Bewitching: His Secret Agenda Page 8

  She shook her head. “I decided to wait until we’d talked before trying to see your uncle again.”

  Win didn’t say a word. Instead he picked up the bubbling pot and dumped the contents into a colander in the sink, steam enveloping him. He set down the empty pot. Hannah noticed the muscles in his back and upper arms, felt the raw sexiness of the man. Her careful preparations for dealing with the Harlings of Boston had been way off the mark.

  He transferred the pasta to the warmed dish, then spooned on a herb and oil sauce and sautéed vegetables, tossing them with two forks.

  “Why the interrogation?” Hannah finally asked.

  “Because I don’t know you.” He brought the bowls of pasta and salad to the table, which wasn’t set for dinner. “I don’t know you at all, Hannah Marsh.”

  Suddenly he turned and lifted her by the elbows, slipping his hands under the heavy sweater and drawing her toward him. She didn’t resist. To maintain her balance she let her palms press against his chest. It was even harder than she had anticipated. He drew her even closer, until she had little choice but to let her arms slide around his back. Now her breasts were pressed against his chest. She could feel the nipples turning into small pebbles. How much more of this could she stand?

  How much more did she want?

  Their eyes locked, just for an instant. She knew what he wanted. What she wanted.

  Then his mouth closed over hers, hot and hungry, his tongue urged her lips apart, as if its probing would find all her secrets, answer all his questions. She felt herself responding. Her mind said she was crazy. He was a Harling, Cousin Thackeray had warned her, but her body didn’t care. Her tongue did its own probing, its own urging. Her breasts strained against the muscles of his chest. He pushed one knee between her legs, pressing his hard masculinity against her, kneading her hips until she moaned softly, agonizingly, into his mouth. Don’t stop, her body said, over and over. Don’t ever stop.

  But he took her by the shoulders and disentangled himself, pulling himself away. She felt swollen, frustrated, a little embarrassed. She couldn’t read his expression. His eyes were masked, dark and mesmerizing.

  “Did you ransack my uncle’s apartment?” he asked hoarsely.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “No, I—of course I didn’t!”

  “You never went back to Marlborough Street?”

  “I said no. What happened? Is your uncle all right?”

  “Someone broke into his apartment. He’s shaken up but otherwise fine.”

  She stepped back, increasing the physical and psychic distance between them. “So, that’s what this is about. You’re trying to weaken my defenses and get me to admit to something I didn’t do. Well, you’re way off base, Win Harling. I’ve told you the truth.”

  He nodded curtly. “Fair enough.” He picked up the two bowls that stood on the table. “We’ll eat in the dining room.”

  “I don’t know how I can have dinner with you after— My God, I can’t believe you’d think I could rob an old man!”

  “Why not? Think of all the things you believe I’m capable of doing.” He grinned at her over his shoulder. “Come on, Hannah. My doubts about you aren’t upsetting you nearly as much as that kiss.”

  She grew cool. “I’ve been kissed before.”

  “But have you ever responded like that?”

  It was only nominally a question. He had got it into his head that she hadn’t. That he’d been the first man she’d let get to her like that with a first kiss. The problem was, he was right. Ordinarily she held back. Deliberately, easily. She had never before permitted herself to respond with such abandon, such openness.

  A serious mistake, perhaps?

  Well, what was done was done. He had used her. Manipulated her. Lowered her defenses so that he could pose his nasty question and catch her off guard. He hadn’t been anywhere close to out of control.

  But he had been aroused. No doubt about that.

  As he led her down a short hall, she noticed its cherry floor needed sanding. They entered a chandeliered dining room with the ugliest wallpaper she’d ever seen. Parts of it had been peeled back, revealing a clashing, but prettier, paper underneath. The only furnishings were an antique grandfather clock, a massive, gorgeous, cherry table and a couple of folding, metal chairs that decidedly didn’t match. The walls were wainscoted and the ceilings high, the windows looking onto a darkened courtyard. The table was set with cloth place mats and simple white porcelain plates.

