It Started with a House... (4 page)

“Had been ill for a considerable while, you know that. Genevieve—of all women I'd have expected you
to understand. I was a faithful husband until we met you. I took my ‘for better or worse' commitment seriously.”

“I appreciate you sharing that,” she replied. While she refused to let this get out of hand, she would hate for her image of him to be completely shattered.

“But you're still uneasy.” Marshall stroked his thumb over her soft skin.

“Anyone would be.”

“No, not anyone. You. You're far more decent and principled than many of your sex, Genevieve. Believe me, from my past vantage point, I've seen plenty.” Then, with a faint smile, he added, “But I'm fairly certain that you blushed at least twice when I caught you looking at me.”

Mortified, Genevieve pulled her hand free and covered her eyes. “Please tell me that Cynthia never saw that?”

“She didn't. But don't torment yourself. She liked you and would approve of this. Us.”

“There is no us. It's just too soon.” She gestured toward the French doors. “Besides which, I've established a nice business here. Gossip could destroy a reputation in my business as quickly as getting called up on ethics charges.”

“What are we supposed to do, pretend we feel nothing until the police and local gossips give the signal that we've suffered enough to suit them?” Marshall uttered something disparaging under his breath. “Speaking for myself, I've been through several kinds of hell watching the slow death of my wife, and the slower death of my marriage due to our spats about her inability to quit
smoking. I want to feel something besides pity, regret, grief and guilt. I
want
my life back.”

Genevieve understood, sympathized and even agreed with him. In principle. But, while she wasn't a coward, she had to avert her eyes to protect herself from the intensity she knew was radiating in his. Marshall was a passionate man and she recognized that now that he was free and had made his feelings known, she was all the more vulnerable to him.

“Look at me,” he ordered softly. When she failed to comply, he closed the short distance between them and put his fingers under her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You know what? I think you're even more confused and trapped than I am by this world of cellophane morals and shredded principles, so this is what I'm going to do. I'm going to kiss you. Then you'll leave—probably as quickly as I'll want you to go, but for entirely different reasons. And we'll talk again after you've had a chance to really get used to the idea. Understand?”

She shook her head.

Marshall exhaled in a brief, low laugh. “God help me,” he said, lowering his head. “Neither do I.”

F
or the next hour after Genevieve left, Marshall sat at his desk in his new office, his gaze on Genevieve Gale's business card from The Gale Agency. The colored photograph in the top left corner was flattering in that one-dimensional, photo-by-stranger way, but it didn't begin to do her justice. The photo he was wishing he had framed before him was one fresh in his mind—Genevieve just kissed.

His chest rose and fell on a deep breath as he sought the last nuance of her scent. She made him think of his first taste of lemon gelato years ago when he was fresh out of college and racing through Europe before he got too buried in his career. It had been refreshing and sexy, and addictive the way chocolate could be to others.

Closing his eyes, he relived how she'd stared at his mouth until just before his lips touched hers, then raised her gaze to seek further confirmation of the truth in his
eyes. He knew she'd seen it because his emotions had his heartbeat nearly rupturing his eardrums, especially when she'd touched her fingers to his face in appeal—for what, he wasn't sure. To reconsider? To be sure he knew what he was doing? Coming this far, he couldn't have stopped if he'd wanted to, and he definitely didn't want to. He'd waited long enough for this.

Genevieve. Like her name, she was elegant and graceful. A lady. A fine businesswoman and a person anyone would want as a friend. But there was much more to the woman, and he wanted to explore the far reaches of her mind, just as he wanted to learn every inch of that body.

Afterward, she'd fled, pale, her caramel eyes strangely shadowed from the shock of her rediscovered passion, while her gently bowed lips were swollen from a kiss that had gone from whisper-soft to ardent before either of them could stop it. It thrilled him to discover she wasn't as in control as her professional demeanor suggested, and to learn that she wanted him, too. Granted, she would continue to struggle with this and feel guilt—hell, he did and would for some time himself. You couldn't live with another person for over a decade and a half and make every memory go away. Nevertheless, he was also grateful that he wouldn't have to endure the bar scene and blind dates that would have been his future. The woman he wanted wouldn't require a background search or blood test to prove her health status. Such a gift had to be treated with the utmost respect and care; however, having repressed his sexual craving for so long, he was like a parched creek bed ready to soak her up in one desperate swallow. It had been a challenge to let her go,
and he was already wondering how long she would make him wait before he could see her again.

