Finders Keepers Page 8

  He’d unclenched his fists, and she could see his callused palms and his strong fingers. Her monologue to the contrary, she imagined them on her bare skin, somewhere, anywhere. Everywhere.

  He was standing toe-to-toe with her, his breathing hard. His eyes, so dark all of a sudden, were squinted as if in bright sun, searching her face for all the kinds of things she didn’t want him to see. She prided herself on her ability to read people, but she couldn’t read him, not now. Was he more angry than satisfied? More amused than incredulous? More determined than put off? She couldn’t tell.

  “All right,” he said calmly. “We won’t talk about what’s between us. We’ll save that for later and talk about the goblets now.”

  Holly took some comfort in knowing her instincts hadn’t failed her: she’d guessed her heist had been too blasted easy! But how much did Julian know? What should she admit? Early on in life, she’d learned not to change a story midstream, not to grab for another piece of floating debris that seemed stronger than the one you had, but might not be. Why take the risk of sinking? What she’d told Julian so far might be garbage, but it was her garbage and so far it had kept her afloat.

  Licking her lips, she managed an innocent, ‘The goblets?” She coughed, clearing her throat, and could almost hear Grandpa Wingate urging her not to let the likes of a Danvers-Stiles get to her. You cannot fall for this man! “What about them? Are they the reason you barged in here?”

  He gave her a smile that reminded her of her grandfather’s stories about the devils who’d run his daddy out of town. “Cut the innocent act, Holly. The last thing you are is innocent. You came to Mill Brook to steal my Paul Revere goblets, didn’t you?”

  His goblets! The sheer conceit of his assumptions— never mind their general accuracy—galvanized her into taking the offensive. “I’m no thief, Julian. I’ll be damned if I’m going to stand here and listen to you fling insults and accusations. Obviously you’ve jumped to some kind of outrageous conclusion about me, but that’s really your concern, not mine.” She was steamed now... and concerned. What’s the bastard up to? Oh, but he did have a way of keeping her interest, didn’t he? In a deliberately snooty voice she said, “I’ll thank you to get out of my room.”

  She started past him toward the door, but he caught her around the middle. Before she could say a word or even move, his touch sent hundreds of fiery sensations burning through her. She could feel the hard length of his arm against her back; could feel herself melting into him. Nothing’s easy for a Wingate, remember?

  “I won’t stand for insults.” she told him, her mouth dry.

  “What about the truth?”

  “I don’t need you to tell me the truth.”

  “Holly...” His voice was husky, his mouth so very close to hers that she could feel the heat of his breath, of her own wanting. “You’re making me crazy.”

  “No crazier than you’re making me.”

  His grip on her remained firm but not, to her distress, unpleasant. If she’d sensed even a borderline physical threat from him, she would have sent him marching. She would have the irrevocable excuse she needed to believe he wasn’t the man for her. Non-threatening though it was, his hold on her wasn’t exactly open and loving, either. It was... knowing, she thought. And tightly controlled. As if he were on fire just a little himself.

  She considered kissing him, but held back. Common sense, she thought. First, the goblets.

  “Oh, hell,” he muttered, and dropped his arm. “Let’s get this goblet business over with first.”

  “I agree. Absolutely. Let’s. What goblet business?”

  He sighed. “Holly, I know who you are.”

  “I should hope so. I’ve been completely forthcoming—”

  “Like hell. You’re a thieving Wingate.”

  He was staring right at her so she had to be extra careful; if he’d still had a hand on her, she’d never have been able to pull off her look of total mystification. “A who?”

  “Your name is Holly Wingate Paynter.”

  “I know that. It’s no big secret. Wingate’s just a name—”

  “Your parents picked it out of a hat?”

  “A telephone book.” she said, ignoring his sarcasm. He was being so smug, he deserved whatever lies she told him. Thought he had her, did he? Not by a long shot! “If you want to talk to me, you’ll have to go downstairs. I’ll join you in a minute. We can have tea and discuss this without—without all the fireworks.”

