Suzanne Brockmann

by Give Me Liberty (written as Anne Brock) (lit)

  "I guess I'll walk you over," he said.

  Lib saw a mix of reluctance and fascination in his eyes. He wanted to walk her over to the house — but he also didn't want to. What was his deal? "You don't have to," she said quietly.

  "I know," he said, brusquely leading her back to the front door.

  She lengthened her stride to keep up with him as he walked down the road to Aunt Harriet's house, Lib's house now.

  "I haven't been inside this house for six years," she said. "But, man, I loved it and—"

  Luke stopped short, turning to catch her arm. "The last tenants did some damage," he said warningly. "It's going to need some fixing up before you can sell it."

  She smiled. "That's assuming I'm going to sell it," she said.

  "Sooner or later you will."

  He still held her arm, and she made no move to pull away. She could smell the scent of the grass he must have cut just this morning, heard the buzz of a lazy bumblebee, the sound of a bluejay calling through the early evening stillness. She knew she was finally home, and whether or not Luke Fulton believed her didn't matter. At least not too much.

  He was studying her with a strange look on his face. "I do remember you," he said. "You came up and spent a few summers with old Miss Harlowe, right?"

  "Ten summers in a row."

  Luke looked surprised. "That many?"

  "Yeah."

  "You were just a skinny kid. I guess I didn't pay much attention." He smiled then. "I do remember that you used to try to get our dog to ride in your bike basket. And you liked chocolate ice cream, right?"

  "That was me."

  "Who woulda thought—" He shook his head, releasing her arm.

  "What?"

  "You're a lot younger than I am." Too young. He didn't need to say the words. The implication was clear.

  "I'm old enough to inherit a house." Among other things.

  "Twenty-one?"

  Lib crossed her arms. "Twenty-three."

  Luke's eyes were somber, his expression unreadable. "I'm almost thirty-two."

  "Almost?" she asked. "Really? When's your birthday? We should plan a party."

  Now Luke crossed his arms. "You're deliberately misunderstanding me."

  Lib smiled. "And you're still searching for reasons why we shouldn't go out together."

  His eyes were fierce as he took a step toward her. "What exactly do you want from me?" he asked. He took another step, his voice low and dangerous. "Is it one night that you want, Liberty, or two?"

  She stood her ground as he continued to advance on her. "I told you what I wanted," she said, her calm voice belying the fact that her heart was pounding. "I want to go out to dinner with you."

  "And afterwards?"

  He was standing so close to her, she could barely breathe without brushing against him. If she stood on her toes, their lips would meet.

  "Afterwards we could maybe take a walk, maybe look at the stars." She smiled into his eyes with a confidence she didn't quite feel. "And if you're lucky, I'd let you kiss me good night."

  His gaze dropped to her mouth and for a moment, Liberty was convinced he was going to kiss her, the way he had that afternoon, underneath her car. But he didn't. He turned away.

  Luke started walking toward the Harlowe house again, shocked at the sharp pull of longing inside of him, at the way her words had appealed to him. He wanted to take Lib out to dinner, and then hold hands as they walked through the meadow, up to the pond, to sit with her in the darkness and look up at the sky. He wanted to kiss her good night as he dropped her off at her door.

  Now that would be different. Instead of giving in to the brief, explosive attraction between strangers, they could take their time, get to know each other first. Yeah, that would be different — provided Lib really was going to stick around for more than just a few weeks.

  Lib followed him up onto the front porch of the old farmhouse. The porch was sagging, the wood starting to rot. Luke pulled open the screen door and unlocked the bolt. The front door creaked open, and he stepped inside, into the dimness of the musty foyer.

  Lib was right behind him. All the shades were drawn, and the house was damp and dark. Luke found the light switch next to the front door and flipped on the lights.

  "Oh my God—" Lib stared in shock.

  The big wooden staircase that went up to the second floor looked as if something enormous, like a piano, had fallen on top of it and crushed it. At least four of the stairs were broken in, and the railing hung crazily to one side, the bannister shattered.

  Slowly, Lib walked into the living room. There was a gaping hole in one wall, and the walls were covered with soot, as if someone had lit a fire in the fireplace without opening the damper. Or — man! — as if someone had lit the curtains on fire. The charred remains hung pathetically from what, at one time, had been elegant brass curtain rods.

  She started to walk faster now, through a set of French doors that were hanging on their hinges, through the dining room and through the narrow pantry that led to what had been the main house.

  The kitchen was trashed.

  The cabinets had been torn from the walls and someone had painted the huge rough-hewn beam that ran across the ceiling a bright shade of yellow. The hardwood floor was marked and scarred, and gaping holes remained where the stove and sink had been. The old brick oven fireplace had been used as a garbage container and the stench was nearly overwhelming. But worst of all was a huge hole in the ceiling. There was still a puddle underneath it on the floor.

  What had leaked? Bathroom or roof?

  Lib had to find out.

  She moved, quickly now, up the back staircase.

  The carpet that had covered the second floor landing had been shredded, as if a giant cat had used it to sharpen its claws.

