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Nothing could change the fact that she was beautiful. But all these efforts to look “normal”—the young exec uniform, the safe pink lipstick, the curls scraped back and tamed into a tight ponytail—took away some of her quirky magic.
What a shame. He had kind of liked her drunk and disorderly.
But just then the balmy summer breeze kicked up, and a few of those soft, shining corkscrew curls lifted free. She wrinkled her nose and, with a sheepish smile, yanked the clip from her hair. Then she bent down, peeled off her high heels and flexed her bare foot with a relieved groan.
“God, I hate shoes. Don’t you?” She turned toward him and grimaced. Somehow she even managed to make a grimace look cheerful. And suddenly he realized that the magic was still there. It would take more than a linen suit to make Natalie Granville “normal.”
“Don’t let the mess out here scare you off,” she said. She dropped her purse and shoes on the broken flagstones and reached out to take his hand. “I didn’t get to the outside yet. But wait until you see inside. It has a few good points, I promise.”
Before he could protest, she pulled open the door and led him into the cool interior. She bustled around, apparently nervous, flicking at imaginary specks of dust, nudging picture frames a millimeter to the left or right, smoothing the fall of curtains around the picture window that looked out onto the spectacular mountain view.
The place was bigger than it appeared from the outside. It was bright and airy and smelled of fresh paint. Natalie had left all the curtains open wide, and all the lights on, too. For a moment Matthew wondered whether she guessed how much he valued sunshine these days.
“It’s not perfect, of course.” She smiled at him, wrinkling her nose again. “The pictures are hideous. The roof needs some attention, but rain’s not actually dripping in yet. And it has a fabulous, very modern Roman bathroom. Which is more than I can say for the main house.”
“It’s fine,” he said, meaning it. He didn’t give a damn about the pictures.
She looked around, obviously searching for a few good points to mention.
“Oh, yes! I forgot to explain about the bed.”
It did need explaining, he had to admit. A huge walnut four-poster, it dominated the central part of the room. It faced the picture window, and the sunlight exposed an elaborate jungle of birds and butterflies and snakes carved into every inch of exposed wood.
“I know it’s a little big for this place, but it’s a fantastic bed. Rumor is my great-great grandfather won it a hundred years ago in an arm-wrestling contest with the king of Tahiti.” She smoothed the soft white bedspread. “The king was only twelve at the time. Doesn’t really seem very fair of my grandfather, does it?”
Matthew smiled. “Or very smart of the king.”
She looked up. “That’s exactly what I’ve always thought,” she said happily, as if delighted to discover they shared a common outlook on something so important.
“Anyhow, it’s comfortable, which is why we’ve always kept it, even though it eats up all the space. But let’s see…other than this main room, there’s a kitchenette, which is pretty awful, and the bathroom, which, as I said, is fantastic. In fact, we used to wonder if my grandfather used to have assignations down here. Great bed, great Roman tub…and almost nothing else. Makes you think.”
He smiled. Sounded pretty good to him.
“Time for a full disclosure, I guess. The left burner on the stove won’t heat. You have to jiggle the handle to make the toilet stop running. The overhead light in here makes a hissing noise when it rains. And the faucet in the kitchen sink has a very annoying tendency to drip when you’re trying to sleep.”
She sighed, apparently having come to the end of her litany of drawbacks. “I’m sorry.” She gave him a tilted smile. “My only hope is, I figure it’s got to beat prison, right?”
Matthew had hardly been listening. He’d been looking out the window, enjoying the limitless expanse of blue sky and the way the green oaks and hemlocks seemed to swarm down the mountainside into the cozy hamlet of Firefly Glen. But her last sentence got his attention.
He turned around slowly. “Beat prison?”
“Oh, dear.” Natalie’s high brow furrowed and she twisted a curl in her forefinger. “Maybe I’m being stupid. I should have realized. You probably were in one of those country club prisons, weren’t you?”
For a second he didn’t know how to answer. Except for his parole officer, Natalie was the first person since his release to say the word “prison” in his presence. Everyone else, even his sister, had locked it away with other shameful words you’d never mention in polite society, like hemorrhoids or cannibalism or incest.