  “I’ll get the wine,” Win said and disappeared.

  Alone in the dining room, Hannah took the opportunity to restore her composure. She wiped her still-sensitized mouth with a soft cloth napkin and listened to the ticking of the grandfather clock, letting it soothe her. Although the Harling House was in the middle of the city, it might have been on Marsh Point itself for all its quiet and sense of isolation, its potential for loneliness.

  Suddenly she wondered if she and Win Harling had more in common than either wanted to admit. Perhaps what had them groping for each other wasn’t just a physical attraction gone overboard, but a subconscious understanding of that commonality.

  He returned with their two glasses and the bottle of wine.

  “I should go,” she said.

  “I know. I should make you go.” He refilled her glass. “But there’s another matter we need to discuss.”

  She could think of several. “What’s that?”

  “A rare copy of the Declaration of Independence, possibly worth hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “I DON’T KNOW what you’re talking about,” Hannah said simply.

  Win lighted two tall, slender, white candles and sat on the folding chair at one end of the table, watching her in the flickering light. She was, he thought, a bewitching woman. “I figured that was what you’d say.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Tell me,” he said, pausing to sip his wine. “How did you learn about the Harling Collection?”

  “It was mentioned in passing in something I read. I can’t remember offhand exactly what it was, but I keep exhaustive records. I could look it up.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “I don’t like your tone, Mr. Harling.” Hers was assertive, bordering on angry. “And I’m not under any obligation to obey any orders from you.”

  He set down his wineglass and passed her the pasta bowl, noting the slenderness of her wrists, the unself-conscious femininity of her movements. “Tell me again why you want to get your hands on the Harling Collection.”

  “I don’t want to ‘get my hands’ on it. I want access to it—a chance to study it for anything it might contain pertinent to my work.”

  “Meaning anything on Priscilla Marsh or Cotton Harling.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then you’re saying you didn’t realize the Harling Collection is rumored to include a valuable, rare copy of the Declaration of Independence.”

  He could see his words sinking in, along with all their ramifications, and was suddenly glad they’d kissed before he’d brought up the touchy subject.

  “Oh, I see what you’re getting at.” She bit off each word, anger visibly boiling to the surface. Her green eyes were hot, almost liquid. “You’re accusing me of breaking into your uncle’s apartment in an attempt to find the Harling Collection or some clue as to its location, in order to steal this Declaration of Independence and make a handy profit for myself at Harling expense.”

  Win scooped pasta onto her plate, and then onto his, maintaining his calm. “Only Uncle Jonathan doesn’t know where the Harling Collection is. No one does. No one can even verify it exists, or ever did.” His gaze fell upon her; it would be easier if she weren’t so damned attractive. �
��Unless you have a new lead you’re keeping to yourself.”

  She gave him a haughty look. “Why would you think that?”

  He shrugged. “You’re a scholar. You’re good at doing research. Who knows what you might have ferreted out in the last week?”

  “We’re in quite a position, aren’t we?”

  Her voice rasped with not very well-suppressed fury, although, given her behavior this past week, Win couldn’t understand why she was so irritated. Under the circumstances, he felt his suspicions were quite natural.

  “By pretending to be a Harling,” she went on, speaking tightly, “I shattered any trust you might have had in me, no matter how innocuous my intentions or how understandable my reasons. You still can’t believe me. Won’t believe me. Then there’s the impact of three centuries of Marsh-Harling conflict....”

  “It hasn’t had any impact on me.” Win tried his pasta; not bad. Hannah might calm down if she ate some. “Maybe it’s had an impact on you, but not on me. I was hardly even aware of the extent of the grudge you Marshes hold against us.”

  “You’re a Harling....”

  “But not a Bostonian. I was born and raised in New York. I only came to Boston last year, when I bought this house and moved my offices.”

