Finders Keepers (Mill Brook Book 1) Read online

  As he hung up, Julian could hear Madame Butterfly moving toward its tragic, inevitable conclusion. In twenty years, he wondered, will I, too, be home alone listening to sad operas so late at night?

  holly felt a bit like Little Red Riding Hood taking the shortcut through the forbidden forest late the next morning as she bumped along what had to be the road to nowhere. It was narrow, unpaved, winding, hilly, covered with packed snow and dotted with patches of ice that appeared without warning. Either she’d end up in a ditch or she’d survive this ordeal.

  “What ditch?” she grumbled to herself.

  There were no ditches, no shoulders, no guardrails to the one-lane driveway. It was just a strip carved out of the forest, which seemed to be working hard to reclaim its land. Snow-laden evergreen branches hung low over the road. Giant boulders loomed on its edge. A shallow swamp—wetland, in contemporary parlance—had seeped beyond its boundaries, creating a thick, treacherous patch of ice that Julian, and therefore Holly, had to go around.

  Yet when she dared to take her eyes off the road, just for an instant, she could see the sparkling beauty of the landscape and fed its peace... and was captivated. Yesterday’s clouds had pushed on to the east. In their place was a high, cloudless blue sky with a sun so bright that it glittered on the newly fallen white, white snow, hurting her eyes.

  “Why don’t you meet me for lunch,” Julian had suggested in a surprising nine-o’clock call.

  The invitation sounded suspicious to her. She told him so.

  He laughed, apparently not taking offense. “I thought you might like a look at the Revere goblets I found.”

  “Well, I would, of course, but only if it’s no trouble. I don’t have to see them—” Just swipe ‘em and go.

  “It’s no trouble. Is noon all right?”

  “Fine. Um... where’s your house?”

  “Ask Bert at the gas station,” he said, hanging up.

  Her van, a true workhorse, negotiated a tight, treacherous S-curve that had her pulse racing by the time she’d twisted out of it. How could anyone actually live out here? she wondered.

  At last the woods opened into a clearing and the driveway widened slightly—and there was a house. Civilization! A Land Rover was parked in front of the garage door; Holly eased in behind it. She peeled her fingers off the steering wheel, took a breath and decided her knees weren’t so wobbly they’d fold up underneath her when she got out of the van.

  Two enormous dogs scrambled out from under a low-hanging evergreen, barking and carrying on until their master emerged from the house and hollered something they, but not Holly, could understand. The creatures backed off.

  “Meet Pen and Ink,” Julian said, looking reassuringly calm. He was in jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt and old mud boots, but he looked so damnably sexy Holly could feel her cheeks grow hot and her fingertips tingle. Madness.

  She greeted the dogs cautiously.

  Julian added, ‘They’re not as ferocious as they think they are, but they do keep an eye on the place.”

  “Not good with strangers, are they?”

  He smiled nastily. “Like their master.”

  Holly decided that was a point to remember, should she need to double back alone to restore the goblets to their rightful place in the Wingate family. Luckily she wasn’t afraid of dogs, and if in the short time she was here this afternoon she made friends with them.. .well, she wouldn’t be a stranger, would she?

  Julian was eyeing her from the gravel walk. “How’d you make out getting here?”

  “I thought you might end up having to fish me out of the swamp a couple of times, but I managed. I never really lost control of my van. How long is that driveway?”

  “Two-point-three miles.”

  “It feels like thirty.”

  “Maybe,” he said, pushing open the solid wood door, “but I think the trip’s worth the price.”

  Holly wasn’t so sure. The isolated setting of the house had a certain spectacular beauty, with the clearing giving way to a steep, wooded hillside. She could just imagine the dramatic views from inside the house. At the bottom of the hill flowed a winding stream. In the silence, she could hear the clear, icy water rushing over the rocks. Very nice, very soothing. But what about people?

  Since she was still planning to restore the goblets to the Wingate family—Julian would say steal them— Holly decided to be polite. “It’s a lovely spot. How far away is your nearest neighbor?”

  “Oh, miles.”

