Finders Keepers Page 10

  The Windham House was brightly lit against the sharp, clear evening sky. Holly pulled into the parking area next to Julian’s Land Rover, a dirt-spattered hulk next to the skiers’ trim BMWs and Grand Prix. The man was solid. Down-to-earth.

  And playing games with her over a couple of very valuable sterling-silver goblets. Mill Brook, Vermont, she’d warned herself, was something to be survived— and Julian Stiles was a part of that picturesque, but treacherous, New England town.

  She’d never been so glad for a gust of cold air as when she climbed out of her van and took a deep, refreshing breath.

  “I’m not hungry after all this hullabaloo over those goblets,” she said as he came round the van and stood next to her. “It’s six o’clock. I need to check in with my answering service in Houston and do some work. Then I think I’ll just crash.”

  Julian leaned back against the van, oblivious to the film of road sand and salt eating away at her paint job. New England was as hard on cars as it was on people, she thought.

  ‘‘You just want to get away from me,” he said in a low, gravelly voice.

  She shrugged. “I could grit out dinner with you if I had to, but—”

  “You’d rather dine with an alligator,” he finished for her, smiling.

  “Julian Stiles, you don’t scare me a lick. I hope you know that.”

  “I’m not trying to scare you.”

  “But you could if you tried? You sound like the playground bully. Forget dinner, all right? And don’t read anything into my refusal. Let’s just leave it that I’m not hungry.”

  “Chortling will make you lose your appetite.”

  “Who’s chortling?”

  “You are. You’ve been chortling since we left the mill.”

  “I most certainly have not. I never made a sound!”

  “Didn’t need to. Inside you’re chortling—gloating because you think you got the best of me with this latest lie of yours. Doesn’t your stomach hurt from trying to keep from laughing? That’s why you don’t want to eat.”

  Her stomach had hurt for a little while, at first from repressed laughter, then from the tension of his continued silence. It felt better now that he was jousting with her again. With any other man, she would have given up on the Paul Revere goblets and accepted what Great-grandfather Zachariah had been forced to accept a hundred years ago: with the Danvers-Stiles crowd, a Wingate was doomed. Common sense told her to cut her losses, never mind the damned goblets and get out of Mill Brook. But common sense wasn’t fun or challenging. It was generally dull and safe.

  “Look, Julian,” she said reasonably, “I can understand you’re probably embarrassed by what happened.”

  He laughed softly, incredulously. “Wrong. I don’t embarrass easily.”

  His laugh sent warm, liquid sensations up her back. “Um...” She wasn’t one to hem and haw once she’d gotten started, but she hadn’t expected him to sound so self “Controlled. As if she’d only done exactly what he’d expected her to do. Oh dear. She inhaled. ‘‘Still, you did jump to conclusions about me, and setting you right was as difficult for me as it must have been for you. Maybe more difficult.”

  He shifted his weight, bending one knee as he crossed his arms on his chest. “An elaborate lie like that wears thin, does it?”

  She pursed her lips. “You can be really obnoxious, you know that? Here I am, just trying to do what I do best.”

  “Tell stories.”

  “That’s right.” She wasn’t going to let him ruffle her. “I wanted my visit to Mill Brook to be extra special. Don’t ask me why because I’m not even sure I know, but when I saw that piece on the goblets—something happened to me. I just knew I had to come to Mill Brook ... and, I don’t know. I guess I’ve been acting a little crazy ever since. I’m creative, but I’m also a professional. I’ve never done anything like what I did today, and all for a surprise. And an uncertain one at that. I wasn’t sure the historical society would even go for my fund-raising night idea.”

  Julian shook his head, not believing much of anything she said. “All to pull your behind out of the fire.”

  Never had she met a man who could see through her defenses with such natural ease. “Believe whatever you want to believe. It makes no difference to me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m getting cold.”

  “I’m not going to let the goblets out of my sight.”

  “Fine,” she said coolly, “don’t.”

  He touched her upper arm. “Or you.”

