The Return of Rafe MacKade by Nora Roberts
The guys would’ve rubbed my nose in it for years, but I’d have run like a rabbit if my legs had moved.”
“You were just a boy.”
“You’ve never been a boy, so you don’t know that made it ten times worse. I’d gotten through the night, even gotten a kick out of it. And here it was morning, dawn breaking, and I stood here with my teeth chattering. When it passed, I just stood looking out this window. And I thought, no damn house is going to get the better of me. Nothing’s going to get the better of me. I’ll own this house before I’m finished.”
He smiled then, set the glass down. “I don’t know how many times I came back here, alone, after that. Waiting for something to happen, wishing it would, just so I could stand up to it. I crept through every room of this place at one time or another. I heard things, saw things, felt things. The night I left town, I promised myself I’d come back.”
“Now you have it,” she said quietly.
“Yeah.” Faintly embarrassed, he looked down at her. “I never told anyone that.”
“Then neither will I.” She lifted a hand, touched his cheek. “Whatever your reasons, you’re doing something important. This house has been neglected too long.”
“Were you frightened, staying here through the night?”
“No. Not of the house.”
His brow lifted. “Of me?”
“Yes. I’m frightened of you.”
The humor faded from his eyes. “I was rough with you,” he said carefully.
“I don’t mean that.” She turned away. Out of habit, she set a kettle on the stove, flicked on the burner. “I’ve never been the way I was last night, with anyone. So out of control. So…needy. I’m a little surprised when I think back and… Well.” She let out a shaky breath, searched out a filter for the drip cone.
“Surprised? Or sorry?”
“Not sorry, Rafe.” Making the effort, she turned back and met his eyes. “No, not sorry at all. Uneasy, because I know now exactly what you can do to me. I knew making love with you would be exciting. I didn’t know it would be so shattering. Nothing about you is tidy or predictable. The way I like things to be.”
“I want you now. That should be predictable.”
“My heart jumps,” she managed. “Literally, when you say things like that. But I do need things to be tidy.” Opening the can of coffee, she deliberately measured out scoops. “I imagine your men will be coming along in an hour or so. This probably isn’t the best time to talk this out.”
“Nobody’s coming today. There’s better than two feet of snow out there, on top of what we already had.”
“Oh.” Her hand faltered, spilling ground coffee on the stove.
“We’re snowbound for a while, darling. You can talk all you want.”
“Well.” After clearing her throat, she faced him again. “I just think it’s best if we both understood things.”
“What things?”
“Things.” She bit the word off, furious at herself for hesitating. “Things that we didn’t quite finish outlining last night. That what we’re having is a mutual satisfying and physical affair, no strings, no entanglements, no…”
“Complications?”
“Yes.” Relieved, she nodded. “Exactly.”
Surprised to find himself annoyed with her cool-headed description—one that should have mirrored his own wishes—he scratched his head. “That’s tidy enough. But if that means you’re planning on seeing somebody else, it’ll get messy when I break him in half.”
“Oh, of all the ridiculous—”
“And cut off his—”
“Stop that.” She blew out a heated breath. “I have no intention of seeing someone else while we’re involved, but if I—”
“Smarter to stop there,” he said quietly. “Let’s just say we have a mutually satisfying and exclusive physical relationship. That suit you?”
Calmer, she turned back to pour boiling water through the filter. “Yes, I can agree to that.”
“You’re a piece of work, Regan. You want the contract in triplicate?”
“I only want to make sure we expect the same things.” She concentrated hard on covering the grounds with water, on being sure not to pour too much water, or too little. “We haven’t taken time to really get to know each other. Now we’re lovers. I don’t want you to think I’m looking for any more than that.”
“And if I’m looking for more?”
Her fingers whitened on the handle of the kettle. “Are you?”
He looked away from her, toward the window and the softly falling snow. “No.”
She closed her eyes, telling herself it was relief she felt at his answer. Only relief. “Well, then there’s no problem.”
“No, everything’s dandy.” His voice was as cool and detached as hers. “You don’t want romance, saves me the trouble. You don’t want promises, I don’t have to lie. We want each other in bed.” He reached for two mugs. “That keeps it simple.”
“I want you in bed.” Pleased with her casual tone, she took the mugs from him. “But if I didn’t like who you are, we wouldn’t have gotten there. I’ve wanted other men.”
In a deceptively calm gesture, he flicked her hair behind her ear. “Now you’re trying to make me mad.”
The fact that he couldn’t see how difficult it was for her to be so open, to keep things simple, made it easier. Oddly enough, this kind of openness seemed completely natural with him. “I’m trying to give you a compliment. I wouldn’t have come here last night, hoping you’d be here, if I hadn’t cared about you.”