Marshall made himself get out of the leather chair and do another, more thorough, examination of the house. He was impressed with how well Genevieve remembered Cynthia's directives between draws at the oxygen mask of where she would put what. The furnishings seemed made for the house, a sturdy mix of leather and wood, the colors mostly earth tones with accents of green, eggplant and blue. None of the paintings were hung yet, just a few of the knickknacks were unboxed, and only one lamp—a Frank Lloyd Wright type of design, the shade made of agates and quartz, the frame brass. It looked as if it had been made for the house, and Marshall wondered if Genevieve had placed it on the sofa table behind the couch where it was immediately a focal point, or was it simply the resting spot decided by one of the movers? Never. It had to have been Genevieve. Poor Cynthia had a mathematician's rather uninspired taste for decorating. If a lamp, ashtray or book was set on one end table, their twins had to be on the other. A wreath on one side of the door required a matching one on the other side. She was all about regimen and order, partly because of the way she grew up, partly because of losing her twin, Scott. Heaven knew he'd tried to figure it out and set her free to be more impulsive and experimental.

In contrast, Marshall could already see by the few pieces that Genevieve had unpacked that she avoided clutter, and wasn't afraid of mixing styles. He wondered what her home looked like. He wondered what else she could do with this place if given the opportunity.

That gave him an idea and, as he returned to the
kitchen, he reached for his BlackBerry and clicked on her number in his address book. For a moment he thought he would only get her voice mail, but then she was on the line saying hesitantly, “I didn't expect to hear from you again today.”

“Am I pushing my luck?”

After a pause, Genevieve replied softly, “I have no right to say that—I kissed you back.”

Reaching over to her wineglass, Marshall stroked his thumb over the hint of lipstick on the rim. “And left me wanting so much more.”

Clearing her throat, Genevieve said, “Ina just signaled that I have a call holding and my least patient agent is about to barge into my office.”

Taking the hint, Marshall made his point quickly. “I have an request, plea or whatever you want to call it. I've just finished going through the house to see all you did, and I'm stuck. I'm an administrator and idea guy. I can renovate a building and suggest an atmosphere that I'm going for, but I don't know anything about decorating until I see what I like.”

“That sounds like an apology, not an request.”

“Help.”

There was another pause, then her weak, “You're not playing fair.”

“Darling, I'm not playing at all. If you don't agree to help me, I'll have to hire a perfect stranger, and I don't want a stranger around, I want you. When you aren't driving me to distraction, you're a balm to my weary soul.”

“You seem to be overlooking that I have a job.”

“Not at all. This could be lunch dates, dinner dates
and getting-to-know-you weekends. No pressure, no rush.”

“I think I already experienced your idea of ‘no pressure.'”

“But as you noted, you kissed me back.” Heartened by the wry tone in her voice, he entreated, “I improve over wine and with time.” To his relief, Genevieve managed a genuine chuckle. Growing serious again, Marshall added, “Genevieve, I'll unpack and set things out, but you have an eye, I can see that. And you have the added benefit of having seen many of the properties in the area and undoubtedly have seen what works and what doesn't.” He softened his voice. “I promise to be the gentleman you want me to be until you feel comfortable with taking things to another level.”

She was silent for several more seconds and then said, “I
have
to take this call. Let me think about it, okay?”

“Fair enough.”

As Marshall disconnected, he wasn't entirely satisfied. He would have liked her to say that she would call him back later, see him tonight, but at least she hadn't turned him down outright. He would have to find the patience to wait for her to give him what she could of herself. Just the thought had him feeling restless and depressed again. But remembering what he'd promised her, he went to attack the nearest stack of boxes.

 

As soon as Genevieve disconnected from the call that had been holding on her office phone, Avery Pageant pushed open her door and with her usual untimid style draped herself over the nearest of the two chairs facing the cluttered desk. Avery's exotic Eastern scent followed
then settled around the brunette like an intoxicating presence signaling anyone without eyes that she wasn't a woman who expected to be overlooked or taken for granted.

“Since when do you close your office door when you aren't with clients?” she asked, glancing at Genevieve over her red reading glasses.

Genevieve didn't stop shuffling through the yellow phone messages their receptionist-secretary Ina Bargas had handed her when she'd entered the building, but she knew it was useless to ignore the question entirely. If anyone was more persistent than her mother, it was this woman, whom fellow agent Raenne Hartley teasingly dubbed “Dragon Lady.” “I needed a few minutes before this interrogation commenced. But now that you're here, how are you?”

“Taking some exception to the term
interrogation.
I think we should open a bottle of wine at your place or mine after work—yours, mine hasn't been dusted or vacuumed in ten days—and get in some serious girl talk.”

Genevieve dropped the phone messages, only to gesture expansively. “Are you not looking at this disaster? I'll be here making sense of things until at least nine tonight.”

“The price of success. Cooperative soul that I am, I volunteer to go get the wine and help you. We can talk in between phone calls and printouts. It'll be the working woman's pajama party.”

