Sealed with a Kiss (2 page)

“However,” Latimer continued, “she intended this to be a collective gift, requiring a partnership effort. Her conditions are firm. If you're unable to honor the terms of the will, Tara, the Elliott building and your family home will become the property of Mr. Kennesaw.”

She felt the flood of familiar heat and knew she was about to blush from collarbone to hairline. All her life she'd hated the terrible affliction that made
her seem as if she were burning up from the inside out. A pale face and deep auburn hair already set her apart from the tanned residents of east Texas. Every time her skin flushed red, she resembled a cartoon character about to explode.

Humiliated by the embarrassing display of emotion, she felt fine perspiration break through the skin around her nose and lips. She fought the urge to swipe it away. Instead, she closed her eyes, indulging in a deep-breathing technique and a silent prayer to get past the confrontation. She dropped her arms to her sides and expelled a pent-up breath, then fixed her eyes on Sam's expressionless gaze as he spoke.

“Are you gonna honor the terms of the will or is the property mine, lock, stock and barrel? What's it gonna be, Rusty?”

“Excuse me?” She bristled at the nickname twelve-year-old Sam had used for her on the days when he accompanied his mother to clean Sycamore House. Others had picked it up and it had stuck like bubble gum on hot pavement.

“From what I've seen, it's no wonder the town's in trouble. It could use some modernization.” Sam nodded, approving of his own idea. “I'll enjoy knocking down those old places.”

“That's nothing to joke about and you know it,” she sputtered. “The Elliott Building is a town icon
and Sycamore House qualifies to be registered as an historical landmark.”

“Not for much longer. I'll have them both bulldozed by the end of the week unless you have a better plan.”

She shoved the jacket sleeves to elbow length and once more folded her arms across her chest. “I believe the terms of the will require the property to be used for profitable enterprise. What could you possibly have to offer this town?”

Sam untangled his long legs and stood. He reached for the legal envelope that contained his copies and tucked it beneath a strong arm.

“Well, let's see.” His eyes narrowed as though he were thinking it over. “I'm male, I've lived in this state for thirty-four years and I have a master's degree in economics. I think that qualifies me to have an idea or two on how a Texan might spend his discretionary income. Don't you reckon?”

Her heart raced. He was serious.

If she didn't do something to end this farce, what was supposed to be a brief encounter would turn into a full-blown crisis. The owners of The Heritage, one of New York's premier auction houses, were meeting in less than a week to discuss her future with the family-owned firm. Being a no-show would not bode well for the junior associate.

She turned to Wade Latimer. “Can we at least put this off for a few months? I have a job and an apart
ment in New York, and I'm expected back at work by the end of the week. I'm sure Mr. Kennesaw must have obligations, as well.”

“As a matter of fact, I don't,” Sam drawled. “I'm between projects at the moment and the timing is perfect to start a new business venture.”

“In other words, you're out of work and willing to jump on my grandmother's generosity like a chicken on a june bug.” Tara surprised herself with how easily she slipped back into Southern colloquialism.

He smiled. “Couldn't have said it better myself.”

Her breath caught at the sight of his even white teeth. She recalled the boy whose bicuspids had been crowded and crooked. Clearly, he'd invested whatever money he'd earned in expensive orthodontia. It was worth it. His smile, even surrounded by the scruffy whiskers, was packed with appeal.

“Besides,” Sam continued, “your granny's will says ‘effective immediately,' and last time I checked that meant right this minute. I don't have any intention of waitin' a few months.”

“He's correct, Tara.”

Incredulous, she swung around to the lawyer who continued to ruin her day.

“It was Miriam's desire that you both remain in Beardsly to assume joint development of the Elliott Building. If Mr. Kennesaw is prepared to do so, I'm afraid you have no option other than full cooperation.”

Wade Latimer would not be her ally. If anything, he seemed to be goading her into accepting the challenge.

“Is there another office where I can have some privacy to use the phone?” Her mind churned over the growing list of details that would have to be handled right away. She seemed to have no choice but to submit to this bizarre arrangement in order to protect her grandmother's beloved properties from destruction.

And how was Tara to interpret this twist of fate? Was it just her meddling grandmother or the hand of God on her life?

Latimer moved from behind his desk and gestured toward the door. “Of course, Miss Elliott. Come with me.” He nodded at Sam. “Excuse us, please.”

 

Sam watched the heavy door close after them with a solid thud. He pulled the envelope from beneath his arm and withdrew the document inside. A quick scan of the pages confirmed he was, for all intents and purposes, Tara Elliott's new business partner.