  One of the doors to the upstairs bedrooms was missing, and another had a gaping hole as if a cannonball had been shot through it. Lib looked around, trying to get her bearings, trying to figure out which room was directly over the part of the kitchen that had that hole....

  With Luke at her heels, she pushed open the bathroom door and turned on the light. The toilet was missing and the old clawfooted tub was cracked in two, but there was no hole in the floor and the pipes were dry.

  The next door led to the room that had been Lib's whenever she had come to visit. It was dark inside with the shades pulled down. The overhead light didn't go on when Lib pushed the switch.

  She stepped into the room — and felt the floor give. The old wood creaked and groaned, and in that instant Lib realized that that was the sky she could see all the way through the ceiling, through the attic, and up through the roof of the house.

  "Luke, get back!" she shouted, trying to scramble her way back to the door, back to the supporting beam she knew was underneath the hallway. But in the dimness, she saw he wasn't moving back, he was moving toward her, reaching out his hand for her.

  She grabbed for him and felt his strong fingers close around her wrist as the floor underneath her feet collapsed with a groaning crash. He pulled her up and back, through the door, and they landed in a tangled heap of arms and legs against the far wall of the hallway.

  "Oh man!" Lib was shaking. She couldn't stop shaking. That had been so close

  "Are you all right?" Luke's voice was husky.

  Dimly, she became aware of his arms around her, hold­ing her. She felt him push her hair back from her face, and looking up at him, Lib could still see traces of real fear in his eyes. "Good Lord, Lib," he said thickly. "You could have been killed."

  She could feel his heart pounding as she allowed herself the luxury of resting her head against his chest. He held her tightly, as if were he to let her go, she might still fall. Her eyes filled with tears. She may not have fallen, but all of her dreams for this house, all of her hopes for the future had given way beneath her feet, just as surely as that floor had collapsed.

  Where was she going to get the money to fix this place up? Fix it up? Hell, forg
et about fixing it up, where was she going to get the money to make it livable? She didn't even have a toilet — or a kitchen sink!

  She felt the tears start to escape and she bit back a sob as she suddenly pulled away from Luke. She didn't want to cry in front of him. She roughly wiped her face with a relatively clean part of her arm and forced her voice to sound normal. "Please, will you go now?"

  She stepped toward the doorway of the room with the hole in the floor. Her eyes were used to the dimness now, and she could see both the holes in the floor and ceiling. What an incredible mess. What an expensive mess. She fought the tears, but in the stillness her breathing sounded ragged.

  She heard Luke stand up. "Lib—"

  "Please go," she said without turning around. "I mean, thanks for saving my life and all that, but I kind of need to be alone right now."

  He didn't move. Damnit, why didn't he leave? She stared up through the roof at the sky. This used to be her bed-room. She used to be able to rush inside, slam the door, throw herself down on her bed and cry her eyes out without anyone knowing. She looked at the hole in the floor. Only thing she could throw herself down on right now was the kitchen floor.

  She laughed. She couldn't help it. Terrific. Now she was losing her mind.

  "Liberty, come over to my house," Luke said softly. "Harriet must've forgotten to put something in the lease that forbid the tenants from firing rockets inside the house," Lib said, laughing harder.

  Luke stepped closer and touched her arm. "Come on, Lib. Please?"

  Her stomach hurt. And she suddenly felt so dizzy. Lib slid her back along the door frame until her bottom hit the floor. She wasn't laughing anymore. She was crying. And this time she couldn't stop.

  Luke crouched down next to her and she turned away. "Please go," she said. "I don't want you to see me cry."

  His mouth twisted into a rueful smile. "Too late," he said. "Come on, let's get out of here. You can stay with me for a while. Until we figure out how to get enough insurance money to put a roof back on this place.

  Lib looked at him. He was so close, she could feel his body heat. As she gazed into his dark eyes, Lib knew there was no way on earth she could live in the same house with this man and not find herself in over her head. This animal attraction between them, this magnetism, whatever it was called, would always be there. The temptation would be more than either of them could take. And as much as Luke believed otherwise, Lib didn't want just one night or two — or a week, or even a month with him. She wanted... She shook her head, refusing to think about it.

  "I don't think staying with you is a good idea," she said.

  "Where will you go?" he asked.

  Lib took a deep breath. "I'm going to stay right here. And fix it up."

  The look he gave her was so incredulous, she had to laugh. She wiped her eyes. "Believe it or not, I've lived in places that were in worse condition than this," she said. "When my mother was living with Howard, we spent about five years moving into houses that were pretty close to being condemned. We'd buy 'em, repair 'em, and sell 'em for a profit. Maybe I can even get a loan. Haven't you ever heard of sweat equity?"

  Luke shrugged.

  "I'd appreciate being able to use your shower every now and then," she said. "Most days I can wash up down at the pond, but there are certain times when nothing beats a warm shower." She smiled shakily. "Like right now."

  Luke had to look away. The image of Lib, fresh and clean, with her hair wet and a towel wrapped around her, as she came out of his bathroom was almost too much to take. He took a deep breath. She was probably right. Having her stay with him wasn't a good idea. Either that, or it was the best idea he'd had in his entire life.

  He stood, offering her a hand up.

  She hesitated slightly before she reached for him, but he pulled her to her feet and immediately let go.

