Authors: Patti Berg
Folly. Pure, simple folly.
Heavens! Francesca was probably behind those windows, too. And more than likely, Jonathan Winchester was holding something much more substantial than goosedown.
Something soft, like a whisper of air, brushed against her cheek. She drew in a quick, ragged breath. Someone stood beside her. She jerked around but saw nothing. Not a soul was there, yet she sensed someone close, someone staring through the window just as she had done.
Again she felt the air stir, watched the curtains flutter.
Again she looked out across the snow-covered town to the mansion in the distance.
“It’s a beautiful home,” she whispered, half to herself, half to the unseen, unknown something that might inhabit her home and might be standing beside her. She moved slightly, offering her housemate a better vantage point, should someone really
be there at her side. “Is that better?” she asked, feeling a trifle odd speaking to thin air.
She sighed and a ring of fog formed on the window in front of her face.
Another sigh sounded. Another ring of fog formed, a little higher on the window, a little to her left.
Oh, God! Elizabeth’s fingers flew to her mouth to cover her quivering lips. Her shoulders drew up tight, tense, her panic nearly overwhelming.
Calm down, she told herself.
Just calm down.
Her breathing slowed.
No one had harmed her. If a ghost really did inhabit the house, it had made no attempt to hurt her. She’d felt no fear until tonight. Maybe that second sigh had been her own. Maybe she’d tilted her head to the left. Maybe she’d caused that second ring of fog.
And then again, maybe someone was in the house with her, someone just as lonely as she. Someone who needed her.
Her breathing steadied.
“Do you look out this window often?” she whispered.
No one answered.
“Are you lonely?” Still no answer. “Well, I’ve never admitted this to anyone before, but I am. I’ve been lonely most of my life.” Reaching out, she lightly touched the ice-cold window, as if that would bring her closer to the house down the road. “I wonder if Jonathan Winchester’s lonely, too?”
She sensed an abrupt movement, a turbulence in the room. She turned around. Dust motes swirled
about, captured in a beam of moonlight. Suddenly everything was still, and all she heard was the erratic beat of her heart.
Once more she shivered. The room had become unbearably cold, and she wrapped her arms tightly around her body.
Finally she laughed, remembering the fear she’d lived through, lying amid the ruins of her house. She’d imagined people coming to rescue her. She’d imagined arms tightening around her, pulling her to safety. Maybe she had imagined everything that had happened tonight, too. Maybe she was so starved for companionship she’d dreamed up an invisible friend, someone to talk to, someone to listen to and comfort. The fantasy she’d conjured had seemed so real that it made this room and her new home seem less empty.
But if it was only her imagination, why, she wondered, did she suddenly feel alone?
oOo
Jonathan, Jonathan, Jonathan,
Alex muttered, plinking the hanging crystals on a crimson Victorian lamp with his index finger and thumb. He’d been sitting on the nightstand staring at Elizabeth since she’d dropped off to sleep, and for the first time since she’d barged into his home, he was miffed. For good reason, he told himself. Not only had the woman mooned over that big lug as she’d stared out Alex’s personal, private window, in his personal, private attic, but she’d had the gall darn nerve to croon that man’s name as she slept.
Oh, Jonathan!
Dang it all, anyway. This was his home; she was his guest. If she was going to be friendly with anyone,
Alex had every intention of claiming her attention all for himself. He didn’t care a fig if Jonathan Winchester was lonely. It didn’t matter at all. Alex knew all about loneliness, knew all about dealing with it, and if anyone deserved sympathy and concern, it was he. He had a hundred years of misery and loneliness stored up, and if Elizabeth Fitzgerald was going to ease anyone’s desolation, he planned to take top honors.
Jon knocked half a dozen times, but even his hard, incessant pounding brought no one to the hotel’s front door.
He knocked again, looked at his watch, and wondered if Elizabeth was ever going to answer. It wasn’t quite eight in the morning, but the sun was inching its way over the mountains to shine down on the town. The sky was the color of blue Wedgwood slashed with tangerine, and after a week of minus thirty degrees with a wind chill that came darn close to freezing the hooves off cattle, it had turned out to be a damn fine day.
The only thing marring it was the fact that Jon had had a hell of a wretched night.
What on earth did Elizabeth see in Matt Winchester? They’d danced, they’d laughed. He’d held her close and whispered in her ear. He’d drug Floyd Jones to their table and proved her association with Matt went far beyond a somewhat insignificant partnership.
Hell, Jon had almost begun to trust her; but all that was blown last night.
It didn’t matter if she caused his pulse to tremble, didn’t matter that no woman had ever looked
as good, smelled as nice, or sounded so damn sexy.
The only reason he was here now was because he’d promised to help her out, and by helping her out, he just might find out what Matt was up to.
He knocked again.
If she didn’t answer soon, he planned to break down the door. Maybe he’d catch her with Matt. Wouldn’t that be a pretty picture? No, he had to give her more credit than that. Elizabeth might be success driven enough to fall for
Matt’s business schemes, but she was too smart to fall for a man with a pretty face and a head filled with nothing more substantial than sludge.
Even though it looked last night like she was enjoying Matt’s hands pawing her body.
If anyone could hear his thoughts right now, they’d think for sure he was jealous. But that was impossible; he’d never known a jealous moment in his life.
The creaking hinges and opening door startled him from his thoughts. The sight of Elizabeth’s amber eyes almost made him forget his anger.
But not quite.
“It’s about time you answered the door.”
“Good morning to you, too,” she said. She had a smile on her face, but it didn’t look very sincere.
He wasn’t even going to bother smiling in return. “I’m here to fix the plumbing.”