  She didn’t seem particularly interested in his personal history, but he found himself wondering about hers. Where did Hannah Marsh live? How? And what made her tick?

  “You had to know about Cotton and Priscilla,” she said.

  He smiled. “You talk about them as if you know them.”

  “That’s my job, to feel as if I know the people I write about. It’s pure arrogance to believe I do, but I have at least to have some sense of who they were. I have to feel that if they suddenly came to life in my kitchen, I’d recognize them.” She caught herself and took a breath. “Not that I have to explain myself to you.”

  “Of course not. Yes, I was aware of Cotton and Priscilla, but I haven’t participated in perpetuating three-hundred-year-old grudges.”

  “Well, aren’t you high and mighty? I’ve been doing everything I can to maintain my objectivity. I don’t have a personal grudge against the Harlings. And if you don’t have anything against the Marshes, why check into your family’s absurd claim to Marsh Point?”

  “It’s not absurd,” he said offhandedly. “Actually, it’s rather well-founded.”

  Her look would have shot holes in him if it could have. “There, you see? You’re no saint, Win Harling.”

  “Oh,” he said playfully, “that I’m definitely not.”

  He could see her recognizing his words as the multipronged threat he’d intended them to be. Even with the pasta and more wine, he could still taste her mouth, imagine the taste of her skin.

  “The point is,” she said a little hoarsely, “where do we go from here?”

  His gaze held hers. In the old, candlelit room, she could have passed for her doomed ancestor. But Win couldn’t make up for the wrongs of Cotton Harling. He had his uncle to consider. “Trust is earned.”

  Hannah sprang to her feet, visibly indignant. “I didn’t break into your uncle’s apartment. I had no idea until tonight the Harling Collection might include anything of monetary value.” She threw down her napkin, resisting an impulse, Win thought, to try to whip his head off with it. “There’s nothing I can do to make you believe me. I’m not even going to try. Good night, Win. Please tell your uncle I hope he’s all right.”

  And that was that.

  Off she stomped to the front door, yanking it open and slamming it shut on her way out.

  An angry woman, Hannah Marsh.

  She hadn’t eaten so much as a pea pod of her dinner. Win sighed and got up. He supposed he ought to go after her and apologize. But for what?

  And what bothered her more? he wondered. His accusing her of breaking and entering or kissing her? Wanting her as much and as obviously as he did?

  How the hell was he supposed to know for sure what she was up to? His first loyalty was to Uncle Jonathan, not to some fair-haired scholar with a bee in her bonnet about his ancestors.

  Yet Hannah Marsh was so much more. He sensed it, knew it. There was a depth and complexity to her he hadn’t even begun to probe.

  He gritted his teeth at the unbidden thought of just how much of Ms. Marsh he wanted to probe....

  “Damn,” he muttered. Now it was his turn to throw down his napkin and pound from the room. He’d lost his appetite.

  The doorbell rang.

  “Hannah?”

  He headed for the entry and pulled open the heavy front door, only to find his elderly uncle leaning on his cane and looking none the worse for wear for his day’s ordeal. Without preamble the old man said, “The damned thief did get away with something.”

  “What? You don’t have much of value....”

  “Anne Harling’s diary.”

  Win stared. Now what? “Who the hell’s Anne Harling?”

  “Your great-great-aunt, remember? The one who gathered together the Harling Collection. She died in 1892.”

  Wonderful. “Uncle Jonathan...”

  “Invite me in, Winthrop. We need to talk.”

  * * *

  THE NEXT MORNING, Hannah arrived at the New England Athenaeum within five minutes of its opening and asked to see Preston Fowler, in private. He brought her into his office, where she admitted to him that she was not Hannah Harling of the Ohio Harlings.

  “I’m a Marsh,” she said baldly.

  He paled.

  “Hannah Marsh.”

  “The biographer?”

  At least he’d heard of her. She nodded.

  He sighed, looking slightly ill. “My, my.”

