by Nora Roberts
She wanted to agree, felt herself on the edge of agreeing. “Michael, things are complicated enough. If we were lovers and things went wrong, how could we manage to go on here together? We’ve made a commitment to Uncle Jolley.”
“The will doesn’t have a damn thing to do with you and me in this bed.”
How could she have forgotten just how intense he could look when he was bent on something? How was it she’d never noticed how attractive it made him? She’d have to make a stand now or go under. “The will has everything to do with you and me in this house. If we go to bed together and our relationship changes, then we’ll have to deal with all the problems and complications that go with it.”
“Name some.”
“Don’t be amusing, Michael.”
“Giving you a laugh wasn’t my intention.” He liked the way she looked against the pillow—hair spread out like wildfire, cheeks a bit flushed, her mouth on the edge of forming a pout. Strange he’d never pictured her this way before. It didn’t take any thought to know he’d picture her like this again and again. “I want you, Pandora. There’s nothing amusing about it.”
No, that wasn’t something she could laugh or shrug off, not when the words brushed over her skin and made her muscles limp. He didn’t mean it. He couldn’t mean it. But she wanted to believe it. If she couldn’t laugh it off, she had to throw up a guard and block it. “Becoming lovers is something that takes a lot of thought. If we’re going to discuss it—”
“I don’t want to discuss it.” He pressed his lips against hers until he felt her body soften. “We’re not making a corporate merger, Pandora, we’re making love.”
“That’s just it.” She fought back an avalanche of longing. Be practical. It was her cardinal rule. “We’re business partners. Worse, we’re family business partners, at least for the next few months. If we change that now it could—”
“If,” he interrupted. “It could. Do you always need guarantees?”
Her brows drew together as annoyance competed with desire. “It’s a matter of common sense to look at all the angles.”
“I suppose you have any prospective lover fill out an application form.”
Her voice chilled. It was, in a distorted way, close to the truth. “Don’t be crude, Michael.”
Pushed to the limit, he glared down at her. “I’d rather be crude than have your brand of common sense.”
“You’ve never had any brand of common sense,” she tossed back. “Why else would every busty little blonde you’ve winked at be public knowledge? You don’t even have the decency to be discreet.”
“So that’s it.” Shifting, Michael drew her into a sitting position. There was no soft yielding now. She faced him with fire in her eyes. “Don’t forget the brunettes and the redheads.”
She hadn’t. She promised herself she wouldn’t. “I don’t want to discuss it.”
“You brought it up, and we’ll finish it. I’ve gone to bed with women. So put me in irons. I’ve even enjoyed it.”
She tossed her hair behind her shoulder. “I’m sure you have.”
“And I haven’t had a debate with every one of them beforehand. Some women prefer romance and mutual enjoyment.”
“Romance?” Her brows shot up under her tousled hair. “I’ve always had another word for it.”
“You wouldn’t recognize romance if it dropped on your head. Do you consider it discreet to take lovers and pretend you don’t? To pledge undying fidelity to one person while you’re looking for another? What you want to call discretion, I call hypocrisy. I’m not ashamed of any of the women I’ve known, in bed or out.”
“I’m not interested in what you are or aren’t ashamed of. I’m not going to be your next mutual enjoyment. Keep your passion for your dancers and starlets and chorus girls.”
“You’re as big a snob as the rest of them.”
That hit home and had her shoulders stiffening. “That’s not true. I’ve simply no intention of joining a crowd.”
“You flatter me, cousin.”
“There’s another word for that, too.”
“Think about this.” He gave her a shake, harder than he’d intended. “I’ve never made love with a woman I didn’t care for and respect.” Before he cut loose and did more than shake her, he got up and walked to the door while she sat in the middle of the bed clutching sheets and looking furious.
“It appears you give respect easily.”
He turned back to study her. “No,” he said slowly. “But I don’t make people jump through hoops for it.”