“I gathered it wasn’t a social visit,” she tossed back, moving out of the doorway so he could barge through.
He shoved his hat onto the rack, yanked off his coat, and threw it over a rung. “Did you have a good time last night?” he asked, as he walked toward
the kitchen and listened to the sound of her heavily-treaded boots right behind him.
She just might need those combat boots before the morning was over. He was mad and ready for a fight.
‘Of course I had a good time. Why wouldn’t I?”
“I can think of one very big reason.”
She laughed. “You’re jealous.”
Those words put a stop to his steps. He turned around, his arms folded over his chest. “Jealous? Why should I be? You were with a man you obviously enjoy, a man you’re business partners with, and I was with a woman who makes me completely happy.”
“Then why are you angry?”
“Are you really that blind? I’ve told you before about
Matt’s unscrupulous tendencies, yet it doesn’t seem to bother you.”
Elizabeth sat down at the table, picked up a cotton cloth, and went to work polishing a piece of silver. “I’m condemned without a trial, aren’t I?” She didn’t look at him when she spoke, but there was something in her tone that made him relax, made some of the anger fade away.
“Do you care for him? Do you want to be with him?”
“No.”
“Do you know anything about the poaching?”
“No.”
“What about your brother? Is he involved?”
She looked into his eyes. “I don’t know. I hope not.”
“Okay.” Jon unlatched his toolbox, pulled out a
wrench, and opened the cabinet door beneath the sink.
“Does that okay mean you believe me, or does it just mean we’ll work in silence from now on?” she asked.
“I guess it means I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.”
“Until something new comes up and gives you another reason to suspect me?”
‘Maybe you should do something to make me believe you’re innocent.”
She slammed the piece of silver down on the table and shoved out of the chair. “Look, I don’t know what your problem is this morning, but I’m not going to let you take it out on me. I was with Matt last night for one reason and one reason only. He asked me out and didn’t have something more important come up. You, on the other hand, decided Francesca’s company was much more exciting than mine.”
She threw the cloth on the table. “I’m going to have coffee with Libby. If you think you can handle it, I would like that plumbing fixed this morning.” She stormed out of the kitchen and a moment later he heard the front door slam.
He felt like a fool—again. His anger had nothing at all to do with the poaching; it was solely the fact that she’d been with another man last night—laughing, dancing, touching. It could have been any man and he’d be furious. Problem was, the man was Matt, and that doubled his anger.
He squeezed his head and shoulders under the sink, figuring he might as well take some of his anger out on the plumbing. He hadn’t been there
more than five minutes when he heard the faint sound of footsteps. “Returned so soon?” he asked, trying to sound civil, which she deserved.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t move again, either.
He continued working on the pipes, twisting nuts, tightening fittings, replacing rotten gaskets and tubing. What was she thinking as she stood quietly beside the counter? Was she wondering how long he’d stay mad? Was she wondering about his relationship with Francesca?
Maybe he should tell her the truth about Ms. Lyon. No, that wasn’t a wise idea; not now. Maybe never.
He could hear Elizabeth rustling through his toolbox. He could hear the clanking of metal against metal and jars of nails and screws being shaken. “If you’re looking for something in particular ...”
Thud!
Jon’s head jolted up when something heavy and hard dropped on his stomach. His temple smacked against a cold copper elbow, and he winced in pain. “What was that for?” he called out, but still she didn’t answer. Maybe he deserved it for the attitude he’d assumed when he walked into her house.
He gritted his teeth, grabbed the pipe wrench that had landed on his belly, and massaged the aching spot on his head. No blood. No lump. It hurt like hell, but he’d suffered through worse.
An apology from Elizabeth would have been nice. Any word at all would have been appreciated. Instead, he got dead silence. Furiously, he continued tightening joint after joint. Damn! He might
have lashed out at her, but he hadn’t attacked with lethal weapons.
“I’m back.”
Her voice startled him and he jolted up again, his head smacking the pipe once more. “Dammit!”
Elizabeth peeked under the cabinet and he could see her smiling face, sweet, innocent, as if she’d done nothing wrong. “Are you okay?”
“No!” he fired back.
“Libby was all out of the doughnuts she said you like, so I brought you one of her cinnamon rolls. Maybe it’ll help calm your anger. It helped mine.”
He slid out from under the sink and glared at Elizabeth.
Her brow furrowed in concern. “You
are
hurt,” she said, putting icy fingers on his forehead. The pain instantly disappeared, replaced by a totally new sensation, something deep down in his stomach that gnawed at him.
Elizabeth hadn’t been anywhere near the kitchen when that wrench had bombed him. She still wore her coat. Her fingers felt like she’d just walked in from the cold. He smelled the strong scent of cinnamon and sugar, the aroma filling the room along with her perfume—and he hadn’t smelled either a few minutes before.
Someone else had definitely been in the room.
Or something.
“I’m fine,” he answered finally. But he wasn’t fine. Because he knew, without a doubt, that he hadn’t been alone.
Jon watched Elizabeth take off her coat, drape it over a kitchen chair, and pour a cup of coffee. “Care for some?” she asked, warming her hands
on the blue pottery mug. The coffee smelled good and strong, and through the steam he could see her dark amber eyes. They were actually smiling, in spite of what had happened earlier.
He leaned against the counter and took the coffee she offered. “I’m sorry.”
“You should be.” She handed him a cinnamon roll, then went to the kitchen door and looked out its window, “Does Francesca really make you happy?” she asked.
“She’s a friend, that’s all. She’s having boyfriend problems,” he lied, “and needed someone to talk to.”