  She’d know exactly how many miles, have phone numbers posted and people to check in on her regularly to make sure she hadn’t broken a leg or something out there in the boonies.

  She followed him into the small, rustic house, straight into an efficient galley kitchen. Other than a dirty coffee mug in the sink, it was spotlessly clean. Holly tried to imagine Julian Stiles scrubbing his own refrigerator and found, to her surprise, that she could. He wasn’t a man who shied away from physical labor. The vice president of Mill Brook Post and Beam she’d imagined on her way up from Florida would have hired someone to do the job for him, assumed it was “woman’s work” or simply not bothered.

  “What about when it snows?” she asked. “Do you have to plow your own driveway?”

  “Since it’s not a town road, yes. I don’t mind. I’ve got a four-wheel-drive truck with a plow, and I can hook a plow on to the Rover if I need to. Being so far out, I keep two vehicles on the road. In case one gives out, I’ve always got the other. There are adjustments to make to live this kind of life,” he added, “but not as many as you might think.”

  “Feels like the back end of nowhere to me.”

  He laughed. “There’re times I’d agree with you, mostly at about ten o’clock at night when I’m dying for a pizza or Chinese food.”

  “I’m partial to take-out Tex-Mex myself.”

  “I’ve learned to keep a well-stocked fridge. Speaking of which—can I get you anything?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Holly found herself less anxious to get on with the business of the goblets than she’d expected, more willing to hear about Julian’s life out here in the wilderness. It was a storyteller’s need to know, she told herself. But leaning against the refrigerator, she watched him wash his hands with a mean-looking bar of yellow soap and had to admit she was warming up to the man. Everyone’s got a smidgen of good in ‘em, Grandpa Wingate would say. Even a Danvers-Stiles?

  Drying his hands with a dishcloth that had seen finer days, Julian led Holly into the combination living room-dining room. As she’d predicted, the views from the bank of windows were nothing short of stunning. The snow was deeper this far into the woods, clinging to the stone walls and evergreens.

  Julian stirred the ashes in his stone fireplace with a wrought-iron poker and found a few red-hot coals. He added a stick of wood. She admired the way his body worked. His movements were casual. Natural. There was no wasted energy, nothing for show. He knew what he was doing and did it well.

  He suited this practical, solid, attractive house. The strong native timbers and earthy colors told as much about him as Holly had learned from their conversations. He belonged here, she realized—and almost envied him. In all her wanderings, she’d never come to a place she couldn’t envision leaving.

  “Here, why don’t you have a look at the goblets while I throw together some lunch.” Before she could answer, he grabbed a black iron box and set it on the couch next to where she stood. “Enjoy.”

  When he returned to the kitchen, Holly sat on the edge of the couch. Her fingers were shaking. She didn’t like that, but not because she was one to chastise herself for being nervous. As a storyteller, she’d had to learn to cope with—and accept—a degree of nervousness before a performance. No, she was being hard on herself because it wasn’t nervousness that had set her hands to shaking. It wasn’t even anticipation at seeing, at last, the fabled goblets of her childhood. It was guilt, pure and simple. She knew she was going to relieve Julian Stiles of
them, and she was having her doubts about whether or not that was the right thing to do.

  “Of course it is,” she muttered. “His ancestors stole them from Zachariah.”

  Her hands somewhat steadier, she opened the iron box.

  “How do you like them?” Julian yelled from the kitchen.

  She was breathless. “They’re beautiful.” Did she sound impressed but also suitably nonchalant? A professional’s interest only? “They’re so simple, and yet there’s an understated elegance about them. And, of course, knowing Paul Revere crafted them adds to their aura.”

  He came into the kitchen doorway, the dish towel flung over one shoulder. “I’m going to put them on display in the restaurant—right out on the mantel in the main dining room—the old Danvers House parlor.”

  “You’re kidding—a restaurant?” She knew she sounded appalled.