A cold war might not be as stimulating as an active battle, but with the right participants, it could be equally destructive. For days Pandora and Michael circled around each other. If one made a sarcastic comment, the other reached into the stockpile and used equal sarcasm. Neither drew out the red flag for full-scale attack, instead they picked and prodded at each other while the servants rolled their eyes and waited for bloodshed.
“Foolishness,” Sweeney declared as she rolled out the crust for two apple pies. “Plain foolishness.” She was a sturdy, red-faced woman, as round as Charles was thin. In her pragmatic, no-nonsense way, she’d married and buried two husbands, then made her way in the world by cooking for others. Her kitchen was always neat and tidy, all the while smelling of the sinfully rich food she prepared. “Spoiled children,” she told Charles. “That’s what they are. Spoiled children need the back of the hand.”
“They’ve over four months to go.” Charles sat gloomily at the kitchen table, hunched over a cup of tea. “They’ll never make it.”
“Hah!” Sweeney slammed the rolling pin onto a fresh ball of dough. “They’ll make it. Too stubborn not to. But it’s not enough.”
“The master wanted them to have the house. As long as they do, we won’t lose it.”
“What’ll we be doing in this big empty house when both of them go back to the city? How often will either of them be visiting with the master gone?” Sweeney turned the crust into a pan and trimmed it expertly. “The master wanted them to have the house, true enough. And he wanted them to have each other. The house needs a family. It’s up to us to see it gets one.”
“You didn’t hear them over breakfast.” Charles sipped his tea and watched Sweeney pour a moist apple mixture into the crust.
“That has nothing to do with it. I’ve seen the way they look at each other when they think the other one’s not noticing. All they need’s a push.”
With quick, economic movements, she filled the second crust. “We’re going to give ’em one.”
Charles stretched out his legs. “We’re too old to push young people.”
Sweeney gave a quick grunt as she turned. Her hands were thick, and she set them on her hips. “Being old’s the whole trick. You’ve been feeling poorly lately.”
“No, to tell you the truth, I’ve been feeling much better this week.”
“You’ve been feeling poorly,” Sweeney repeated, scowling at him. “Now here’s our Pandora coming in for lunch. Just follow my lead. Look a little peaked.”
Snow had come during the night, big fat flakes that piled on the ground and hung in the pines. As she walked, Pandora kicked it up, pleased with herself. Her work couldn’t have been going better. The earrings she’d finally fashioned had been unique, so unique, she’d designed a necklace to complement them. It was chunky and oversize with geometric shapes of copper and gold. Not every woman could wear it, but the one who could wouldn’t go unnoticed.
It was, to Pandora, a statement of the strong, disciplined woman. She was just as pleased with the shoulder-brushing earrings she was making with jet and silver beads. They had been painstakingly strung together and when finished would be elegantly flirtatious. Another aspect of woman. If her pace kept steady, she’d have a solid inventory to ship off to the boutique she supplied. In time for the Christmas rush, she reminded herself smugly.
When she opened the kitchen door, she was ravenously hungry and in the best of moods.<
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“…if you’re feeling better in a day or two,” Sweeney said briskly, then turned as if surprised to see Pandora inside. “Oh, time must’ve got away from me. Lunch already and I’m just finishing up the pies.”
“Apple pies?” Grinning, Pandora moved closer. But Sweeney saw with satisfaction that Pandora was already studying Charles. “Any filling left?” she began, and started to dip her fingers into the bowl. Sweeney smacked them smartly.
“You’ve been working with those hands. Wash them up in the sink, and you’ll have your lunch as soon as I can manage it.”
Obediently, Pandora turned on a rush of water. Under the noise, she murmured to Sweeney. “Is Charles not feeling well?”
“Bursitis is acting up. Cold weather’s a problem. Just being old’s a problem in itself.” She pushed a hand at the small of her back as though she had a pain. “Guess we’re both slowing down a bit. Aches and pains,” Sweeney sighed and cast a sidelong look at Pandora. “Just part of being old.”
“Nonsense.” Concerned, Pandora scrubbed her hands harder. She told herself she should have been keeping a closer eye on Charles. “You just try to do too much.”
