Housebound (2 page)

With a sigh Anne went through the first floor, turning off half the lights, stoking up the impractical but romantic fireplaces, gathering up glasses and ashtrays and heading back down toward the kitchen. A hastily scribbled note by the sink provided her with a partial answer.

“Gone skating at Yarboroughs'. Sorry to miss you—can you hold dinner? We'll be back around nine. Proffy's with us—I might even get him on skates. Be nice to Noah when he arrives and send him along. Holly.”

“The sink's a pretty fitting place for a note, Holly, dear,” Anne said out loud, her voice caustic. “I am not in the mood to play Cinderella.” The stone walls echoed her voice eerily, and she shrugged as she crumpled the paper, tossing it into the trash as she headed toward the narrow, deep-set door at the far end of the kitchen. It was barely two feet wide and six feet high, and the foot-thick plastic walls were flaking a bit on the tile floor. But beyond the narrow, whitewashed door was Anne's private domain. It had once been a combination pantry
and wine cellar, built into the hillside, dark and cold. Anne had played in it as a child. It had been an Indian tepee, a princess's castle, a Gypsy encampment and anything else a quiet child could imagine it to be. As soon as she was old enough she had staked it as her own, spending her first year's salary in having the heavy outer doors knocked out and replaced with glass facing south over the rolling woodlands. The walls and ceilings had survived three coats of white paint with only minimal peeling, and the wood floor, once scraped clean of bird droppings, old paint and myriad other strange, gummy things, had turned out to be oak. It had taken Anne two years of on-and-off work to get it to its current lustrous state, and then all her willpower to keep her siblings from taking over. Ashley, with self-righteous indignation, had announced it was the perfect studio for a real artist, and didn't she have a generous bone in her body when he so clearly needed it?

Holly had begged and pleaded and even managed a tear or two. After all, it was far away from the rest of the house—no one would have to listen to the obligatory four hours of practice she had to put in every day. Even Proffy had done his best to sway her, but Anne, when her mind was made up, could be adamant, and she had never regretted it, even when faced with Ashley's long-suffering sighs and Holly's wistful expressions.

One of Ashley's less-morose paintings adorned one wall, a gift when he grudgingly accepted his fate. Anne's drafting board and dressmaking supplies were in one large corner, her mother's spinet in another. The narrow mahogany daybed served as a couch, and the stereo was far better than the one currently ensconced in the living room. Anne surveyed it all with a pleased smile, noting the stack of historical romances
by the couch. They would have to wait until the Chinese manuscript was whipped into shape, but God willing, that wouldn't take long. However, the god of editors couldn't always be counted on—Etling was a professor of Chinese studies at Rutgers, and academics were notoriously poor writers.

Stripping off her subdued work clothes, she yanked on a well-worn pair of Levi's and oversized chamois shirt, and tied her hair back with a ribbon, hoping belatedly that she'd brought enough clothes down to last her the weekend. She didn't relish traipsing into the bedroom of the sexiest man in the world for more clothes.

Anne had a very good idea of what she looked like, and thanked a merciful providence that no one important would see her like that. She knew perfectly well that her narrow face was pale and tired after a long week, that the dark, black-fringed eyes were shadowed. What she didn't realize was that even as tired as she was, the dark eyes glowed with intelligence and humor, that her lustrous black hair, pulled roughly back from her face, was thickly beautiful, and that her tall, slim, gently rounded figure was enhanced rather than hidden by the faded jeans and loose shirt.

She was in the midst of making a huge tossed salad, a snifter of the magnificent cognac by her side, when she heard the distant tones of the doorbell.

“The legendary Noah,” she murmured to herself, wiping her damp hands on the hips of her jeans, which were already well covered with flour from the rolls she had made. Anne hated aprons but couldn't bring herself to wipe her hands anywhere but on her person. She allowed herself one last glance at the coq au vin heating slowly in the oven before scampering barefoot up the stairs to the front hallway. The
stone beneath her feet was chilly, and she wished she'd remembered to grab her moccasins. Well, she didn't need to stand on ceremony with the sexiest man alive, especially when he was a babe in arms, she reminded herself cheerfully, opening the door into the cold February night.