Tara Elliott. She'd always be Rusty to him.

He'd admired the enchanting, bashful girl most of his life, but, at his mother's insistence, always from afar. Stubborn as a child and strong-willed as a college student, Rusty had been the one to cross the line, with no concern for his precarious position.

A teaching assistant could hardly show romantic interest in a student and expect to remain on
staff. But thanks to her spoiled-brat determination to have everything her way or no way at all, she'd destroyed his opportunity to finish his Ph.D. at Beardsly College. He had no proof, but he was certain the Elliott women were behind the turn of events that had suddenly eliminated his teaching position. And his livelihood.

It was a betrayal he'd never forgive.

Every day he thanked his lucky stars for his boyhood inclination to tear down and rebuild his bike when it broke down. In Houston he'd hit pay dirt with a marketable skill at motorcycle repair.

He glanced toward the papers clutched in his fist. As the shadow of an idea took shape, he grinned at his stained fingernails. Wouldn't Tara cringe when he removed the Elliott Building's back entrance to accommodate wide, overhead doors? And wouldn't her flawless complexion bloom with red blotches when he knocked out the front wall to install showroom windows?

Persuading his business manager to oversee his organization in Houston while he moved back to Beardsly to pose as Miriam Elliott's needy beneficiary was going to be a pain. But it would be worth it.

The day Tara Elliott had convinced her grandma to avenge a schoolgirl's hurt feelings was the day his life had changed. Forever.

Dealing back a bitter taste of the rich girl's medicine would be sweet revenge.

T
he walnut armoire, one of Tara's favorites, was an elegantly carved, Louis XIV cabinet with paneled doors and original nineteenth-century hardware. As a youngster she'd always suspected her grandmother's furnishings were valuable. After earning a degree in art history and serving for several years as an appraiser's apprentice, her suspicions were confirmed. Miriam Elliott had left behind a small fortune in antiques.

Tara's hand slid across the cool, shining wood as she inhaled the pleasant, musky scent. Stacked on the shelves of the treasured piece were fragments of her childhood. Primitive artwork, English assignments, class photos and the remains of a shattered porcelain vase. Items that should have been thrown away years ago. She was grateful for the ten
der sentiments it revealed about her no-nonsense grandmother.

Their relationship had been turbulent since Tara's show of independence had taken her to New York City following Sam's departure from Beardsly. She deeply regretted confiding in her grandmother and couldn't bear to stay in the town where Miriam Elliott's influence had cost an innocent man his career.

At first, her grandmother had refused to support Tara's desire to live so far from home. Once she proved able to make it on her own, financial help was offered to smooth the way. But she rejected any encroachment on her freedom.

Waiting tables seven days a week forced Tara out of her introverted shell. The work paid for a tiny sublet apartment and covered tuition for the remaining classes she needed at NYU. She embraced city life, shunning even brief visits to Beardsly. The two women talked often on the phone, but saw one another only during her grandmother's trips to New York.

Tara stood before the open armoire, acknowledging that even in death, the wily old woman had left many messages before going to her grave. She had always had the last word. She'd hinted that a reunion for the young people was inevitable, but Tara hadn't dreamed that Miriam would do something so outrageous.

After several hours of reading and rereading the papers, and finding no confusing legalese to dispute,
Tara prayed for wisdom on how to meet the challenge. The choices were limited: dive into the project or lose the last of her family ties.

She considered giving it all to Sam. Her grandmother's determination to ensure nothing developed between them had upended his conservatively mapped-out life. Maybe he deserved the remainder of Miriam's property as compensation. Then Tara recalled his cavalier threat to demolish the landmark buildings.

She closed the carved walnut cabinet. She owed everything to the generosity of her grandmother. She had risked a carefully crafted reputation to offer hope to a frightened child. Tara could never let the town of Beardsly forget the sacrifice that was bigger than the scandal.

Miriam had willingly dispelled her “old maid” image and opened her guarded past to scrutiny when she'd come to the rescue of the illegitimate daughter Miriam had given up at birth. The unwed stranger, who was dying of breast cancer, had sought out her birth mother as a final act of love. She pleaded for a home for her painfully shy toddler, determined that her child would know her true roots. The unselfish agreement between the two women had changed a carrot-topped girl's otherwise tragic future.

There was no choice at all. Tara set her sights on preserving what was left of Miriam's reputation.
The life of service to others was marred only by an action against Sam Kennesaw that she seemed determined to correct with this crazy partnership.

