All Through The House (16 page)

Nate felt as if a switchblade had just slipped between his
ribs. He stopped, and Appleton walked right into him.

When the young attorney fumbled through apologies, Abigail turned
her head.

"Nate!" Had she spoken with pleasurable surprise?
Or just plain surprise?

Nate's gaze left her smile for her companion's face. He
hadn't moved, only lifted a brow to return Nate's regard. Nate nodded coolly to
the dark man and then to Abigail. "If you'll excuse us...?"

Puzzlement flickered in her eyes, but the hostess was
obviously waiting, and Appleton was peering interestedly over Nate's broad
shoulder. "Of course," Abigail said, "I'll look forward to
seeing you Monday, Nate."

Nate stalked after the hostess and slid into the booth with
a curt nod for her. Abigail wasn't in his direct line of sight, thank God, but
if he turned his head slightly he could see her face—and the back of the man's
head.

"Friend of yours?" Appleton asked.

Nate gritted his teeth, but said civilly, "Abigail
McLeod is a real estate broker with McLeod and James."

"Really?" The stocky man swiveled to look at her.
"I'm going to be listing my house soon. I'd considered them."

"She's doing a hell of a job with the Irving House,"
Nate admitted. "No offer yet, but that's no fault of hers."

"I wouldn't be ashamed to have a looker like her
holding open houses at my place," Appleton said with a leer that sat
peculiarly on his round face. "If you know what I mean."

Nate's cold stare made those cheeks turn pink. Ignoring the
menu, he said, "John tells me you've got a problem with the
construction."

Obviously flustered, the attorney said, "I don't
remember saying that. I just stopped to take a look, see how things were going,
and I wondered about the grade of cement. I'm sure you know what you're
doing...."

But. There was always a "but." Nate's gut was
burning, and what did he have to do? Hold Appleton's plump hand, that's what.
When the waitress appeared, he ordered without any interest in the meal. All
the while he listened to Appleton and answered questions with a fair degree of
amiability, Nate was conscious with most of his being of Abigail and the
smooth-talking, handsome man with whom she was lunching.

What the hell was she doing here with another man? He'd
never even considered the fact that she might not be dating him exclusively.
He'd assumed. God! The way she kissed him, the way she moved under him and
teased him and talked about a life that sounded conventional...

And yet, here she was. Too busy to see him, but not too busy
for the bastard who was slipping a hand under her elbow to help her out of the
booth. Damn.

Appleton was saying something that Nate didn't hear. Across
the busy restaurant Abigail's gaze met his. They stared at each other for a
moment that seemed to freeze. She was saying something with her eyes. Asking
him a question, reassuring him, compelling him. Then she smiled tentatively,
and the knife in Nate's belly twisted. He nodded again and wrenched his gaze back
to the attorney's face. He didn't have to be watching to see the gentle sway of
her hips and the possessive hand her companion planted on her back as they
walked away. And he knew damned well that Abigail could have slipped out from
under it if she had wanted.

Which meant that, for whatever reason, she didn't want to.
Was she sending him a message? What was wrong with the telephone?

And if it was a hint...well, she'd find out that he didn't
take hints. He preferred honesty.

*****

"I've missed talking to you." Monday evening Abigail
had waited until Nate backed the pickup truck out of her driveway before she
spoke.

If he could feel her gaze on his profile, he didn't turn his
head. "Yeah?"

What on earth was wrong? She watched him for another moment,
but he didn't say anything, just stopped at the corner, glanced both ways
without looking at her, then accelerated across the quiet intersection.

She tried again. "I almost called you yesterday."

"Any special reason?"

"Do I need one?"

He shrugged.

"You looked angry the other day at Weller's. Did you
have a problem with the man you were with?"

"No. I had a problem with the man you were with."

Astonished, Abigail said, "Do you know him? I didn't
realize.... He's up from L.A., looking for an equestrian facility. He and his
wife breed Arabians, and...." She stopped. Belatedly. Arabian horses had
nothing to do with Nate's clenched jaw. "I don't understand," she
said finally.