“Hi, I'm—”

“I know exactly who you are,” she greeted him with a smile, swallowing her disappointment. “We've been expecting you.” If this was the sexiest man the world had to offer, then she'd gladly make do with steady, unexciting Wilson. Granted, this Noah Whatever was handsome enough. Wavy blond hair, styled just so, white, perfect teeth blazing out at her, an impossibly cute nose, and blue eyes as bright and opaque as china. But there was something just a little…contrived about him. Besides, he looked quite a bit older than thirty-two, and was trying to hide it. Well, there was no accounting for tastes—she'd never been much taken with Holly's crushes in the past, either.

“The others have gone skating at our neighbors',” she continued affably. “Would you like to join them, or can I offer you a drink while we wait for them?”

“I brought my skates,” he said with a grin that didn't quite reach those bright blue eyes. “Would the neighbors be hard to find?”

With mingled relief and irritation she gave him the instructions, then watched him drive off in a shiny new BMW that set her to gnashing her teeth in envy before she trudged back to the kitchen. “So much for sex gods,” she informed the mushrooms. “If that's the best thing Holly's ever seen, she must have lived a more cloistered life than I realized.” Shaking her head, she addressed herself to the salad once more,
glancing at the clock every now and then. At five of nine irritations began to grow, and she opened the red wine with a little too much force to let it breathe. By nine-fifteen she turned off the oven, watching in despair as the chicken shrank from the bones. At nine-thirty she dumped the meal on the sideboard warming trays in the dining room, served herself a plate and headed toward the kitchen, her temper well beyond the boiling point.

The doorbell rang just as she was heading down the stairs. For a moment she contemplated ignoring it. Finally her customary even temper reasserted itself, and she headed for the door, still holding her plate.

A man was standing there in the doorway, a lean figure just under six feet tall, with a kind of wiry strength and casual grace that radiated from both his jeans-clad body and the slow smile that lit his face. He was very tanned for February in the Northeast, with thick, wildly curly black hair that fell across his forehead, high cheekbones, a slow, sensual smile, and blue eyes that would put Holly's Noah to shame. The heavy wool sweater clinging to his narrow body couldn't disguise the strength in his shoulders as he lounged against the door, and Anne swallowed once, twice, in sheer awe.

“Hi.” His voice was even worse—impossibly low and beguiling. A voice to charm the senses out of anyone, she thought dimly. “My name's Grant. I believe I'm expected.” Those blue eyes caught the plate she was holding in one numbed hand, and the smile broadened self-deprecatingly. “And I'm late,” he added. “I'm sorry. I've interrupted your dinner. You must be Anne. I've heard a lot about you, but I can't say you're what I expected.”

Grant, she thought numbly. He had to be the missing member of the party, Ashley's current companion. Damn, double damn, she fumed silently. What a waste.

But that smile was not to be resisted. She answered it, basking in its warmth. “You may be late, but everyone's later. I finally gave up waiting for them. They're next door skating, and God only knows when they'll be back. If you like, I can give you directions.”

“Would you mind if I waited here with you?” he questioned easily, and that voice was like silk running down her spine. “Unless you'd rather be alone.”

Triple damn, Anne thought. He's nice, too. She stepped back from the door. “Welcome, stranger. I'll even feed you, if you're hungry. Heaven only knows what shape the chicken will be in by the time the others return.”

“Thank you. I thought you'd never ask.” He followed her into the hallway, his magnetic presence seeming to fill the large hallway, making Anne far too aware of him and that easy, damnably sexy grace of his.

“Where would you like to eat?” Her voice came out admirably level, a fact that pleased her. Not a soul would be able to tell that half her mind was at the moment involved in the most convoluted sex fantasy of her life.

“Where were you going to eat?” he countered, that voice still melting her.

Damn, the man was putting her hormones in an uproar, and it was all for nothing. Ashley was luckier than he knew. “I was heading down to the kitchen.”

He raised his eyebrows over those searching blue eyes. “What are you, the scullery maid or something?” he drawled, but there was a curious light in those eyes.

“Hardly. I just love to cook.” Now why did she feel defensive? She was about to go on, explaining her familial situation, and then stopped short. There was no need to explain her
life story to a total stranger. As long as she didn't feel ill-used, then she wasn't. It was that simple, she had always told herself, and did so again. “But I'm willing to be flexible,” she added. “Kitchen, dining room or library?”

“Does my nose deceive me, or is there a fire in the library?”

“There is.”

“And you'll join me?” The eyes were intent on her upturned face, and Anne had the flashing feeling that Ashley might get very angry with her indeed.

