THE FIRE STILL BURNS Page 4

  "Because I keep you grounded and speak the truth."

  That was for sure. Allie knew all about Grace's frustration with the Ice Man, Eugene Harrington. "I spoke with my dad this morning. He was hesitant, but then he talked to Adrian—"

  "He called the client?"

  "Yes," Grace admitted, the sting of it still smarting.

  "That sucks," Allie said, curling comfortably on the bed. "He treats you like such a baby."

  "That's why I have to win this project for the firm." Grace picked up a daring pink sweater Allie had given her for her twenty-eighth birthday. She held it out for a quick examination and dropped it. Too low, too tight. "I'm tired of being under his wing. This is my chance to soar."

  Allie grabbed the discarded sweater and flung it over the clothes mountain into the open suitcase. "You'll soar with that on."

  "Allie," Grace burned her with a look and left the sweater where it fell. "The last thing I need to do is mess up this opportunity by getting … involved with the competition."

  "This has a lot less to do with the competition and a lot more to do with the effect that man has on you."

  Right again. "You're imagining things."

  "Oh, sure. Then why'd you have his Web site set as one of your 'favorite places'?" Allie jutted her chin toward something behind Grace's head. "Take that red sheath. You look fantabulous in that."

  "This isn't about how I look." She pulled the dress from a hanger.

  "Oh, really? Then why do I have the feeling that if you were sharing a honeymoon cottage with, oh, anyone else in the free world, that you would have your clothes neatly folded, separated by tissue, and alphabetically organized in your suitcase?"

  So true. "It's a three-story house with at least five bedrooms. Not a honeymoon cottage."

  "Whatever. You know I'm right."

  "Allie, Colin McGrath was my first big mistake in life. And, yes, I admit it. He's sinfully attractive. But that doesn't change how I feel about love and sex and the connection between the two. I could never love Colin McGrath."

  "Why not?"

  A tingling sensation started low in her stomach. "Because—he's, he's—because I…"

  "You're scared of him."

  She choked a futile denial.

  "He could be that one man who gets to you."

  She shook her head helplessly.

  "You've never met anyone who spun you so out of control."

  Why did Allie always have to be right?

  Allie sat up and pointed her index finger accusingly. "You know what your problem is?"

  "I think I'm about to find out."

  "Honey, you're scared of a man who can show his feelings and get you to show yours. You've never let any guy get close to you—no doubt because of your crusty old man—and you don't know what to do when you're faced with one you might want."

  "That may be true," Grace replied. "But Colin isn't the man for me. He's—he's rebellious and wild and irreverent and … and unorthodox."

  Allie puffed and tucked her Tweetie slippers under her. "Sounds divine."

  "He took advantage of a woman who'd had five, maybe six, glasses of Southern Comfort, don't forget."

  "You said it was mutual."

  Grace bit back a dry laugh. "Oh, it was mutual." She'd thrown her arms around him in the dining room, kissing him first until they'd toppled to the ground for a few heated minutes of full body contact. That much she remembered. Then they'd grappled all the way up the stairs, his hands roaming her backside, her legs practically wrapped around his hips. Yep, she remembered that. Then they'd got to his room, and she didn't remember anything.

  "But, Al, I was drunk for the first time in my life. Relieved of inhibitions and acting on the lustiest crush I'd ever known. He should have taken me home. Not upstairs to his room."

  "Maybe he didn't think you were in any shape to go home," Allie suggested. "Maybe he was trying to make sure half the campus didn't see you blasted. Maybe he was protecting you."

  "By having sex with me?"

  Allie narrowed her eyes. "Are you absolutely certain you lost your virginity that night?"

  With a decidedly unladylike snort, Grace shook her head. "Look, I woke up in his extra-large T-shirt and nothing else. Someone undressed me. And we were … intertwined." She flushed again at the memory of how hard he'd been against her, how their bodies had melded as if they belonged in that spoon position forever.

  Forever?

  "How did he act?"

  "Weird."

  "Weird?"

  He'd been withdrawn, uncomfortable. Maybe a little embarrassed, too. "Well, he wasn't arrogant about his conquest. He denied anything happened."