  “It’s not as gauche as it sounds. The Danvers House is too big to live in, and I don’t want to turn it into apartments or a bed-and-breakfast. I have a couple of friends, a husband-wife team, who’re chefs. They graduated from the culinary institute in Montpelier. They’ve been bouncing around, and now one’s working up in Burlington and the other out in Saratoga Springs. They hardly see each other. They want to start a family, and they’d love to have their own restaurant. So we’ve worked out a deal.”

  The loss of the goblets, Holly thought, wouldn’t have to affect those plans. They could still open their restaurant, start a family, be together. You don’t have to feel guilty.

  Julian disappeared back into the kitchen. “We’re calling the place the Silver Goblets Restaurant. What do you think?”

  “I think you should call it the Danvers House.”

  “How come?”

  “That’s what the house has been known as for the past couple of centuries, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” he said thoughtfully, “I guess so. But we like the Silver Goblets. We figure we can put the story of the scandal—how Zachariah Wingate’s misguided sense of pride drove him to steal the goblets to pay back his scholarship—right on the menu. When you have a couple of sterling-silver goblets crafted by Paul Revere himself, you ought to make use of them, right?”

  “I suppose it’d be hard not to,” Holly replied, her mouth dry as she stared at the beautiful goblets... and her spine stiffened. Just who did he think he was to jump to conclusions about her great-grandfather?

  Julian materialized at her side, and she jumped, startled, as he unceremoniously handed her a sandwich, no napkin, no plate. ‘I’ve got paper towels if you want,” he said.

  “This’ll be fine.”

  “It’s Vermont smoked turkey.”

  All this politeness and chitchat was fraying her nerves—and she had the unmistakable feeling Julian wasn’t entirely on the level with her. With her free hand, she snapped the iron case shut. “Aren’t you afraid someone’ll steal them?”

  “From the restaurant?”

  “Well, yes. I can’t imagine anyone braving that driveway to steal them from here.” Oh, what a tangled web we weave...

  “I guess we’ll have to figure out something for security, but I’m not worried about it, no.”

  She looked him square in his emerald eyes. He was one sexy male, “bu must have changed your opinion of me since we first met.”

  He shrugged, biting into his sandwich. “What, should I be afraid you’re going to try to steal the goblets?”

  His eyes held hers, his brows slightly raised, and she could feel her throat tightening. She wished he would stop looking at her like that, so knowingly, daring her. My God, she thought, does he know?

  “Of course not. You were just so suspicious when I crashed through your ceiling.”

  “What a bastard I am,” he said with amused sarcasm. “A strange woman breaks into my building, misses me by mere inches falling through my ceiling, takes off when I catch her in a lie about a couple of lost puppies and I get suspicious.”

  “Now you know I’m just a storyteller and .. .”

  “And it was just your storyteller’s curiosity that drove you to breaking into the Danvers House. It won’t wash, Holly.” Without preamble, he headed hack to the kitchen, returning with a paper towel. “Honey mustard on your cheek. Want me to get it?”

  She snatched her paper towel. “I will, thanks.”

  A flash of laughter in his eyes told her he’d noticed how quickly and forcefully she’d gone for the towel, knew it meant she wasn’t anxious to have him touch her. Or, more accurately, was too anxious.

  He went on, as if there’d been no honey mustard and no paper towel, “I just don’t think you’re a thief.”

  “I’m not,” she said, forcing herself not to look away.

  “Good.”

  And you’re not as nice as you’re pretending you are. Holly inhaled, maintaining her self-control. She’d been lured into the forest on the wolf’s terms. Her! Grandpa Wingate had warned her about the devils in Mill Brook, Vermont! Of all people, she should have known better than to let herself get sucked in by a little Yankee charm just because Julian Stiles had decided to act nice.

  “Coffee?” he asked—so charmingly.

  “Sure.”

  Again he disappeared into the kitchen, grabbing the telephone when it rang. “Hey, Adam—what’s up?” he asked. “No kidding. Yeah, I’m on my way.” He hung up, calling into the living room, “That was my brother. Something’s come up at the mill and I’ve got to head back.”

  Holly was on her feet, making her way to the kitchen. “Nothing serious, I hope?”