“I have a better idea—I'll buy you a bottle of wine if you'll go away.”

“I actually sold more property than you did this month,
I can buy my own wine. Talk to me, darn it. He's made you all hot and bothered—and that's a good thing.”

“I'm not ready, Avery.”

“Elaborate, please. You're not ready for a relationship or to talk about what happened at his place?”

Oh, murder, Genevieve thought, did she have every thought mirrored on her face? “I will give you my very next referral regardless of the potential value of the property if you will please change the subject.”

Looking a bit impatient, the brunette crossed her legs, her black designer slacks whispering as linen brushed linen. Then she straightened the collar of her red silk shirt. “You may not think four years is long enough to prove that you were devoted to Adam, but from this side of our age difference, I assure you, I'm convinced. I suspect so is every person in this freaking town who is watching you waste your youth.”

Aghast at her boldness, particularly since Avery had divorced twice, Genevieve gasped. “Stop it! You have no right to tell me how I should feel or behave. You don't know a thing about it.”

“No, I don't. But I have a right to worry about you.”

Her sudden tender tone and gentle look had Genevieve shaking her head. “Thank you,” she grumbled.

“The truth is I'd like to feel that deeply about someone just once,” Avery replied ruefully. “So was that Mr. Hold-On-To-Your-Heart Roark you were talking to on your BlackBerry just now? You just left him and he's
already
calling you? Why couldn't I have been born a honey-eyed blonde?”

“You're perfect just the way you are,” Genevieve re
plied in total honesty. “A little scary at times, but I know there are strong men who aren't intimidated by that.”

Avery sucked in her cheeks as she continued her speculation, which added to the sharpness of her high cheekbones and sharper chin. With her ear-length bob, the rinse-enhanced brunette reminded Genevieve of a modern-day Cleopatra, who had also been purported to be no great beauty, but a captivating character nonetheless.

“Trying to shut me up with flattery?”

“Did it work?”

“Almost.” Avery tilted her head as she studied her. “You may not want to hear this either, but I do think it's started.”

That got Genevieve's attention. “What has?”

“The remoteness that's been like a fog around you all this time. It's lifting. You're less the Ghost of Genevieve Past and more present. Bravo.”

Sneaky, conniving woman, Genevieve thought, returning to sorting her files into stacks. But she was determined not to be totally suckered in by Avery. “Thank you…I think.”

“Damn it, G.G., don't make me wish your luscious Mr. Roark would have called me instead of you. He's what, closing in on forty?”

“Thirty-eight.”

For a moment Avery was nonplussed, then she shrugged. “That's only four years younger than me. He does comes off as older.”

“He takes life seriously. In case you haven't noticed, he's had reason to.”

“I could redirect his focus. Maybe even teach him a few things.”

“I doubt it.”

Snickering, Avery rose. “Well done, Sleeping Beauty. Okay, I've had my fun.” She floated the paper she'd come in with so that it landed in front of Genevieve covering what she'd been pretending to peruse. “I just wanted you to know I'm dropping the Ferris property. It's overpriced and you'll see by my notes on all of the calls I've received after viewings that prospective buyers concur.”

Genevieve winced at the number of negative comments. “Are Mr. and Mrs. Ferris that clueless about the market that they're resisting a price adjustment?”

“Blinded by ego and greed.” A veteran in the business, Avery pulled no punches. “Like too many, they feel a smart buyer will recognize all that they're getting for that money.”

Genevieve studied the address to refresh her memory. “Okay, but isn't this the house at the end of a dirt road where people have used the woods for dumping?”

“Bingo. Quite an attractive and well-kept property, but out of the city limits. Those woods could have a trailer parked on adjoining land next week and a meth lab operation thereafter. Too much of a risk for a buyer.”

“In that case, I'm with you—release them.”

“Thanks. Oh, and Raenne is on her way back from her viewing.”

Relieved, Genevieve asked, “Did she hint at how it went?”

“The buyers are following her in to fill out a contract.”

“Wonderful.” Genevieve knew better than to assume
anything before it happened, but she was proud of Raenne and grateful for the good news for the agency. “That one would make a nice ‘sold' announcement in our newspaper ad next week.”

“I thought you'd want to do that. Some of our rural clients are getting so depressed with the slow market.” Avery retrieved her printout from Genevieve's desk. “I'll make this call before I head out to meet my afternoon appointment.”

“Good luck with them. I know they're wearing you out, too.”

“It hasn't been my easiest account, but I have a good feeling about this house I'm showing them today.”

No sooner did Avery leave then Genevieve's BlackBerry started playing Beethoven's infamous Fifth. That immediately informed her that the caller was her mother. “Mother, unless Bart has run off with Dorothy,” she said referring to her mother's full-time housekeeper, “I don't have time for this.”