The French mantel clock chimed four times and resumed its soft ticking. Tara hurried through the entryway to the front door, giving a last glance at her appearance in the mirrored hall tree. As usual, wavy red wisps managed to escape the somber braid. Attempting to plaster them into submission, she licked fingertips and brushed moisture across the errant curls.

She slammed the heavy door of the huge luxury vehicle and muttered, “I thought these things were illegal.” She fumbled with the ignition and the navy blue beast purred to life. It eased out of the driveway and lumbered through the streets of town.

Passing the tired old five-and-dime store next door to the boring grocery market, she grimaced at the work of community elders who clung to traditional ways, voting down proposals that might usher in expansion and change. Frustrated young people graduated from the respected college and fled for the nearest big city, depriving Beardsly of their talent and energy. What kind of business would bridge the obvious generation gap?

“Hmm,” she fell into her old habit of thinking aloud. “What can I possibly bring to the town-time-forgot that will stand out and fit in at the same time?” Having felt like a misfit most of her life, Tara
knew how important it would be for her idea to seem more like part of the scenery than something entirely new. Then there was that other pesky issue.

Sam Kennesaw would be her partner.

As the brown-brick two-story building came into sight, her stomach churned. Heat crept up the back of her neck.

“This is ridiculous.” She dropped her right hand from the wheel and spread her fingers across her abdomen while she inhaled through her nose and exhaled through parted lips.

“I wasn't this nervous when I asked for the summer off from work to settle Grandmother's estate. If placing my future at The Heritage in jeopardy didn't send me into a panic, a twenty-minute meeting with Sam should be a piece of cake.”

She steered the land yacht into the alley and slammed on the brakes to avoid a two-wheeled chrome-and-leather monster angled across the drive. She poked her head out the window.

“Only an idiot would stop there. Are you trying to get yourself killed?” she shouted over the car's engine. “Didn't you see the parking spot out front?”

Eyebrows raised, he glanced over his shoulder regarding the ostentatious sedan.

“Yeah, I noticed it, but I figured you might need it for your limo.”

She squashed down the desire to smile at his wise-guy tone and familiar drawl. Instead, she
switched off the ignition and pushed open the door. Since he hadn't budged from his comfortable spot, she'd be forced to go to him.

With one leg slung over the seat of the bike and muscular arms folded across his chest, there sat the man she'd idolized since they were kids. Her heart drummed a frantic beat. Beneath the five-o'clock shadow and shaggy dark hair was a glimmer of the serious boy who had done his homework at her grandmother's kitchen table.

Obviously unaffected by her arrival, Sam resumed his apparent study of the building's rear wall. It would take the patience of Job for her to readjust to this town. Life moved at a snail's pace and the uniform of the day was jeans and a T-shirt bearing an advertisement. Sam seemed to be no exception.

“I suppose I should thank you for your consideration.”

“Forget it,” he assured her. “Being considerate of you is pretty low on my list.”

She winced as the comment hit its mark.

“Actually,” he continued, “I wanted to see the condition of the alley side first.”

“That's a good idea,” she recovered, glancing down the length of the building. “I have the keys to the back entrance.”

A fast rifle through the black clutch produced the cluster of keys.

She stepped toward the security door, then hesi
tated as Sam shifted his weight off the bike. He gestured for her to continue the lead.

 

He followed, his nose detecting a delightful scent as he watched with genuine approval. He noted how the afternoon sun glinted off her copper hair. Here and there, strands had worked free and the natural curls leapt to life.

Uninvited, the vision of a little girl's curly red hair against a kitchen's sunny window invaded his mind's eye. He heard the spray of an aerosol can and smelled lemon furniture polish as his mother dusted in the next room. She checked on him from time to time, making sure he finished his homework while she completed her cleaning duties.

Homework wasn't half as much trouble as Miriam Elliott's pesky granddaughter, but she'd grown on him as a kid and invaded his heart as a teen. He shrugged off the familiar moment and refocused on the steel door where his flame-haired nemesis struggled to throw the heavy bolt.

“Here, let me.” He reached for the keys, tapping Tara's hand in a signal to move.

She jerked her fist against her body as if he'd soiled her.

So that's how it's gonna be. You probably think I'm just a dirty mechanic. Okay, Rusty. Works for me.

He turned the bolt, pushed the door wide and
stepped through first. A few feet inside the building he paused while his pupils adjusted to the darkness. Though the place was swept clean of the former tenant, spiderwebs indicated many months without attention. Possibility permeated the cavernous, empty space.