They meant well, of course. They pretended it hadn’t ever happened because they thought he wanted to forget. They just didn’t get it. Prison was a part of him now, burned into him like a brand. It had happened, all right. And he would never forget.
But now, as he heard Natalie Granville say the word so naturally, he realized that she wasn’t afraid of it. She didn’t think it made him dirty. He wondered whether it might be possible someday to talk to her about it. About the degradation and the panic, about the claustrophobia and the fury and the shame, and finally the creeping numbness that had come over him.
But what was he thinking? He squeezed his eyes shut hard, trying to force himself back to reality. He hardly knew her, for God’s sake. Maybe he was as crazy as she was. Maybe “Granville moments” were contagious.
When he opened his eyes, he saw that Natalie was watching him anxiously. After a second, she groaned and pressed her knuckles against her brow.
“Oh, this was so dumb! I’ve got ten bedrooms up at the house. I should have put you in one of them. It’s just that— I just thought you might like more privacy. More freedom. I guess I thought that, after prison, privacy would be more important than drippy faucets.”
He shouldn’t have waited so long to say something. Apparently he had lost the knack for normal conversational rhythms, along with everything else.
“No, it is,” he said quickly. “You were absolutely right. Privacy is more important to me right now than almost anything. This place is terrific.”
He had begun to notice little things. A fresh vase of Queen Anne’s Lace stood on the nightstand, probably picked from her own side yard. And beside the flowers she’d neatly arranged a couple of paperback mysteries, a pitcher of water and a crystal glass.
Welcome home.
“It’s beautiful. And trust me. Even with drippy faucets, it’s got prison beat by a million miles.”
“You mean it?” She wrinkled her nose again. “You don’t have to say—”
“I mean it. It’s perfect. In fact, it may be the most unselfish thing I’ve seen anyone do in about ten years.”
Still frowning, she studied his eyes earnestly. But her face gradually relaxed, and soon she was smiling that sweetly lopsided smile.
“It’s not really unselfish at all, you know.” She touched his hand. “I just want you to be glad you said yes.”
He looked down at her hand. Her fingers were small, tanned from working in the sun. Her short, unpolished nails were white crescent moons, feminine in the most simple and honest of ways.
Oh, hell. To his horror, a sudden, fierce sexual reaction shot through him. He eased his arm away and bent over his duffel stiffly. Damn it all to hell.
Had he really turned into such a pathetic cliché? Watch out, ladies. He’s a lonely, sex-starved drifter just out of prison…
Well, he wouldn’t let it happen, that was all. He made a silent vow to himself right there on the spot. He would not let it happen.
“It’s getting late,” he said firmly. “I’d better get to work. How about if I unpack, and then I’ll come find you, and you can tell me where to start?”
She might be naive, but she could take a hint.
“Okay,” she said, smoothing the bedspread one last time. “I’ll leave you alone. I’ll be in the kitchen when you need me. Big door at the back.” She fluffed the flowers and headed for the door.
But at the last second she turned around.
“Hey, wait a minute,” she said in a thoughtful tone. “When you said this was the most unselfish thing you’d seen anyone do in ten years…” She tilted her head. “I thought you said you were in prison for three years. Not ten.”
He didn’t turn around. “That’s right,” he said, unfolding T-shirts. “I was.”
“Oh.” He heard her chuckle softly as she figured it out. “Oh, I see. Well, then I guess it’s a good thing you came to Firefly Glen, Matthew Quinn. Obviously you’re way overdue for a fresh start.”
SHUCKING HER UNCOMFORTABLE business suit with relief— God, she hated wooing new clients— Natalie changed into shorts and T-shirt at lightning speed, then scurried down to the kitchen.
She surveyed her pantry thoughtfully. It wasn’t ten in the morning yet. Matthew had arrived so early he probably hadn’t had any breakfast. She intended to fix that. She’d make the best breakfast he’d ever seen.