  He laughed, truly amused. “Darling, if you think what’s gone on between us so far is fireworks, you’d better get yourself ready for one hell of an explosion. We’ve only just begun. And I’m not letting you out of my sight. I think you probably believe you have a damn good reason for doing what you’ve done, but I can’t be sure you won’t be out the window and on your way back to Texas before I ever see you downstairs. We’ll talk right here.”

  “About my name?” She shrugged, trying to look bored; her heart, however, was skipping beats. “I think it’s English, I’m not sure. But I gather you’re intrigued by the coincidence of it being Wingate?”

  “I am.”

  “Well, that’s all it is: a coincidence. I suppose having Wingate as a middle name might have helped the article on your rediscovery of the goblets catch my eye, but that’s all I’ll admit.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Holly. You’re only making this tougher on both of us.”

  Yeah, she’d bet it was real tough on him. “I’m not...”

  “You stole the goblets.”

  She bit the insides of her cheeks to keep herself from saying something rash and stared at him. He stared back. Again his expression was impossible to read. There was smugness in the curve of his mouth, anger in the flush of his cheeks. Yet his eyes had softened, their dark green warming, and in them she thought she could sense a stubborn attraction to her... and, once more, that curious satisfaction and admiration. Maybe it was just her imagination. Wishful thinking. Her survival instincts overstepping the bounds of reality.

  “I stole the goblets.” she repeated, her tone disbelieving but mild, as if his accusation was too farfetched for her to get upset about. “That’s a pretty wild thought. They’re not at your house, I take it?”

  “They are not.” He was back to that tight-lipped way of talking.

  Holly shook her head, exhaling in apparent commiseration. “Wow, that’s too bad. You know, it isn’t very nice of you to assume I’m responsible. Just because coincidentally my middle name happens to be Wingate, and I went out to your house—at your invitation, I might add—to have a look at the goblets earlier today doesn’t make me the thief.”

  “Give it up.”

  She sank onto the edge of the bed and put all she had into looking terribly, terribly hurt and confused. “I don’t understand—why would you think I would steal anything? Julian, I’m a successful storyteller. I have a reputation to maintain. Why on earth would I risk that on stealing from you? Just because you didn’t believe my lost puppies story the other day doesn’t mean I’m responsible for every nasty going-on in Mill Brook.” She lifted her shoulders in despair and let them fall as she exhaled. “You really have misjudged me, you know.”

  “Sweetheart, this time I knew enough to get all my ducks in a row before I tried to take you on.”

  He bent over and placed his hands on his thighs, steadying himself as he looked right into her eyes. His mouth was maybe three inches from hers. She wondered—nuttily—what he’d do if she kissed him.

  “I saw you,” he said.

  Her hands and feet went numb, and she could feel the blood draining out of her face. Had he—or was he just bluffing, trying to lure her into confessing? She called upon lessons learned from a childhood of perpetually being caught red-handed and an adulthood of telling stories for a living. Getting her feet into boiling water was a bad habit of hers; getting them out again was a passion—and a particular skill.

  It was time Julian Danvers Stiles discovered what she was
made of. Time to do something before he hauled her off to jail.

  She sat up straight and tightened the tie on her robe. Too much bare skin was showing. She had goose bumps on her forearms and calves—and not because of the cold. January in Vermont was not the same as January in central Florida, but sitting there under Julian Stiles’ scrutiny, Holly felt plenty warm. It’s all that boiling water I’m in, not just him. But here she was, neck deep in the proverbial bubbling cauldron, thinking about what it would be like to trace a finger along that Yankee chin of his.

  “Tell me, Julian,” she said, very cool under the circumstances, “exactly what did you see?”