  "He did?" Allie propped her head up with interest. "Why would he lie?"

  Colin McGrath never lies. The words of another architecture student still rang in her ears. But he must have. At least one time. "Probably so I wouldn't turn into a mad stalker. He wasn't interested in a girl like me. He liked—likes—wild, free-spirited things like himself. He was so sorry it ever happened. I could tell by the look on his face." It had been as cold as the damp clothes she'd found hanging in his shower. What had they done? "I just got the hell out of there as fast as possible."

  "Was there blood from the grand deflowering?"

  Grace gave Allie a disgusted look. "I didn't inspect the sheets, Al. His room was a royal mess, I remember that. The guy's a slob. Anyway, not everyone bleeds, you know."

  "Did it hurt? Were you sore?"

  Sometimes Allie just went too far. "I believe the expression is 'feeling no pain,' Al. Yes, I was sore. My whole body felt like human train tracks."

  "And did the morning express have a nice caboose?"

  Grace folded the sleeves of a prim white cotton blouse and placed it carefully in her suitcase. "He has a nice everything, Allie. And I don't want to talk about it. He's the enemy. The competition. A demon with an earring and a ponytail."

  Without a word, Allie eased herself off the bed, picked up the black dress, and held it poised over the suitcase. "Well, then, just in case you need to face some demons, Grace." She dropped it in. "Wear the right outfit."

  "Good idea," Grace murmured.

  After Allie left, she opened her top dresser drawer and took out one more item of clothing, one of her favorites. Without giving herself a chance to reconsider, she tucked it between the pink sweater and the black dress.

  * * *

  At the sight of Gracie's Audi parked in front of the carriage house, Colin's gut tightened in anticipation. Everything, in fact, had been pretty tight on him for the last twenty-four hours. An ice-cold swim at First Beach had helped, as had a sweaty run along Cliff Walk. But hunger and need had continued to gnaw at him since their lunch the day before.

  He'd already made his decision about the weeks ahead.

  He was no longer a blue-collar boy on a scholarship. He'd made his mark in the world, and he hadn't done it by lying back and letting life happen. Sure, he was lucky, as Gram said. The luckiest of the three McGrath brothers.

  But he knew luck happened when you take chances and seize the day. And on this day, he had a second chance with the one woman whose memory had never left him. He was taking it. This time, his fantasies would come true. This time, he would make love to Gracie Harrington and she would enjoy and remember every minute.

  After his run, he'd checked out of his hotel and shopped for a few items he'd need for the next three weeks—he'd only packed for two days and had no intention of driving back to Pittsburgh for more clothes. He arrived at the carriage house just a few minutes before five.

  How long had she been there?

  Grabbing his bags, he headed up the veranda steps, pausing on the porch to take the place in with a whole different eye. The glider suddenly looked like the perfect place to rock with Gracie, under a warm blanket. The chaise lounge in the yard could be a great place for catching a few rays, side by side.

  And she could sit on his lap in that giant chair—

&nbs
p; "You're late. Adrian said four o'clock."

  Gracie stood in the entryway, in jeans and a creamy, cable-knit sweater, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, a challenge in her green eyes. He had to fight the impulse to reach out and touch her cheek.

  How long could he fight his impulses? Let's see, it was Saturday at five. He could probably make it to, oh, nine that night. No. Maybe eight.

  "I didn't know we had to punch a time clock."

  She crossed her arms and glanced into the house for a second. "Who knows what the staff will report?"

  "The staff?" A drop of disappointment trickled through him. "What staff?"

  "Leonard Billingsly, our butler." She couldn't hide the glimmer of satisfaction in her eyes. "He's very British and bakes a mean scone." Tapping the face of her watch, she added, "Which you missed because teatime was at four. Precisely."

  "A butler?" Who lived in the house? In the middle of his fantasy?

  At that moment, an older, heavyset man appeared in the entryway. "You must be Mr. McGrath," he said, his British accent noticeably more refined than Adrian Gilmore's.