Smiling up at him, she nodded. “I will.” Let Ashley be jealous, she thought defiantly. When it comes right down to it, she was perfectly safe with this charming man. More's the pity.

Five minutes later they were seated on the floor in front of the fire, companionably discussing Anne's work for Jolles. Curious as she was, she deliberately refrained from asking him any questions about his own life. Ashley's friends usually didn't bear too much scrutiny.

“So you're the chief cook and bottle washer, an editor, a dress designer—”

“And a handyman, an electrician, a mason, a pianist, a quilter, a painter of inadequate watercolors, a decent contralto, a dutiful daughter and supportive sibling, even a part-time plumber. In other words, I'm a hopeless dabbler. Jack-of-all-trades, master of none.” She sighed, staring into the amber dregs of her cognac.

He swirled his meditatively in the Waterford snifter, the last one of the ancient set. Without hesitation Anne had offered him the good stuff, a silent vote of approval, despite her reservations about his life-style.

“You may be a dabbler,” he said meditatively, his voice that low, delightful drawl. “Or you may be a Renaissance woman. Ever look at it that way?”

She laughed, genuinely pleased. “How tactful! But I don't excel at any of those things.”

“Not true. I have incontrovertible proof that you are a very great cook, even when the dinner has been sitting for hours. And your taste in cognac is nothing short of divine.”

“How do you know I didn't just ask the liquor-store clerk for the most expensive kind?” She curled her feet under her, enjoying this, enjoying him and the quiet companionship of the night. And the spice of danger that was only an illusion.

“You knew what to ask for,” he said, that wonderful voice succinct. Leaning back against the chair, he stretched his long, jeans-clad legs out in front of him, stretching his arms overhead. The movement drew the heavy sweater tight against the leanly muscled torso, and another wave of lust swept over Anne, one she foolishly allowed full rein. After all, what was the harm in it? She was perfectly safe from any danger of consummation—she could sit here and lust to her heart's content, build the most delicious fantasies that had no chance of fulfillment, and face Wilson and Ashley with innocent eyes.

“What's that expression supposed to mean?” Grant's voice was lightly amused, and Anne allowed her eyes to play over the wide but not too wide shoulders, the blue, blue eyes, the mouth that curved in a smile.

“Just thinking,” she murmured. He was very close, but she told herself she had nothing to worry about, even as her heart began beating faster and faster and her palms got damp. She could smell the crackling pine logs, the fumes of the cognac mingling with the faint trace of a woodsy after-shave. “This is a very pleasant way to spend an evening,” she added, her voice coming out surprisingly husky.

“I agree.” His voice was low, caressing, and Anne swal
lowed nervously. “An excellent meal, a fire, a great cognac and a beautiful woman. I couldn't ask for more.” And before she could realize what he was doing, one arm slid around her, pulling her close, his head bent down and that smiling mouth met hers.

She could taste the cognac on his lips as they gently brushed hers. She was so bemused that her own lips parted beneath the soft pressure, and his tongue snaked out, delving behind her teeth to fully explore the sweetness beyond. She sat there in a kind of passive delight as he slowly, gently, thoroughly kissed her, more completely than she had ever been kissed before. When he finally pulled away, it was only a fraction of an inch, his arm still around her, his eyes smiling down at her. “Shell-shocked?” he inquired pleasantly, his breath warm on her face. “I would think you'd be used to being kissed.” And his mouth descended again.

This time all passivity left her in a rush, her mouth opening beneath his, her tongue tasting and exploring his mouth as thoroughly as he had hers. She twined her arms around his back, dimly conscious of the brandy snifter still clutched in one hand. His tense, strong body started, then relaxed as he moved closer still, his body burning against hers. He was easing her back onto the carpet when reality finally intruded with a rush and the sound of voices from the hallway, and reluctantly he let her go, his blue eyes still dark with desire.

He rose with one fluid movement, reaching a hand down to her. Staring up at him dazedly, she finally placed one slim hand in his large strong one. As it closed around her, pulling her to her feet, her eyes met his, cloudy with confusion.

“It reeks of cognac in here,” she said finally, for lack of something better to say.

He laughed then, humor and something else lighting his eyes. “That's because you poured your cognac down my back,” he said pleasantly.

“I didn't!”

“You did. But don't worry—it soaked through my sweater and no one will notice. Though I do admit it's a little damp.” His smile lit his dark face. “It's just as well—I need something uncomfortable to concentrate on.” He reached out a surprisingly tender hand and pushed a silky dark strand of hair away from her flushed face. “I imagine you'd rather your family didn't know what we were just doing.”