"I kind of figured that." He yanked the pickup
over to the curb in front of a vacant lot, overgrown with blackberry vines,
then with quick, violent motions put it in neutral and set the emergency brake.
When he faced her, his eyes were narrowed so that small lines fanned out at the
corners. His mouth was a compressed line and the grooves in his cheeks were
harsh. "Does it surprise you," he said in a hard voice, "that I
don't like to come across the woman I'm dating out with another man?"

Abigail was shocked breathless. It had never occurred to
her—but it should have. Who should know better what a man is capable of? she
thought bitterly.

"You have absolutely no right...." she began,
voice rising, only to be interrupted.

"When you came into my bed, you gave me a right,"
Nate said, his eyes burning.

"Your bed?" Abigail snapped. "I don't
remember being anywhere near it!"

"You want me to put it more crudely?"

"No, I don't!" She realized that her hands were
shaking, and took a steadying breath. "That's not the point. I haven't
promised you anything yet...."

"I didn't think we needed promises," he said, between
gritted teeth.

"I didn't think we did, either," she said,
matching him word for word.

"Damn it." His hands dropped from their clench on
the steering wheel and he let his head fall back against the seat. "Then
why...?"

"Why did I have lunch with a client?" The words
tasted unpleasant. She had said them before, too many times. "Why did
you?"

Nate grunted. "To hold his hand."

Abigail didn't say anything. The silence stretched, Nate
stared straight ahead through the windshield, and she waited. She saw his chest
rise and fall with a long breath, and then he turned his head to meet her eyes.

"I didn't like the way he looked at you," Nate
said very quietly. "Or the way he touched you."

Her tongue moved over dry lips. "He asked me out. I
turned him down."

"Why?"

She closed her eyes. "Why do you think?"

The next thing she knew, Nate's hand slid along the line of
her jaw, and his thumb moved in a soft, caressing circle. "I think,"
he said roughly, "that I've been a grade-A jerk. Are you going to let me
tell you how sorry I am?"

Abigail lifted lashes to meet his regretful gray eyes.
"Why?” she asked simply. "Why would you assume...?

Nate reclaimed his hand, and his gaze shifted from hers.
"I...I don't know. Maybe..." He gave a jerky shrug. "Oh, hell, I
used to think I was always on the outside looking in. Maybe I just figured this
was another time."

What could she say? If she had known for sure what his
intentions for the future were, if he had even said he loved her.... But she
didn't know, and he hadn't. So how could she ask if he would ever trust her? If
every time she had lunch with a handsome man, he would assume the worst? How
could she ask how much of her life he would expect her to give up, to protect
his own shaky sense of certainty?

But he had already done something James never had: he'd
admitted his own vulnerability. And so Abigail touched his arm, rock-hard under
her fingertips, and said, "I promise that I'll tell you if I'm ever
tempted to date another man. Will that do?"

Nate reached up with both hands to frame her face and hold
it steady so that she saw the turmoil in his eyes and the twist to his mouth.
"Somehow," he said in that voice that reminded her of the rough
texture of his shaven jaw, "I have a feeling I'd know before you told
me."

"You can read my mind?" she asked, with a shaky
attempt at lightening the atmosphere.

"I don't have to." He smiled, but ruefully, his
eyes still tender and unguarded. "If you want to date someone else, it'll
probably be because I've damaged our relationship beyond repair."

"Nate...."

Whatever she had been going to say was lost when his mouth
touched hers, just a soft, fleeting contact. Then he let her go and released
the emergency brake. "Would you rather go home?" he asked in a
controlled voice.

Inexplicably, tears burned in Abigail's eyes. This was a
turning point, and a part of her knew the decision she should make. Tonight's
scene hadn't happened in isolation; if he jumped to a conclusion one time, he
could do so again. He didn't trust her, might never. If she were smart, she
would very calmly say yes. She would get out of his pickup, wish him a civil
goodbye, and make excuses whenever he called from now on.