  “To Adam everything that concerns the mill’s serious—but no, nothing serious. Just pressing. I’m sorry to have to cut our lunch short. Look, why don’t you just make yourself at home? The kitchen’s not very complicated. There’s coffee, tea, cocoa, beer. Help yourself. If you’d like another sandwich—”

  Her stomach was in such a knot, she could barely choke down the one she had. It was her turn to be royally suspicious. “No, no, I’m fine.”

  “You’ll be able to find your way out all right?”

  She nodded. “I can leave now if you’d rather...”

  “No, I wouldn’t rather.”

  There was something serious, something seductive, in his expression that Holly warned herself not to examine more closely. “My van’s blocking your Rover—”

  “I’ll just take the truck.”

  He was dripping sweetness. Holly decided to go along and play his game. “And I should just hang out here as long as I want?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Spend the afternoon, if you like. When I get back we can go out together and have an early dinner.”

  “Then I’d have to come all the way back here and drive out on that two-point-three mile driveway in the pitch-dark alone. I’m afraid I’d have a wreck.”

  He shrugged, his eyes fixed on hers, the something serious, something seductive easily detected now: the man wanted her. “You could wait and go in the morning.”

  Before she could stop herself, she glanced around. The small house couldn’t have more than one bedroom. Julian watched her, and she could tell he knew what she was thinking. A night alone with him here in the woods... him on the couch, her in his bed... vice versa. She felt herself stiffening against the onslaught of images. It would never work. With the sexual electricity snapping and popping between them, they’d end up making love. And regretting it afterward. They were just too different. She was a wandering Texas storyteller. He was a stick-in-the-mud Yankee.

  And a Danvers-Stiles to boot.

  “Are you serious.” she said, “or just teasing?”

  “What do you think?” He smiled and moved closer to her, his eyes strangely dark, and hooded. “Let’s stop pretending there’s nothing going on between us.”

  “Julian—”

  “I can feel it, Holly. So can you.”

  She could. She wouldn’t deny it, at least not to herself. To him, she said, “Most of my things are at your aunt’s house—�
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  “Holly, Holly.”

  He brushed a strawberry lock behind her ear, let his fingers comb gently through her hair to her nape. His touch was light, tantalizing. His fingertips gently pressed the soft, sensitive skin just under her hairline. Her tensed shoulder and neck muscles loosened, and she responded unexpectedly with a soft, contented moan and closed her eyes, for a moment giving in to the pleasure of what he was doing,

  “I wish I understood you,” he whispered.

  She could feel his breath on her mouth. He brushed his lips on hers. If she opened her eyes, she knew she’d have to make him stop, so she kept them closed. His lips touched her nose, her eyelids. His kisses were soft, feathery, as impossible to catch as the wind. Before she could react to his kissing one spot, he was on to another, until finally he came back to her mouth, and he lingered there.

  “I’ll stop if you want me to,” he said.

  She shook her head, opening her eyes now, refusing to try to hide from her own responsibility for what was happening. “I don’t.”

  Slowly, erotically, he moved his hand from her hairline down her spine to her waist. He drew her closer, or she pulled herself against him—it didn’t matter which. She wasn’t keeping a scorecard.

  Then his mouth opened on hers, and he traced her lips with the hot wetness of his tongue. Her entire body seemed to gasp with the sheer awareness of him, the excitement he was creating in her.

  There was no denying her hunger now. No pretending, no holding back. She opened her mouth, inviting the darting heat of his tongue, and with her tongue, she traced his lips, the sharp edges of his teeth. She could feel her breasts swelling, straining within the confines of her bra, begging for the touch of his hands, the wet fire of his tongue.

  Then he pulled away, as quickly and abruptly as if she’d just turned into a live coal and was suddenly too hot to handle.

  His gaze was dusky, filled with bridled passion. Holly was no fool: she knew he wanted her.

  Knew, too, that she wanted him.

  “Stay here as long as you like,” he said, a little hoarse.

  Holly decided not to ask him what the hell had just happened, what it meant. What had happened, they’d kissed. What it meant, nothing.