As she gathered eggs, fresh fruit, whole wheat bread, sausage and homemade apple butter and plopped them on the huge kitchen island, she had to admit she might be overdoing things a little. She’d spent all day yesterday painting the pool house, hanging new curtains, washing windows till they sparkled. And now this feast, fit for a king, not a handyman.
But she wanted to treat him well. Something in his eyes told her that no one had treated him like a king in a long, long time.
Besides, she wanted to show him she was actually competent at some things. She wanted to assure him that she wasn’t as half-baked and hapless as she must have seemed when they first met.
She cringed, remembering the booze, the bikini, the wedding dress on the statue. Arms full of more food, she nudged the refrigerator door shut with her forehead. Heck, he probably thought she was nuts. Which was annoying, because actually, for a Granville, she was pretty darn practical.
Her nursery business was thriving, which took a lot of know-how. She made money. Heck, if she didn’t have this money pit to take care of, she’d practically be solvent.
And she was a darn good cook. She began to hum as she cracked eggs against her grandmother’s big stainless steel mixing bowl. Matthew would see soon enough that he hadn’t made such a terrible mistake after all.
When she heard the knock on the back door, she slid the egg-and-sausage casserole into the oven and rushed over to let him in.
“Hi,” she called out, licking apple butter from her fingers and then patting her hair, praying it wasn’t flying everywhere. “I hope you’re hungry!”
But the face on the other side of the door didn’t belong to Matthew Quinn. It belonged to Bart Beswick, the handsome young millionaire she had spent last Saturday not getting married to.
Right now, though, that handsome face was as sour as old milk. “Obviously you were expecting someone else,” Bart articulated icily, hardly moving his lips. “Who?”
Natalie sighed. “Hi, Bart,” she said, standing away from the door so he could enter. “You know, sweetie, it’s exactly that kind of question, asked in exactly that tone of voice, that made me decide not to become Mrs. Beswick.”
Bart entered the kitchen stiffly. “I’m glad you can joke about it, Natalie. God knows I can’t.”
“Sure you can,” she said, bending down to check on the casserole. “You just won’t. At least not until that big hole I shot in the side of your ego mends.”
Bart pursed his lips. “It wasn’t my ego. It was my heart.”
“Nonsense.” Natalie spoke around her index finger, which had once again become covered in apple butter. “But if you’ll stop scowling, I’ll let you stay for breakfast.”
“I can’t. I’ve got a meeting. And besides…you are obviously expecting company.” He paused, but as she remained firmly silent he gave up and went on. “I just came by to ask you about my mother’s bracelet.”
He unfolded a couple of typewritten sheets from his breast pocket and began looking them over. “It’s not here. I’ve checked three times. I even had my accountant check. It wasn’t among the things you returned.”
Natalie wiped her hands on a damp towel and wandered across the room to look over his shoulder. “You made a list?” She shook her head. “Good grief, Bart. You actually kept an inventory of the gifts you gave me?”
“Well.” He cleared his throat. “It seemed prudent.”
For a minute she almost lost her temper. What exactly was he implying? Did he think she’d steal the nasty bracelet, which was much too vulgar for anyone to wear?
But then she calmed down. This was just Bart. They had been friends since preschool, and he’d always been the ultraorganized class nerd. At three years old, he’d cried if his stuffed toys weren’t lined up right. At twelve, he had demanded that every pencil in his pencil case be exactly the same length. Was it any wonder that, at thirty, he kept a typewritten list of his love offerings, their appraised values, dates given, and dates returned?
“Okay, whatever.” She moved away. “It’s just that I honestly thought I gave everything back.”
He tapped the empty spot on the “date returned” list. “Not this one. Not my mother’s bracelet. You remember. The diamond bracelet. Rather large diamonds, in fact.”
“Yes, of course I remember it,” she said, sliding bread into the toaster. Darn. This could be sticky. If it hadn’t been in the box she gave him when they called the wedding off, she didn’t have a clue where the blasted thing was. “I’ll look for it. Want a muffin?”
“No, thank you. Maybe you could look for it now? I’ll wait.”
“Bart.” She took a deep breath. “I’m cooking. I’ll look for it later, and I’ll call you.”