It took all her willpower to keep from nuzzling against that hand like a starving kitten. Never again, she warned herself sternly, would she have the mistaken notion that any man was safe to lust after. It was going to take a fair amount of effort to shake the effect those blue eyes were having on her. “I don't believe Ashley would be too happy,” she murmured caustically, hoping to see him show some trace of remorse, or even discomfort.

“Ashley?” His forehead wrinkled beneath the curly mop of hair, then cleared. “Oh, you mean your brother. Is he the protective type? I'll be sure to watch my step around him.” With a sudden, lightninglike movement he kissed her on her upturned lips, which were parted in amazement. “You know, you're nothing at all like your sister,” he added as a clincher.

“Noah!” Holly had appeared in the doorway, her blond curls rioting around her angelic face, her cheeks blushed from the cold, her eyes sparkling, her mouth curving in delight. “We'd almost given up on you.” Racing across the room, she flung herself into his arms.

Anne was too horrified, miserable and guilty to notice that
her dinner companion accepted Holly's enthusiastic welcome with a restrained if tolerant embrace.

“We wondered whether you'd fallen through the ice,” he murmured, looking down at Holly and reaching behind his neck to unclasp her hands.

“We?” Holly looked around, spied her sister and immediately launched herself into Anne's arms in her usual demonstrative fashion. “You took good care of Noah while we were gone, didn't you, darling? We didn't expect to be gone so long. Is dinner completely ruined?”

“Dinner's on the warming trays, Holly.” Her own guilt had eradicated any last traces of irritation on Anne's part.

“And she took very good care of me indeed,” Noah said in that caressing voice of his, sending a warm flush over Anne's pale countenance.

“Holly, who is this fabulous man?” Ashley had appeared in the doorway, a Harris tweed overcoat flung casually across his narrow shoulders, the blond young man who had made an earlier appearance hovering anxiously behind him.

“Ashley, this is Noah Grant, a friend of mine from New York.” Holly made the introductions with a haphazard vagueness. “Noah, this is my brother Ashley and his friend, Steve Piersall.”

“The protective type?” Noah Grant murmured wickedly at Anne, who only succeeded in looking more miserable.

“Well, darling, I must say your taste is improving,” Ashley Kirkland drawled, sauntering into the library and proffering one surprisingly large, capable-looking hand. Naturally tall and slender, Ashley had long ago learned to capitalize on his willowy looks, dressing in dove grays that emphasized his will-o'-the-wisp quality. His long horse-face was dominated by a large nose, a rather small mouth and uncomfortably
sharp blue eyes. They took in the tableau in front of him, and he smiled with a touch of malice. “Hello, Anne,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Been enjoying yourself?”

As the middle child of the family, Anne had long ago learned how to deflect both her elder brother's wicked tongue and her baby sister's winsome ways. She did so now, with her usual calm efficiency. “Of course, Ashley. Don't I always?”

“I wouldn't know, darling. I'd hardly think so, with that upstanding gentleman you're engaged to. But then, there's no accounting for tastes.”

Anne felt rather than saw Noah Grant's start of surprise. Casting a surreptitious glance at him, she found Holly standing as close to him as humanly possible. Noah was smiling absently down at her, but the look in his blue eyes was enigmatic.

“Could we please eat?” Eldridge Kirkland appeared in the doorway, looking cranky and overtired, and concern swept over Anne. Their father hadn't been well since the mild heart attack that had slowed him down last fall, and standing about in chilly weather and eating at strange hours were scarcely the best thing for a man in compromised health.

“Of course we can, Proffy,” Holly soothed with the charm that always managed to calm the professor's outraged sensibilities. “As soon as I introduce you to my beau.” Again Anne felt Noah's start of surprise, and she could find a small trace of pity in her heart for him. She had yet to meet a man who could prove a match for Holly's feminine wiles. “This is Noah Grant. Noah, this is my father, Eldridge Kirkland, but we all call him Proffy.”

“How do you do?” Noah managed to escape Holly's pretty clutches long enough to shake the professor's hand. Proffy glared at him, as he did at any suitor for his younger
daughter, and managed a semicivil grunt before turning and heading for the dining room with the regal assurance that all would follow.

“Aren't you coming, Noah?” Holly got no more than two feet before she realized that Noah wasn't following.