“With the holidays coming…” Sweeney trailed off and made a business out of arranging a top crust. “Well, decorating the house is a lot of work, but it’s its own reward. Charles and I’ll deal with the boxes in the attic this afternoon.”
“Don’t be silly.” Pandora shut off the water and reached for a towel. “I’ll bring the decorations down.”
“No, now, missy, there’re too many boxes and most of them are too heavy for a little girl like you. That’s for us to see to. Isn’t that right, Charles?”
Thinking of climbing the attic stairs a half-dozen times, Charles started to sigh. A look from Sweeney stopped him. “Don’t worry, Miss McVie, Sweeney and I will see to it.”
“You certainly will not.” Pandora hung the towel back on the hook. “Michael and I will bring everything down this afternoon, and that’s that. Now I’ll go tell him to come to lunch.”
Sweeney waited until the door swung shut behind Pandora before she grinned.
Upstairs, Pandora knocked twice on Michael’s office door, then walked in. He kept on typing. Putting her pride on hold, Pandora walked over to his desk and folded her arms. “I need to talk to you.”
“Come back later. I’m busy.”
Abuse rose up in her throat. Remembering Sweeney’s tired voice, she swallowed it. “It’s important.” She ground her teeth on the word, but said it. “Please.”
Surprised, Michael stopped typing in midword. “What? Has one of the family been playing games again?”
“No, it’s not that. Michael, we have to decorate the house for Christmas.”
He stared at her a moment, swore and turned back to his machine. “I’ve got a twelve-year-old boy kidnapped and being held for a million-dollar ransom. That’s important.”
“Michael, will you put away fantasyland for a moment? This is real.”
“So’s this. Just ask my producer.”
“Michael!” Before he could stop her, Pandora pulled the sheet from the typewriter. He was halfway out of his chair to retaliate. “It’s Sweeney and Charles.”
It stopped him, though he snatched the paper back from her. “What about them?”
“Charles’s bursitis is acting up again, and I’m sure Sweeney’s not feeling well. She sounded, well, old.”
“She is old.” But Michael tossed the paper on the desk. “Think we should call in a doctor?”
“No, they’d be furious.” She swung around his desk, trying to pretend she wasn’t reading part of his script. “I’d rather just keep an eye on them for a few days and make sure they don’t overdo. That’s where the Christmas decorations come in.”
“I figured you’d get to them. Look, if you want to deck the halls, go ahead. I haven’t got time to fool with it today.”
“Neither do I.” She folded her arms in a manner that amused him. “Sweeney and Charles have it in their heads that it has to be done. Unless we want them dragging up and down the attic stairs, we have to take care of it.”
“Christmas is three weeks away.”
“I know the date.” Frustrated, she strode to the window then back. “They’re old and they’re set on it. You know Uncle Jolley would’ve had them up the day after Thanksgiving. It’s traditional.”
“All right, all right.” Trapped, Michael rose. “Let’s get started.”
“Right after lunch.” Satisfied she’d gotten her way, Pandora swept out.
Forty-five minutes later, she and Michael were pushing open the attic door. The attic was, in Jolley’s tradition, big enough to house a family of five. “Oh, I’d forgotten what a marvelous place this is.” Forgetting herself, Pandora grabbed Michael’s hand and pulled him in. “Look at this table, isn’t it horrible?”
It was. Old and ornate with curlicues and cupids, it had been shoved into a corner to hold other paraphernalia Jolley had discarded. “And the bird cage out of Popsicle sticks. Uncle Jolley said it took him six months to finish it, then he didn’t have the heart to put a bird inside.”
“Lucky for the bird,” Michael muttered, but found himself, as always, drawn to the dusty charm of the place. “Spats,” he said, and lifted a pair from a box. “Can’t you see him in them?”
“And this hat.” Pandora found a huge circular straw with a garden of flowers along the brim. “Aunt Katie’s. I’ve always wished I’d met her. My father said she was just as much fun as Uncle Jolley.”