  “Julian...” She didn’t pull back.

  “Something’s going on between us,” he said softly, moving close enough that all she had to do was lean forward ever so slightly and she could rest her forehead on his shoulder; she resisted. “I just don’t know where it’s going to lead.”

  She wanted to answer—wanted to tell him there was nothing going on between them, nothing that was going to lead anywhere, good, bad or indifferent. But nothing came out. She could feel her mouth tingle in anticipation; he must have sensed her desire. He sighed, not with disgust but simple surrender, and kissed her, so lightly, just his lips brushing hers.

  “Have a pleasant evening,” he said, his eyes suddenly dancing.

  “You, too.”

  As she started up the flagstone path toward the Windham House, she sensed Julian watching her from his position against her van. Heat seemed to radiate from his gaze—raw, masculine desire. She kept sucking in the cold evening air, hoping to counter the effect he was having on her. She wished the kiss had gone on longer.

  “Holly.”

  His voice was low and sandpapery. She slowed her pace, but didn’t stop. If she did, she might never make it back into the cheerful, welcoming Windham House.

  “I know you’re planning something,” he went on. “Just don’t count on getting away with the goblets or on doing anything to cheat my family or anyone else in Mill Brook.”

  She glanced over her shoulder and clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, almost glad that he was back to issuing orders and demands—challenges. “Such a cynic you are.”

  His tone didn’t change, but she could see him willing back a grudging smile on his smug, handsome Yankee face. The man knew just what he was doing.

  “Won’t matter where you slither off to,” he said, his tone idle, almost teasing, just daring her, “I’ll find you.”

  “Slither?” That got her, elitist Danvers-Stiles that he was. “Slither! Are you accusing me of being a snake in the grass? Because I’ll have you know—”

  “Try anything before you leave town and I’ll track you down.”

  She tried to match his calm, but his choice of verb— slither, for heaven’s sake—still rankled. So she opted for sarcasm. “I can count on that, can 1?”

  His smile was less grudging, filled with confidence and self-control, and admiration, she thought. She wasn’t having any more effect on controlling his actions than he was on controlling hers. “You bet.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, whirling back around. She would, too. “But tracking me down might not be as easy as you think.”

  He couldn’t have heard her, but he called from the darkness behind her, “Don’t think I won’t find you, because I will.”

  He might try, she thought, but was even a Danvers-Stiles that persistent? Wandering minstrel that she was, she didn’t keep an ordinary schedule, if she kept one at all. But she didn’t want to underestimate any descendant of the men who’d drummed her great-grandfather out of town. Maybe Julian would put himself to the task and...

  Do you want him to find you once you’re shed of this place?

  She shivered at the ramifications of the question, refused to answer it and ran inside. Only when she was warming herself by the fire did the full impact of the last hour or so hit her. And it hit her hard.

  If she stuck to the “tale” she’d told Julian and Beth Stiles and went ahead with giving a performance at the hastily arranged Mill Brook Historical Society fundraiser,
she’d have to spend another week in one place. And not just in any old one place, but in Mill Brook.

  What couldn’t Julian Stiles worm out of her in one whole week?

  She’d planned to leave town Sunday afternoon—if not sooner. Planned to leave with the goblets, with no one the wiser about what she’d done or who she was. Now all Mill Brook would know she was Holly Paynter, the storyteller, and she was going to have to put together a story about the goblet scandal of 1889.

  What a tangle of lies and half-truths she’d woven!

  And all for the goblets and family pride?

  No, she thought. Not all. They’d gotten her to Mill Brook, but they weren’t what was keeping her there.

  Julian was, and that, she thought, might be the scariest part of all.

  Chapter Seven

  “This is very embarrassing,” Dorothy Windham said over Sunday afternoon tea. Just she and Holly were in the parlor. She set her cup and saucer on her lap and stared out at an oriole prancing among her bird feeders.