  He straightened up, and she forced herself to give him a good, objective once-over. Physically the man was rock solid. Hard through the middle, big through the shoulders, lean and strong in the legs. She’d already felt his arms and they’d passed muster. Or not muster, really. Strength and fitness were desirable in anyone, man or woman, but it was a person’s mind that intrigued her most. And how was Julian Danvers Stiles mentally? She sighed: rock solid. Didn’t need a soul. Lived in the woods all alone. Could take care of himself. Dealt with the world on his own terms. Didn’t cotton to liars and cheats, but didn’t expect them at every turn, either. Deal with me straight up, he would probably say, and I’ll do the same with you. Cross me and—

  You’re in trouble, HP, she thought.

  Just like always.

  “I saw you drive up to my house,” he told her, his voice a low, uncompromising growl. “I saw you park your beat-up van in my driveway. And I saw you trot your fanny into my living room, grab my goblets and leave with one hell of a triumphant look on your face.” He pointed a finger at her, just for emphasis. “That’s what I saw.”

  “Well, bully for you, but maybe I have made you crazy. Going down that driveway of yours once was enough for me. And if it’s just your word against mine, who’s to say who’d believe whom?”

  She might not have even uttered a word. “Where did you stash them?” he asked.

  “Really,” she said, leaning back on her elbows. A dumb move. Her robe fell open and exposed more cleavage than she had intended. Another inch and he’d have a view of two freezing cold pink nipples. From the sudden sultriness of Julian’s gaze, she guessed he was thinking much the same, a complication for them both. Much better to counter charges of theft clothed head to toe in something bleak and opaque. Pretending not to notice, Holly continued, “Search my room, if you want. Search my van. Search me—” A mistake. She caught it too late.

  “Don’t tempt me.” His voice was husky, his eyes smoldering. Still, he was in a business-first mood. “But I don’t need to. I know what I saw.”

  Just like 1889, Holly thought. A Wingate’s word against that of a Danvers and a Stiles. Had Zachariah been telling a tale then, the way she was now? Impossible. Grandpa Wingate had insisted the goblets had been given to his ancestor by Paul Revere himself.

  “I’m a very thorough man, Holly,” Julian told her. “It’s something I wouldn’t forget, if I were you.”

  Damn right she wouldn’t.

  “It’s your word against mine,” he pointed out.

  And she thought she’d been so clever returning to the Windham House, playing the innocent. Who’d think a thief would stick around town?

  Julian didn’t need to think anything. His damn sneaky ways had done all the thinking for him.

  She sighed heavily. “May I ask you one question?”

  “Sure.” He was being magnanimous.

  “You caught me red-handed, right?”

  He smiled nastily. “I’d say so.”

  “Then why didn’t you come out of hiding and ask me what the devil I was doing instead of lurking about like some kind of sleazy Peeping Tom?” She lifted her feet onto the bed and tucked herself into the tailor position, carefully arranging her kimono so it didn’t reveal anything more than he could already see. ‘That’s pretty low.”

  “I wanted to give you time to hang yourself.”

  “I see. And to change my mind?”

  ‘That, too.”

  “And, of course, to see what I’d do next.”

  “Right.”

  “In other words, you wanted me to dig my own hole and jump in it headfirst. You set me up. You got Adam to cover for you. Your own brother. He told me you weren’t going to be around the rest of the afternoon, that you’d gone out to a site with a client and wouldn’t be back until early evening. Gave me plenty of leeway, didn’t you? I should have taken my sweet time, made you freeze your buns off out there waiting for me—”

  “You could have taken the whole damned night,” he said. “I was dressed for a wait.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Behind the woodshed. I thought the dogs were going to give me away, but they didn’t.”

  She’d wondered why Pen and Ink had virtually ignored her. Good with animals, she’d come prepared with dog biscuits, but they’d only barked mildly at her arrival before going back and sniffing around the woodshed. If she’d been a more experienced thief, she wouldn’t have marveled at her good fortune and instead have realized something nasty was afoot…namely one Julian Danvers Stiles.