  Colin took the hand that was offered. "And you are Mr. Billingsly?"

  "Correct, sir. Please call me Leonard. I am Mr. Gilmore's personal valet, but he's traveling for the next month and thought my services would be best put to use here, with you and Miss Harrington." He smiled at her, his bright blue eyes twinkling as he looked at her and she grinned back.

  Great. Now he had to compete with the butler for her attention.

  "I'll take those," Leonard offered, holding both hands out toward the shopping bags and his beat-up canvas suitcase, but Colin inched them back. No way he'd let a sixty-something guy carry his bags. Butler or not.

  "Thanks, I got 'em." He indicated the door with a nod. "Just point me in the right direction."

  And tell me my room is next to hers and a mile from yours.

  "Certainly, sir. Allow me to escort you upstairs." Leonard glanced at Gracie before they all went inside. "I hope you enjoyed your tea, Miss Harrington. And the herb garden."

  She smiled back at the older man, a picture of refinement. "I did, Leonard. Enormously. And you were absolutely right about that touch of nutmeg in the scones. A perfect complement to the peppermint tea."

  Of course, Gracie felt right at home with a butler. And from the way ol' Lenny was beaming at her, he'd already fallen in love with Gracie, too.

  Too?

  Colin cleared his throat and took a step toward the door. "If you'll excuse me, I'll leave you two to exchange biscuit recipes."

  Leonard ignored the comment and started up the stairs. "I've made up the west-facing guest suite for you. Miss Harrington indicated that she enjoys the morning light for early rising, and that you prefer, uh, a longer slumber."

  Colin shot a quick narrow-eyed glance at Gracie as he passed her, which she responded to with an innocent shrug, and then he followed the butler up a massive set of stairs.

  Although he wore a casual button-down shirt and dark pants, Leonard moved with well-trained grace, the epitome of a manservant. The very idea of a having a personal valet gave Colin the willies. He'd avoid this guy as much as humanly possible over the next three weeks.

  "You should be quite comfortable here," the butler said, opening a door halfway down the hall.

  Like all the rooms in the carriage house, this one was oversize and understated. The suite included a sitting area and full bath, all warmed by a long wall of arched windows that overlooked the water. "This is great," Colin said, tossing the bags on the bed. "Thanks."

  "Would you like to see your studio, as well?" he asked.

  Oh, yeah. He'd have to work while he was here. "Sure."

  He followed Leonard up a back staircase at the end of the hall, which opened to a giant loftlike room that took the whole third floor.

  "Mr. Gilmore built this studio last year when he was residing at Edgewater," Leonard told him. "He likes to paint in the magnificent light."

  Somehow, he found it difficult to conjure up an image of Adrian Gilmore holding a palette and wearing a stained smock.

  But the studio rocked. With the late-afternoon sunlight pouring in the banks of windows along three walls, gleaming hardwood floors, and ten-foot ceilings, he could easily imagine wanting to spend hours here. With Gracie. At the far end, two matching drafting tables stood at opposing angles. Next to each, also arranged for privacy, were two state-of-the-art mirror-image workstations.

  Someone had given this a great deal of thought. And someone had wired and furnished this artist's studio for architects in a remarkably short amount of time.

  "This is awesome," he said, slowly crossing the room. "How'd you manage to get the drafting tables and computers set up in just one day?"

  "Mr. Gilmore can accomplish anything he puts his mind to," Leonard assured him. "I assisted him in stocking the supplies. I've been instructed to make your stay as comfortable as possible, and to provide you with anything you need."

  "That's great," Colin said, rubbing his chin. "We'll need some privacy. You know, a quiet work environment."

  Leonard's lips curled up. "I am well trained to provide that, Mr. McGrath. I assure you, your working conditions will be ideal."

  Colin was more concerned with the playing conditions. Better keep that to himself. Lenny had given his allegiance away with the nutmeg scones.

  "I spend most of my time downstairs, Mr. McGrath," Leonard continued. "My quarters are attached to the kitchen, but you can reach me via the intercom system that Mr. Gilmore had installed."