  Holly didn’t want to make the older woman feel awkward, but Dorothy’s news had knocked her further off balance. She hadn’t quite gotten her bearings in Mill Brook since crashing through the Danvers House ceiling and was despairing she ever would.

  Now this.

  “You’re booked up for the entire week?”

  Dorothy nodded painfully. “I feel terrible about it, particularly since you’ve volunteered your time and talent for the historical society.”

  “You shouldn’t feel bad,” Holly said, wishing she could make herself sound more sincere. The truth was, however, that without the Windham House, she didn’t know where she’d stay. Ordinarily she’d just camp out in her van, but the mercury had dipped close to zero last night. Vermont in late January was no place to camp. What was she supposed to do? You could always go back to Florida where you belong. Florida, of course, wasn’t home, and she wasn’t at all sure it was where she belonged. But clearly she didn’t belong in southern Vermont.

  “My nephew Julian proposed a solution you might consider.” her hostess said hopefully.

  Holly tried not to look too skeptical. She’d had a feeling Julian’s hand had been stirring this particular stinking pot. Sipping tea, she asked noncommittally, “What’s that?”

  “He made the point—and I quite agree—that since you’re offering your services on Mill Brook’s behalf, you shouldn’t have to pay for your lodgings here.”

  “Mrs. Windham, you don’t owe me a free room...”

  “I do, and if I had a spare one to give you, I certainly wouldn’t charge you. I’ve been a member of the Mill Brook Historical Society for forty years, and I’ll be the first to say that we could never have afforded to pay you for what you’ve so generously agreed to give us. I might also add that word of your performance has begun to circulate and it’s sure to be a sellout. No, I’m in complete agreement with Julian that we should find you a place to stay here in town.”

  Holly shook her head. “I won’t impose on strangers.”

  “Julian thought you might feel that way, but he was hoping you wouldn’t consider him a stranger.”

  “Him?”

  “Yes, he’s offered to take you in as his guest.”

  It was all Holly could do to keep from choking on her tea. “I’ve been out to his house—”

  “Lovely, isn’t it? You could really absorb the atmosphere of a New England winter out there. Holly, I wouldn’t even bring up such an invitation if I didn’t know my nephew. He’s a sweet, gentle, thoughtful young man.”

  He’s a sneaky bastard is what he is, Holly thought. Sending his aunt in to do the dirty work. No room at the inn, no place to go but out into the woods with that wolf. She’d rather leave town now.

  Then Grandpa Wingate’s voice came to her. It was filled with regret and repressed anger. She could feel the heat and humidity of that summer night on the Gulf, when it was just the two of them together in their tiny house.

  “Wasn’t a week went by that my daddy didn’t tell me about how bad he felt, not having those goblets to pass on to me, and me to your mother, and her to you. He’d have liked you, Holly. He’d have liked your spunk. He never forgave himself for losing the goblets. Felt he let all of us future Wingates down.”

  How could she think of leaving Mill Brook without the goblets? They didn’t belong to Julian. They weren’t his to protect.

  But she forced herself to recall the rest of her grandfather’s words, spoken so many times over the years.

  “Pride drove your great-grandpa to try to donate those goblets to that darned academy. You never forget that, Holly, y’hear? Don’t you ever let your pride get in the way of your good judgment, lest you do something stupid and people accuse you of things you never did and never meant to happen.”

  They were words to remember.

  And yet her grandfather had never met Julian Stiles and if she snuck off now...

  She poised her teacup midair and froze. The thought was there, formed and complete.

  If she snuck off now, not only would she not have the goblets, but she’d never see Julian again.

  But if she waited, bided her time, plotted and schemed and got the goblets back—and then if she left town, with the goblets...

  Julian would track her down. He’d said so.

  Setting down her tea and reaching for a piping hot applesauce-oatmeal muffin, Holly told Dorothy Windham she’d be happy to discuss staying with her nephew.

  Even if, she added silently, it was the most outrageous thing she’d ever done.