Michael watched Pandora tip the brim over her eyes. “If that was her hat, I believe it. How about this?” He found a black derby and tilted it rakishly.
“It’s you,” Pandora told him with her first easy laugh in days. “All you need’s a high white collar and a walking stick. Look.” She pulled him in front of a tall cheval mirror that needed re-silvering. Together, they studied themselves.
“An elegant pair,” Michael decided, though his sweater bagged over his hips, and she already had dust on her nose. “All you need is one of those slim little skirts that sweep the floor and a lace blouse with padded shoulders.”
“And a cameo on a ribbon,” she added as she tried to visualize herself. “No, I probably would’ve worn bloomers and picketed for women’s rights.”
“The hat still suits you.” He turned to adjust it just a bit. “Especially with your hair long and loose. I’ve always liked it long, though you looked appealingly lost and big-eyed when you had it all chopped short.”
“I was fifteen.”
“And you’d just come back from the Canary Islands with the longest, brownest legs I’d ever seen in my life. I nearly ate my saucer when you walked into the parlor.”
“You were in college and had some cheerleader hanging on your arm.”
Michael grinned. “You had better legs.”
Pandora pretended little interest. She remembered the visit perfectly, but was surprised, and pleased, that he did. “I’m surprised you noticed or remembered.”
“I told you I was observant.”
She acknowledged the thrust with a slight nod. There were times when it was best to pad quietly over dangerous ground. “We’d better start digging out the decorations. Sweeney said the boxes were back along the left and clearly marked.” Without waiting for agreement, she turned and began to look. “Oh good grief.” She stopped again when she saw the stacks of boxes, twenty, perhaps twenty-five of them. Michael stood at her shoulder and stuck his hands in his pockets.
“Think we can hire some teamsters?”
Pandora blew out a breath. “Roll up your sleeves.”
On some trips, they could pile two or three boxes apiece and maneuver downstairs. On others, it took both of them to haul one. Somewhere along the way they’d stopped arguing. It was just too much effort.
Grimy and sweaty, they dropped the last boxes in the parlor. Ignoring the dust on her slacks, Pandora collapsed in the nearest chair. “Won’t
it be great fun hauling them all up again after New Year’s?”
“Couldn’t we’ve settled on a plastic Santa?”
“It’ll be worth it.” Drumming up the energy, she knelt on the floor and opened the first box. “Let’s get started.”
Once they did, they went at it with a vengeance. Boxes were opened, garland strewed and bulbs tested. They squabbled good-naturedly about what looked best where and the proper way to drape lights at the windows. When the parlor, the main hall and the staircase were finished, Pandora stood at the front door and took a long look.
The garland was white and silver, twisting and twining down the banister. There were bright red bells, lush green ribbon and tiny lights just waiting for evening.
“It looks good,” she decided. “Really good. Of course, Sweeney and Charles will want to decorate the servants’ quarters and that entire box goes into the dining room, but it’s a wonderful start.”
“Start?” Michael sat on the stairs. “We’re not entering a contest, cousin.”
“These things have to be done right. I wonder if my parents will make it home for Christmas. Well…” She brushed that off. They always considered wherever they were home. “I’d say we’re ready for the tree. Let’s go find one.”
“You want to drive into town now?”
“Of course not.” Pandora was already pulling coats out of the hall closet. “We’ll go right out in the woods and dig one up.”
“We?”
“Certainly. I hate it when people cut trees down and then toss them aside after the new year. The woods are loaded with nice little pines. We’ll dig one up, then replant it after the holidays.”
“How handy are you with a shovel?”
“Don’t be a spoilsport.” Pandora tossed his coat to him, then pulled on her own. “Besides, it’ll be nice to spend some time outside after being in that stuffy attic. We can have some hot buttered rum when we’re finished.”
“Heavy on the rum.”
They stopped at the toolshed for a shovel. Michael picked two and handed one to Pandora. She took it without a blink, then together they walked through the ankle-high snow to the woods. The air had a bite and the scent of pine was somehow stronger in the snow.