  "Sounds like Adrian spent more time in the carriage house than he did at Edgewater," Colin noted.

  "Mr. Gilmore entertained on occasion at the mansion before the fire, but, yes, he was more comfortable in the smaller environs of this home."

  Which would bode well for the Pineapple House plans.

  "How often did he entertain at the mansion?" Colin asked.

  Gracie answered from the studio door. "Often enough to want it rebuilt."

  He laughed and waved her in. "Nice digs, huh, Gracie?"

  "I can get a lot of work done in here," she agreed, taking a step farther into the room. "I'll take mornings. You can have afternoons."

  He raised his eyebrows. "That's not necessary. I swear I won't peek at your work."

  "Not a chance." She pointed to a sleek sound system built into a wall unit. "I can't stand loud music."

  He wasn't about to try and persuade her in front of the help. There would be plenty of time for persuasion. "We'll figure something out."

  "You can do that over dinner," Leonard said. "Cocktails are at six on the veranda."

  "Just iced tea for me," Gracie said.

  "Of course, Miss Harrington," he agreed. "Supper can be in the dining room, or al fresco in the back courtyard, the choice is yours."

  "In the courtyard," Colin said.

  "In the dining room," Grace said at the same time.

  Leonard barely hid his chuckle as he moved toward the door. "You can tell me once you've decided. I'll be in the kitchen."

  When he was gone, they stood in a moment of awkward silence. Gracie crossed the room toward the workstations, the light glancing off her shiny hair, her figure silhouetted in the window. Colin wanted to stare at her, to appreciate the way the sun warmed her creamy complexion, to examine the way her sweater clung to feminine curves and to memorize the way her jeans hugged her narrow hips.

  Another impulse he had to fight. Drinking in Gracie.

  "Pretty amazing that Gilmore pulled this off in one day, don't you think?" he asked. "In fact, it looks like he's been cooking up this shoot-out all along."

  She jerked her head up from the drafting table she'd been inspecting. "What do you mean?"

  "I don't know." He shrugged and approached her. "Setting up CAD systems, tables…" He scooped up a handful of acrylic pencils from the opposing table. "My favorite brand, my favorite colors."

  She frowned and shrugged. "That's a p
opular brand, and—" she raised her eyebrows and examined the pencils "—nothing too risky here, colorwise."

  He fought a smile at the little dig. "And on your desk?"

  She lifted a box of lead colored pencils. "I don't use acrylic. Not precise enough."

  "Almost as though he was prepared for us. Or for somebody."

  "I suppose it's possible he knew there would be finalists," she said, fluttering some tracing paper on the desk. "But he couldn't have known ahead of time who they'd be. These are typical architect tools. Leonard went to an office supply store and asked for what architects use." She glanced at his acrylics. "Good architects."

  He laughed, fighting one more impulse—this one to bury his face in her hair and inhale the subtle floral scent that clung to her. Was it lavender? Gardenia? "You're probably right."

  She moved away, tapping her drafting table. "I like this one, and not just because my favorite type of isograph pen was already here. I like the view."

  He glanced behind her to the scenery out the window. "You like looking at a barbecued replica of Buckingham Palace?"

  "I find it inspiring to know I'll be designing its replacement."

  "Good, because this—" he pointed to the area on the south side of the building "—is the perfect view for me."

  She moved next to him. "Why? That was the old side yard. Nothing spectacular, unless you like croquet."

  "Everything spectacular, in my opinion," he said, draping a casual arm around her shoulder and gently tugging her into his side. She stiffened, but stayed there. "That was where Pineapple House once stood." He leaned closer. Lavender. Definitely. He held out his hand to direct her gaze. "Use your imagination. Just picture it. All clean lines, perfect proportions, and classic eighteenth-century architecture."

  He glanced down at her. Her gaze was focused on the grounds, no doubt using her architect's vision.

  "I would really love to see the records of that building," she said, and then quickly added, "Just out of professional curiosity, naturally."

  When she looked up at him, his heart twisted. Why did Gracie affect him this way? He lowered his voice to an inviting whisper. "Have dinner with me under the stars and I'll share them with you."