But she also knew that she couldn't do that. What he made
her feel was worth any risk to her heart. Maybe she could have walked away when
she still saw him as an occasionally arrogant, always sexy, intelligent,
charismatic man. But now, superimposed over that image was another: the little
boy who hid just out of sight so that he could look at the house that represented
all the dreams he didn't have. Now she couldn't forget that Nate Taggart was
also that child, who had never been loved enough to learn trust.

What scared her was that it might be too late. Could a grown
man trust love he'd never had before?

She didn't know. But she gambled. "No," she said,
smiling, hoping he didn't see the tears on her eyelashes. "No, I'd like to
have dinner with you, Nate."

The agony of relief she saw on his face, however quickly
masked, was reward enough.

Despite her decision, Abigail wanted to be reassured. She
wanted Nate to demonstrate his respect for her abilities as a real estate broker.
She wanted him to recognize that her job was as important as his. She wanted
him to show her trust.

None of those things happened in the next week, and the
fears she had shoved out of sight surfaced in an uneasiness that ate away at
her hunger to be with him.

She had the next Saturday off, but Nate was up to his neck
in troubles, as he put it, and had to work.

"Sunday?" he suggested, then grunted. "Hell,
I suppose you have to work."

"Afraid so," Abigail agreed.

There was a moment of silence. Abigail was perched on the
edge of her desk, phone to her ear. At the round table she used for clients, a
mother and daughter sat studying listings. They were looking for a smaller
place for the mother, who had recently been widowed. As far as Abigail could
see, they were perfectly happy without her for a few minutes, since they were
confident about what they wanted.

"Something is going to have to give," Nate said
finally. "I want to see you."

Tension sat like a lump of cold oatmeal in her stomach.
"I want to see you, too, Nate."

"What day are you stuck with next weekend?" he
asked.

Stuck with. She bit her lip and said carefully,
"Remember the joys of self-employment, Nate? I chose to work
weekends."

"Yeah, I remember. I seem to have done the same thing.
I'm not sure whether that makes us soul-mates or mismatched."

Abigail wasn't sure, either, and she was getting less sure
by the day. She started to open her mouth to answer tartly, but closed it
again. Had he really said anything objectionable? Or was she oversensitive,
thanks to her manipulative, possessive ex-husband?

She glanced at the framed prints of old houses that hung on
the wall, and remembered the day Nate had walked in here for the first time.
The sun had gilded his dark-blond hair as bright as the gold wedding ring she
had put away forever. His smile was lazy and sensual, but somehow his gray eyes
had been graver, as though his easy charm was a habit that didn't go any deeper
than that slightly saggy tweed sports coat that she hadn't seen since. He had
scared her then, and she was still scared. Was she looking for an excuse to
stop seeing him?

"How about Sunday night?" Abigail said. "I
don't like to leave Kate when I've been gone all day, too, but I think she'd
forgive me this once. After all, she adores you."

"Does she?" He sounded pleased. "You can tell
her the feeling's mutual. Okay, Sunday night it is. Oh, hell, the other phone's
ringing. I'll call you tomorrow, Abigail."

Another gift arrived the next day. It came in the mail, an
old house—or was it a castle?—sculpted in pewter with a tiny crystal high up in
a turret about where the Irving house had the round window. When Nate called,
he accepted her thanks casually. Abigail set it next to her desk calendar and
found herself picking it up often just for the pleasure of exploring its
intricate details.

Meg wandered into Abigail's office about midmorning.
"An offer on the Sandburg house!" she caroled triumphantly. "A
deadweight off our hands!"

"Is the offer decent?" Abigail asked.

"Are you kidding? But I recommended to the owners that
they take it. What else could they do? He's already in Wichita, she's getting
lonely…. It's in a lousy location. And they aren't losing, they bought before
prices bumped up." Her gaze seized on the pewter figurine.
"Cute."

Abigail touched the tiny crystal, glowing in a ray of sun
from the window. "Nate."

"He's got a thing about old houses, doesn't he?"

If only you knew, Abigail thought.

On Friday, Nate himself appeared unexpectedly in her
doorway, hands behind his back. "Hi, got a second?"