“Actually, I’d rather—”
“Listen.” She put her hands on her hips. “I know you’re just itching to put that last check mark on that lovely list, but I’m busy right now. I will find it, I promise. But you might want to be a little less gestapo about it. Technically I don’t have to return it. Look ‘gift’ up in the dictionary.”
“You wouldn’t keep my mother’s bracelet!” He looked so horrified that she was almost ashamed of herself. In spite of his methodical love of detail, Bart was a very nice man. And she had once believed that his hyperrigidity might be a good counterweight to her own impulsive nature.
Besides, his last fiancée— Terri the schoolteacher, the one woman he had really loved—had kept every gift he’d ever given her, right down to the last karat and gram. No wonder he was a little gun-shy.
“Of course I wouldn’t,” she said reassuringly. “Tell you what. Watch the casserole for me, and I’ll go see if it’s upstairs. Oh, and if Matthew comes in, give him a cup of coffee, okay?”
Bart’s eyebrows slammed together. “Matthew?”
“The new handyman,” she said, sliding a wedge of cantaloupe into her mouth and heading for the door. “He just started this morning.”
“Oh, the handyman.” Bart’s frown eased, and he finally smiled. “I thought that you—all this food—well, you know what I thought. But if it’s just the handyman, why are you putting on such a spread?”
She growled under her breath, resisting the urge to toss the cantaloupe rind onto his head. “Reason number seven hundred and twelve why it’s a good thing we didn’t get married, Bart. You’re such an unbelievable snob.”
WHEN, TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Matthew stuck his head in the kitchen door, Natalie was nowhere in sight. The only person in the room was a man who stood staring out the far window, one hand holding a coffee mug, the other drumming impatiently on the countertop.
It wasn’t the same guy who had helped Natalie inside the other day—the preppy Stuart with the unfortunate shoes. This man was more solid, with tidy sandy hair and the conservative, finicky clothes of a fifty-year-old banker. Stuart had been the sports-car-and-tennis type. This one was probably a silver Mercedes sedan and eighteen holes of bad golf.
Not that Matthew cared. But it was interesting to note that wherever Natalie Granville went, men seemed to show up like moths.
Matthew rapped politely against the door, even though it was already open. The man turned around, and Matthew was shocked to discover that he wasn’t fifty at all. He was probably in his late twenties. Not much older than Natalie herself.
“Good morning,” the man said, setting his coffee mug down carefully. “You must be the handyman. Matthew, I think it was?”
Matthew nodded. He held out his hand. “Matthew Quinn,” he said.
The other man’s eyes flickered, and one tiny beat passed before he held out his own hand.
“Bart Beswick,” he said in a formal tone, as if the name should impress.
God, did he always look as if he’d been lashed to a broomstick, or was something annoying the man? Oh, right. Of course. Matthew realized too late that he’d forgotten to don his yes-master tone. He’d automatically approached Bart Beswick man-to-man, eyeball-to-eyeball, and Beswick didn’t like it.
The guards in prison hadn’t liked it, either.
But too bad. He wasn’t in prison anymore. And he’d be damned if he’d start his new life by genuflecting to every millionaire he met. Apparently Firefly Glen was lousy with them, and they apparently all had rotten manners. Even in his highest-flying days, Matthew had never treated an employee with this kind of condescension.
“So.” Matthew moved toward the coffeepot. “Is Natalie around?”
“No, she’s upstairs,” Bart said, taking his own mug and tossing its contents into the sink. “She went to look for something, but that was—” he looked at his Rolex and groaned, temporarily forgetting to be pompous “—for God’s sake. It was close to half an hour ago.”
So that accounted for the impatient drumming of fingers, Matthew thought. Bart had been kept waiting, and he didn’t like that, either.
“Maybe she couldn’t find it,” Matthew suggested helpfully.
Bart grunted. “She probably completely lost track of what she went up there for. She could be repotting a gardenia or cleaning her closet or teaching herself the tango. The damn Granvilles haven’t had a linear thought in six generations.”
But then he caught himself, perhaps realizing this wasn’t the kind of conversation you had with the hired help
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