoxicating even from this distance. The house could be dour in gray weather, but in sunlight it gained a grace that entranced Abigail. She wanted to see it restored, the weeds banished and the gardens as elegant as they must have been the day William Irving had brought his English bride to live here.

  She heard the sound of an approaching car and hurried to glance through the just-opened door of the carriage house. In the shadowy depths stood Nate's pickup. So much for her prayer that she not meet him today.

  A white BMW stopped where the driveway curved in front of the wide steps to the porch. Natasha Waldstein had come alone.

  A stout, well-groomed woman who had adroitly fended off the years with the magic of makeup, plastic surgery, and beautiful clothes, she gave Abigail's hand a firm shake.

  "Oh, this is going to be fun. I love to look at houses." Abigail's hopes sank, then immediately rose again when Mrs. Waldstein added, "Who am I kidding? I love buying houses! Redoing them is so challenging, don't you think? Fortunately Pete's indulgent, even though we could live in a concrete bunker and I don't think he'd notice. Men." She shook her head. "Well, shall we?"

  Abigail led the way up onto the wide porch. "Did I mention that there's a renter in it? I wasn't able to reach him, so let me knock...." The heavy brass knocker fell with a hollow thud. It somberly echoed Abigail's
mood. Ridiculous! she told herself. Mrs. Waldstein was a hot prospect; the mansion was gorgeous. Nate didn't know they were coming. Even if her suspicions were correct, what could he do on such short notice?

  Plenty, if he was prepared. She knew, bone deep, that something would go wrong.

  The carved front door swung open and guilt almost choked Abigail. Nate's hair was rumpled, his gray eyes inquiring. In jeans and a blue cotton sweater with the sleeves pushed up, he was overpoweringly masculine.

  "What a luscious man!" Mrs. Waldstein exclaimed. "My, oh, my. Do you come with the house?"

  No, he's mine, Abigail almost said. On the other hand, did she want him if he'd lied repeatedly to her? Even in her present mood, however, she almost laughed at the expression on Nate's face.

  He recovered quickly. "Shouldn't the question be, Does the house come with me?" he drawled.

  She batted her eyes. "Oh, but I have a man."

  "Don't you have a house?"

  Mrs. Waldstein chuckled and advanced. Nate, retreated and she swept into the entry hall. Sunlight lay across the floor, making the colors on the Oriental rug as brilliant as stained glass.

  "Lovely," the older woman announced. "I'd prefer carpet, though. Wood floors are such a pain, don't you think? So cold."

  Abigail hesitated on the threshold. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to reach you, Nate."

  He didn't even look at her. He was too busy watching Abigail's buyer as she continued into the library, her high heels clicking.

  "Did I miss the phone ringing?"

  Abigail moistened dry lips. "This was on rather short notice. I'm sorry."

  She was a lousy liar. Thank heavens he wasn't looking at her. He just…shrugged, as though she was a minor annoyance, and then followed Mrs. Waldstein, whose voice echoed through the high-ceilinged rooms. "My, it's dark in here. Victorians were so gloomy. Maybe if these bookcases were painted white.... And white plush carpet...."