  She frowned, studying him. She didn’t like the look on his face. He was holding back something. But what could he possibly have left out? Then she saw he was trying to keep from grinning. The bastard was enjoying himself!

  Buster, she thought, you’re in for it now.

  “You didn’t take me up to your place today just to have lunch.” she told him. “Uh-uh. You were luring me into your trap. You knew this Wingate stuff had piqued my storyteller’s interest, and you saw your chance to get even with me for crashing through your ceiling and telling you about those lost puppies, then running off on you.” This time she pointed a finger at him. “That’s called entrapment.”

  “You can call what I did anything you want,” he said. “What you did everybody in Mill Brook will call stealing.”

  “Oh, I doubt that.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me? But spare me another of your tales. I want the goblets back, Holly, and unless you want to be straight with me and tell me everything, then you can pack up and get out of town.”

  She refused to take him seriously. “Playing hardball this time, I see.”

  “Maybe it’s just time you were honest with me.”

  Honesty, she thought, would mean an end to the game—to whatever was going on between them. She’d have to explain about Grandpa Wingate and his railings against Julian’s family, the hundred-year-old wrong his ancestors had committed against hers. She’d have to leave Mill Brook, with or without the goblets. And she wasn’t ready to give up just yet. But what if he’s just asking you to be yourself so you can work things out?

  It was a risk she wasn’t yet prepared to take. She couldn’t bear the idea of all this ending now, like this.

  “Well, I can’t say I blame you.” she said airily. “What I did this afternoon must look terribly... suspicious to you. But I acted out of purely honorable motives. Would you like me to explain?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  He seemed almost amused, and she took heart. “You’re going to end up looking like an ass if I don’t.”

  “Happens to the best of us. Spare me, Holly. What about the goblets?”

  “As you wish. Do you want to go with me to get them?”

  “You think I’d let you go alone?”

  “No, not really.”

  “We have to go outside, I take it.”

  “Mmm.” She admired how unconcerned she sounded. What if she’d met her match? Zachariah Wingate hadn’t been able to handle it when a Danvers and a Stiles had ganged up on him. Julian was both, two Wingate enemies rolled into one.

  “Here, then.” He looked around and got her pants, handing them to her. “Where’s your shirt?”

  “I’ll get it. You don’t have to dress me.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. Or maybe the right th
ing, if she wanted to know where he stood on the subject of the sexual tension crackling between them like a downed electrical wire—dangerous and very alive. They’d both been jumping around, dodging, doing everything to keep from stepping on it. Now they had, unintentionally. And finally, at last, she had it confirmed—and so did he—that the stolen goblets had damned little to do with why he was here. With what he had against her, he’d have gone to the police if there wasn’t something else at work. He looked at her for a long time. She considered a hundred different comments she could make. Sexy, flirtatious, stuffy, coy, innocent. Confrontational. None seemed right—honest. She didn’t know why, but here she was in the middle of one of the biggest tales she’d ever told, and she was concerned with honesty, if not about facts and particulars, at least about feelings.

  In the end, she said nothing, and he said fine, she could get dressed. He’d wait outside in the hall, which he did. The moment had passed. We’re not going to talk, Holly thought, more frustrated than she’d have imagined possible. We never will. We’re just going to keep on like this, him a Danvers-Stiles, me a Wingate, pushing and fighting and—what difference does it make ? I must be crazy to think there ever could be anything between the two of us.

  There couldn’t be, she reminded herself. What they were doing now was just a game. An amusing way to pass the time during her brief stay in southern Vermont.

  Her throat tightened at the prospect of having to leave. What was happening to her?

  She put on her pants and a shirt, threw a wooly sweater over it, and added two pairs of socks. Her feet felt as if they’d never get warm again. And here she was, venturing back out into the January cold. It was lunacy. Why’d she have to see that damned article in the Orlando newspaper?

  Maybe it was fate....