  "Why don't you come over, then, and take a shower," he said, leading the way to the back staircase. "After that, I'll take you out to dinner."

  He heard her laugh as they went down toward the kitchen.

  "A pity date," she said. "Great. That'll really cheer me up."

  "It's not a pity date," he said.

  "Right." She sounded skeptical.

  "Is that a yes?"

  Lib looked from Luke to the pile of rotted wood and floorboards that now covered nearly half of the kitchen floor. She swore softly under her breath. "Sure, why not?" she said with a disparaging laugh. "I'm feeling pretty damned pitiable."

  Chapter Three

  Lib looked at Luke as he downshifted the gears in his pickup truck to make the long climb in the darkness up the mountain road. The angles of his lean face were exag­gerated by the shadows of the night. His cheekbones seemed even more prominent and exotic, and the elegant shape of his lips was more pronounced, bathed in the green light from the dashboard.

  He glanced over and smiled, his dark eyes glittering as they met her own, and her heart did a quick flip. Damn, he was good-looking.

  Luke was dressed in a clean pair of jeans and a red polo shirt, and his dark hair was still damp from the shower he'd taken back at his house. The muscles in his arms rippled as he downshifted again.

  "I have to drop something off at the resort," he said, "so I figured we may as well have dinner up there."

  "At Gate's Mountain Inn?" Lib asked, her eyebrows lifting with the surprise in her voice. "We're not exactly dressed for it. Gee, if I'd've known, I would've unpacked my sequined gown and my diamond earrings."

  "It's off season," Luke said, flashing her another brilliant smile. "No sequined gowns this time of year."

  As Luke glanced at her, he could tell that she was still terribly upset about the condition of the Marlowe farm house. Despite the casual way she had one sneaker braced against the dash, her hands were tightly clasped in her lap. She was wearing a clean pair of cut-off jeans, a white, sleeveless blouse with the tails tied in the front and a pair of beat-up running shoes. The effect should have been androgynous, but Lib was so obviously feminine, all soft curves and long, shapely legs, slender arms — Arms that had real muscle, Luke thought, remembering the strength she'd needed to install the new muffler in her car.

  She looked up, catching him watching her, and she smiled. Her hair was hanging loose around her shoulders. It looked pretty that way — long and straight and thick and shiny. It glistened in the light from an oncoming car. Was it really just this morning that he'd thought her hair was nothing special?

  Reluctantly, he dragged his eyes back to the road.

  "You know, since this is just a pity date, you can get away with buying me a hot dog at the root beer stand," Lib said. "Heck, since it's only a pity date, you can get away with driving me down there and making me buy my own hot dog."

  "It's not a pity date. Besides, I don't feel like having a hot dog tonight," Luke said. "And as long as I have to go up this way..."

  "What do you need to drop off?" Lib asked. "Construction estimates," he said. "We're thinking of adding on to the Inn."

  "We?"

  Luke looked at her and smiled. "I'm part owner," he said. "That's the deal I made when I sold Ken Avery the back acres of the farm."

  Lib whistled. "So you're rich," she said, "on top of being single and gorgeous. Are you sure you won't marry me?"

  Luke's laughter was low and sexy as hell. "What would you do if I said yes?"

  "Plan a wedding?"

  "I think it's more likely that you'd run for the hills — as fast as you could," he said.

  "I must be missing something here," Lib said, narrowing her violet eyes as she studied him in the dim light. "There must be some fatal flaw in your character, or some person­ality defect that everybody knows about except for me."

  "Well, let's see." Luke thought for a minute. "I'm stub­born and inconsiderate and a workaholic. I live in a run­down, drafty old museum that's probably haunted. I'm provincial and I'm probably inbred, and, oh yeah, I'm heartless. A man who loves his land more than he loves another pe
rson has got to have something seriously wrong with him. Or so I'm told."

  Lib tried not to laugh, but when he glanced at her, amusement lighting his eyes, she had to smile. "Is that a direct quote, or are you paraphrasing?" she asked.

  "A little of both," he said.

  "Care to cite your source?"

  He shook his head. "The list's too long."

  "Former girlfriends?" she asked.

  He looked at her again, his eyes unreadable. "I suppose you could call them that — for lack of a better label."

  Lib nodded. "From your Don Juan days," she said. "Before you embarked on your current, dreary, monk-like lifestyle."

  Luke winced. "You make it sound like so much fun."

  "Don't mind me." She smiled at him then, flashing her teeth. "Personally, I find myself attracted to stubborn, provincial men who live in ghost-filled museums and work too hard. But what is this about loving your land more than any other person?"

  Luke considered her question for a long moment before replying. "I love Vermont. I love living in the house my ancestors built with their own hands. I love being part of this town that they helped create." He paused, then added softly, "And I love my farm."

  The hardest thing that he'd ever done was to give up most of his land. But after his father died, Luke had worked as hard as he could to pay off the medical bills and the back taxes and all the debts. He'd put in eighteen, nineteen hour days — backbreaking, killer hours — trying to turn things around.

  But he'd failed.

  No matter what he did, no matter how hard he worked, the farm kept losing money.