“You came to drop off candlesticks.”
“You’re an idiot.” Amused at both of them, she poured coffee. She hadn’t realized sexual frankness could be fun. “You didn’t really buy that, did you?”
Intrigued, he took the mug she offered. “Yeah, I did.”
She sipped, smiled. “Sucker.”
“Maybe I don’t like sneaky, aggressive women.”
“Yes, you do. In fact, you’re hoping I’ll seduce you right now.”
“Think so?”
“I know so. But I want my coffee first.”
He watched her take another delicate sip. “Maybe I want my shirt back. You didn’t ask if you could borrow it.”
“Fine.” With one hand, she undid the buttons. “Take it.”
He nipped the coffee from her hand, set both mugs aside. Her smug smile had him scooping her off her feet. She was laughing and assaulting his ear as he carried her back down the hall. The front door swung open, letting in cold and blowing snow and a figure crusted with white.
Shane dragged off his cap and shook himself like a dog. “Hey.” Casually he kicked the door closed. “Your car’s buried to the wheel wells, Regan.”
“Oh.” With a fumbling hand, she clutched the shirt together and tried to mirror his easy tone. “We got a lot of snow.”
“Over two feet.” Unabashed, he grinned at his brother. “Figured you’d need someone to plow you out.”
“Does it look like I want you to rescue me?” Disgusted, Rafe strode into the parlor and dumped Regan on the settee. “Stay right there.”
“Rafe!” Futilely she tried to tug the hem of the shirt down over her legs. “For heaven’s sake!”
“Right there,” he repeated, and headed back into the hall.
“That coffee I smell?” Shane asked conversationally. “I could use some.”
“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t break your neck.”
Shane took off his gloves, blew on his chilled fingers. “’Cause I rode over here in a blizzard to save yours.” He leaned forward, but couldn’t quite see into the parlor. “She’s sure got legs.”
“Where do you want to die?”
“Just an observation.” His grin only widened, the MacKade dimple flashing. “Hey, who knew? I figured you were stuck here, without transportation. Alone. Then, when I saw her car, I thought maybe she needed a lift into town.” Again he inched forward, hopeful. “Maybe I should ask her.”
“One more step and they won’t find your body till spring.”
“If I win, can I keep her?” When Rafe snarled, Shane erupted with laughter. “Don’t hit me, I’m frozen. I’ll break.”
Muttering threats, Rafe grabbed Shane by the collar and dragged him down the hall. “Eyes front, MacKade.” In the kitchen, he found a thermos, filled it with coffee. “Now beat it.”
“I’m going.” But Shane drank straight from the thermos. “The wind’s a bitch.” Grateful for the heat, he drank again. “Look, I didn’t mean to horn in on your little love nest,” he began, then stopped, lowered the thermos when he read quick fury in Rafe’s eyes. “Hey, are you serious about her?”
“Mind your own damn business.”
Shane whistled out a breath, screwed the top on the thermos. “You’ve always been my business. Regan’s a real lady. I mean that.”
“So?”
“So nothing.” Embarrassed now, Shane shifted position. “I like her, always have. I thought about…” Realizing he’d taken a wrong turn, he pulled out his gloves again and whistled a cheerful tune.
“Thought about what?”
Cautious, Shane ran his tongue around his teeth. He really wanted to keep all of them. “Just what you think I thought. Hell, look at her. A man’s bound to think.” Agile, he evaded Rafe’s lunging arm. “Think is all I did. I’m not going to fight you over thinking.” In a gesture of peace, he threw up his hands. “What I’m saying is, it’s great. You hit the jackpot.”
Temper vanished. Rafe reached for the pot again. “We’re sleeping together. That’s all.”
“You gotta start somewhere.”
“She’s different, Shane.” He hadn’t been able to admit it to himself, but it came easily brother to brother. “I haven’t sorted it out, but she’s different. She matters a lot.”
“Everybody’s got to take the big fall sometime.” Shane slapped a hand on Rafe’s bare shoulder. “Even you.”
“I didn’t say anything about falling,” Rafe muttered. He knew the implications of that. Falling in love. Being in love.
“You didn’t have to. Look, I’ll plow the lane, just in case. You got any food around here?”
“Yeah, there’s enough.”
“I’ll take off, then. It’s supposed to let up by mid-morning. I have animals to tend to, so if you need something, try Devin first. I might be out.”
“Thanks. Shane?” He turned, eyeing his brother. “If you so much as glance in that parlor on your way out, I’ll have to kill you.”
“I already got a good look at her legs.” Whistling cheerfully, Shane ambled down the hall. “See you, Regan.” It cost him, but he kept his eyes averted on his way to the door.