  Holly listened to dire warnings of a nor’easter on her van radio as she bumped along Julian’s impossible driveway. The forecast called for ten to twelve inches of snow. She shivered at the prospect. She and Julian could shovel snow together. Break their backs and then collapse by the fire. How invigorating.

  You could give him a back rub...

  If she threw her van into reverse and backed out now, she might make Virginia before the snowstorm hit. But she no longer could pretend that was an option. If not for the goblets, if not for whatever was going on between her and Julian, she still had to stay. Her own professional reputation was involved now. She had agreed to do a fund-raiser for the Mill Brook Historical Society. It was a commitment. She needed to keep it.

  At last, Julian’s house came into view. He’d left the outside light on for her, given winter’s early sunsets. It wasn’t even dinnertime and already dark, still darker out in the woods. Holly parked and got out her leather satchel, hastily but expertly packed. Dorothy Windham had given her a paper sack of sweet rolls to take up to her nephew; Holly grabbed them, too. She acknowledged her pulse was racing, and she wasn’t quite sure what the devil she was doing or why, just that she was going to go ahead and stay out here in the wilderness. With Julian Stiles. It’d be just the two of them.

  And his dogs.

  And her imagination.

  ‘The man works,” she reminded herself. “And so do you: you’ve got a story to concoct.”

  She knocked and let herself in. Julian was busy setting the table in the dining area, his hair still damp from a recent shower. She smiled at him from the kitchen and set the sweet rolls on the counter and her satchel at her feet. The rush of awkwardness she’d anticipated feeling didn’t materialize. Instead her frayed nerves relaxed at the smell of baking apples and the melodic, rasping sounds of Mose Allison on the stereo.

  “Hey, there,” Julian said, smiling at her as he set out two wineglasses. “Welcome.”

  “You sound sincere.”

  He laughed. “I’m always sincere.”

  “Julian, why did you do this?”

  “Because I’m a thoughtful nephew who wanted to get his aunt out of an embarrassing situation.”

  “It’s hardly her fault—”

  “I know that and you know that, but Aunt Doe is a very gracious woman.”

  “And you want to keep an eye on me.”

  He came into the kitchen. “That
I do.”

  “I appreciate your honesty,” she said.

  “Why did you come?”

  She shrugged. “Because it was easier than not coming.”

  “You’re not madly curious about how I live?”

  “I’ve seen how you live.”

  “But,” he said, leaning against an oak counter, “you haven’t experienced it. Maybe you’ll come to understand why I love it out here so much. Would you like me to carry your bag upstairs?”

  “No, I’ll do it. I... um... hope I’m not putting you out.”

  “Not at all.” He pointed into the living room. “Stairs are right back there.”

  They led to a cozy loft with wood floors, wood walls, a slanted wood ceiling and railing overlooking the living room below. Holly could easily imagine Julian and his brother and sister cutting the wood for the huge beams. She set her satchel on the double platform bed. There was just one. And obviously this was the only bedroom. She was perfectly aware of the sexual tension between her and the Yankee downstairs, but she wasn’t certain she wanted to act on it just yet, with all that remained unresolved between them. And she knew she didn’t appreciate his being that matter-of-fact about it. Just having her dump her things upstairs in his bedroom didn’t strike her as particularly sexy or romantic—not that she planned to tell him that.

  There was always that chance she was jumping to conclusions.

  She popped her head over the railing and called down, “You sure you don’t mind me using your bed?”

  “Nope,” he said from the kitchen.

  Of course he wouldn’t if he planned to share it with her. Bad phrasing of a question. She tried again. “I hate to put you out of your own bedroom.”

  He ambled into the living room and looked up at her, slowly wiping a knife with a dish towel. He grinned. “Holly,” he said, “you don’t have to fret. The couch pulls out.”

  “Oh. I just didn’t want you to have to sleep on the floor.”

  Before her cheeks could flush crimson—not from embarrassment, but from awareness—she pulled her head back from over the railing. Even with him downstairs on the couch, it was going to be close quarters.