He faced Tara, interested in her reaction to the building.

“This place always reminded me of a dungeon,” she complained. “The best light exposure is upstairs. There should be more to work with on the second floor. Maybe we'll use this main floor for storage.”

“And what is it you plan to store in here, if you don't mind telling me?”

“Well, inventory mostly. Since my expertise is in antiques, I naturally want to sell vintage furnishings.”

“Is that so?” He crossed his arms and waited, amazed at her new air of self-confidence. “And how does that meet the requirements of a ‘profitable enterprise that will serve the financial interests of Beardsly, Texas'?” He quoted from the will.

“A lot of consumers stay away from antiques either because they think they can't afford them, or they don't know anything about them.”

Tara's eyes flashed a spark of excitement in the dark room. “If you know where and what to search for, Southern collectibles are quite valuable.”

He couldn't resist squashing her idea like a bug. “Before you wear your arm out patting yourself on the back, you might want to consider selling something besides old furniture in an old town. Not exactly a commodity that's in short supply.”

The slight droop in her shoulders said he'd driven home the supply-and-demand theory he'd taught hundreds of college freshmen.

“I hope the second floor works for whatever you sell. Just don't get any ideas about keeping your inventory down here. I have a business plan of my own.”

“But I'm sure I'll need this space, too,” she insisted.

“Now listen.” He fixed her with a narrow stare. “You just called this place a dungeon and said yourself the real potential is upstairs.” He had her there. “I'm willing to take the ground floor and approve of whatever you want to do with your half of the building, as long as you afford me the same courtesy. The old lady's will says we have to cooperate. If you don't plan to comply, right out of the gate, you might as well pack up and head back to New York.”

He admired the determined curve of her jaw, tensed as she clenched her teeth at his intentional rudeness.

“You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

“Reckon I would.” He smiled. “I didn't ask for
this opportunity, but I'm going to make the most of it. Nobody's ever given me anything in my life. I've worked hard for what I have. If you're not willing to do the same, I'll be happy to take your inheritance, princess.”

Even in the darkened building he could see Tara's face begin to color. She closed her eyes and started that deep-breathing business again.

“So, what do you say?” He rushed her out of the moment of concentration. Her eyes flew wide in the middle of an openmouthed exhale. She resembled the flame hawkfish in his salt-water aquarium.

“For your information, I know quite a lot about hard work myself. Since I moved to New York, I haven't accepted a dime from my grandmother.”

“Why start now and spoil your independence?” he challenged. “It's not too late to get out of Smallsville and back to your real life in the big apple.”

“However twisted her logic may be, she had some purpose for what she's done and I intend to respect her wishes.”

“Respect her money, you mean.” He stroked his chin, pretending to consider something. “Speaking of money, why don't we sell both places, split the profits and be done with it.”

“I don't plan to sell anything,” Tara insisted. “That house is the only home I've ever known and I couldn't bear to part with it.”

His slow applause echoed in the empty space. “I see you haven't lost your flair for melodrama. You almost had me feelin' sorry for you.”

“I'm trying to tell you that whatever I figure out to do here I'll do it with all my heart. I'll put what money I have saved and all my time and energy into making it a success.”

“Good, then we don't have a problem.” He moved away from her to walk the first floor's perimeter, checking for any obvious plumbing or electrical-repair needs. He heard Tara's hesitant footsteps as she climbed the wide stairs leading to the second story.

“Hold on a minute and I'll get you some light.” He returned with a halogen flashlight that illuminated a wide arch on the wooden staircase. “Do you want me to go up with you?”

Her gaze followed the steps upward to another heavy security door. She held out her hand for the cluster of keys. “No, thanks. I'm fine on my own,” she insisted, swiping at a spiderweb dangling over her head.

“Oh, come on.” He stomped ahead of her. She followed without argument.

As she'd predicted, the rooms on the second floor were in fair shape. With paint, elbow grease and some luck, Tara could make a go at whatever she came up with.

Watching her pace off the dimensions of the
rooms, he became conscious of the traitorous way his mind found her spicy scent tempting. She, however, seemed unaware of his presence, making notes on the small pad she pulled from her purse.

 

Engrossed in decorating ideas, she penciled on the walls indicating possible paint colors and several wallpaper styles. Light streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows on the west side of the building. Once those windows were cleaned, the old shutters replaced by modern wooden blinds, the place would be warm and inviting during the day.