  “I’m sorry I lied to you. It was just an expedient. I didn’t think I could use the facilities here if you knew I was a Marsh.” She swallowed. “I didn’t think you’d risk offending the Harlings.”

  Fowler winced. “Your two families...the Harlings and the Marshes...”

  “The history between us hasn’t affected—and won’t affect—my work,” she said crisply, trying to sound like the professional she was. “I didn’t want my being a Marsh to come into play. Hence my ruse. I’m very sorry.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “The Harlings know the truth now, and I’ve made it clear to them that you were in no way a party to my deceit.” She sounded so stuffy and contrite, but in fact she was neither. What she wanted to do was tell Win Harling to go to hell and Preston Fowler to have a little more integrity than to suck up to rich Bostonians for donations. “That’s all I came to say.”

  Fowler tilted back his chair, placing the tips of his fingers together to make a tent. He sighed again. “How awkward.”

  “It’s not awkward, Mr. Fowler. Not at all. I’m leaving Boston today. All you have to do is carry on with your work and pretend I never existed.”

  He nodded. “Very well. What about your biography of Priscilla? Will it go forward now that this has happened?”

  “Of course. Why shouldn’t it? Most of my research is completed.”

  “But the Harlings...”

  Hannah sat forward. “I don’t care what the Harlings want or think.”

  With that she apologized once more, assured him no harm had been done to his venerable institution and headed out. Yesterday’s clouds and rain had been pushed off over the Atlantic, leaving blue sky and warm air in their wake. Hannah breathed in deep lungfuls of it before crossing the Public Garden and cutting past the Ritz Carlton Hotel into Boston’s Back Bay, straight for Marlborough Street.

  Jonathan Harling asked for her name twice over the intercom. “Marsh,” she said both times. “It’s Hannah Marsh.”

  He buzzed her in, anyway.

  “Come on in,” he said, opening his apartme
nt door. “I’ve been wondering when you’d show up. Think the roof’ll cave in with a Marsh and Harling under it? Though I suppose if it didn’t last night, with you and Win, we should be all right.”

  The glitter in his eye suggested—although Hannah couldn’t be certain—he had a fair idea that she and his nephew had more than simply shared the same roof. But she had vowed to stop thinking about Win’s mouth on hers, his hard maleness thrust against her. She would not be at the mercy of her hormones.

  Nonetheless, every fiber of her body—of her being—said she wanted more from Jonathan’s nephew than a kiss, more than a heady embrace. She wanted to feel his skin against hers, his maleness inside her.

  She wanted him to make love to her...with her.

  There was no point in denying the obvious. Her abrupt departure last night had had less to do with his disgusting suspicion—his talk of the Declaration of Independence and of larceny—than with her ongoing, unstoppable, outrageous physical response to him. His dark, penetrating gaze had filled her with erotic notions. His hands, as he’d lighted the candles, had left her breathless, conjured up images of his touch on her mouth, her breasts, between her legs. Just looking at him had made her think of the two of them together in bed, or just right there on the dining room floor.

  Such wild, irresponsible thinking had to stop.

  It just had to. It was perverse to want a man she couldn’t possibly have. A man who, even as her body ached for him, believed she was a thief, a grudge-holding Marsh, a woman he couldn’t trust.

  Jonathan Harling’s apartment looked tidy, if cluttered, no evidence of a thorough ransacking still apparent. He offered Hannah a seat on an overstuffed, overly firm sofa. He himself flopped into a cushioned rocker. He was casually dressed, in a cardigan frayed at the elbows and chinos that must have seen Harry Truman into office. Hannah didn’t feel the least bit out of place in her jeans and giant Maine sweatshirt.

  “What can I do for you?” Jonathan Harling asked.

  “I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about yesterday. Win told me. I hope you know I wasn’t involved. I—” She broke off awkwardly, then decided she might as well get on with it. “You know by now I’m a Marsh and there are no Ohio Harlings.”