The minute she heard it slam, Regan pressed her face on her updrawn knees. Stepping into the parlor, Rafe winced at her defensive posture, her trembling shoulders.
“Look, darling, I’m sorry. I should have locked the damn door.” Gently he patted her shoulder and sat down beside her. “Shane doesn’t mean to be an idiot. He was born that way. He doesn’t mean any harm. Don’t be upset.”
She made a strangled sound, and when she lifted her face, it was wet with tears. Her laughter bubbled out like wine. “Can you imagine what we looked like, the three of us, in that hall?” She pressed her hand over her mouth and rocked. “The two of us half-naked, Shane looking like the abominable snowman.”
“You think that’s funny?”
“No, I think it’s hysterical.” Weak with laughter, she collapsed against him. “The MacKade brothers. Oh, God, what have I gotten myself into?”
Delighted with her, he hauled her into his lap. “Give me back my shirt, darling, and I’ll show you.”
Chapter 7
Cozy in the sleeping bag, Regan dozed by the fire. It sizzled, logs crackling, and brushed heat over her face and her outflung arm. She sighed, cruising with the dream, shifting toward her lover.
Her dreams were nearly as erotic as the reality of the past hours, vivid enough to have her stirring, and yearning. When she reached out and found herself alone, she sighed again, in disappointment.
The fire was lively, so she knew Rafe had built it up once more before he left her. The room was quiet enough that she could hear the ticking of the mantel clock marking time. Evidence of the night’s activities was all around her, in the hastily strewn clothes littering the floor, the torn bits of lace and the jumbled boots. And the evidence was within her as she stretched, feeling the warm glow of desire.
She wished he was there, so that he could stoke it as he had stoked the fire.
Still, it was a wonderful shock to realize she could lay claim to such a bottomless well of passion.
It had never been so before, she reflected, sitting up to exercise her stiff and sore muscles. Physical relationships had always been far down on her list of priorities. She wondered if, after her recent behavior, Rafe would be surprised to know that before him, she had considered herself hesitant, even a little shy, when it came to intimacy.
With a yawn, she reached for her sweater and pulled it over her head.
Knowing him, she decided, he’d just be smug.
It was a pity she couldn’t blame her celibacy of the past few years for her wildfire response to him. It felt as though her libido had been nothing more than dry timber set to the torch the moment he put his hands on her. But using abstinence as the major reason for her response would be far from honest.
Whatever her life had been before, he’d changed it just by stepping into her path. It was certain she would never look at cozy nights by a fire in the same way again. It was doubtful she would look at anything in quite the same way again, she mused, now that she knew what she was capable of with the right…mate.
Just how, she wondered, did a woman go back to a quiet, settled life once she’d had a taste of Rafe MacKade? That was something she was going to have to deal with, one cautious day at a time.
At the moment, the only thing she wanted was to find him.
In her stocking feet, she began to wander the house. He could be anywhere, and the challenge of hunting him down, finding him busy with some chore—one she was determined to distract him from—amused her.
The chill of the bare floors seeped through and had her rubbing her hands together for a little warmth. But curiosity far overweighed a little discomfort.
She’d been through the first-floor rooms only twice before. First on her initial viewing to take notes and measurements. The second time to recheck them. But there were no workmen now, no sounds of voices or hammering.
She slipped into the room beyond the parlor, dreaming a bit.
This would be the library—glossy shelves filled with books, deep-cushioned chairs inviting a guest to curl up to read. A library table would stand there, she mused, a Sheraton if she could find one, with a decanter of brandy, a vase of seasonal flowers, an old pewter inkwell.
Library steps, of course, she continued visualizing, seeing it all perfectly, almost to the grain of wood. And the wide-backed chairs near the crackling fire would need cozy footstools.
She wanted a reading stand in the far corner, one with a cabriole base. She’d set a big, old Bible with gilt-edged pages open on it.
Abigail O’Brian, married to Charles Richard Barlow, April 10, 1856
Catherine Anne Barlow, born June 5, 1857
Charles Richard Barlow, Junior, born November 22, 1859
Robert Michael Barlow, born February 9, 1861
Abigail Barlow, died September 18, 1864
Regan shivered, swayed. She came back to herself slowly, her arms wrapped tight to ward off the sudden, bitter cold, her heart pounding as the vision faded from in front of her eyes.
How had she known that? she wondered, running a shaky hand over her face. Where had those names and dates come from?
She’d read them somewhere, she assured herself, but shuddered again. All the research she’d done, of course she’d read them. Very slowly, she backed out of the room and stood in the hall to catch her breath.
Of course she’d known the Barlows of that time had had three children. She’d looked it up. The dates must have been there, as well—she’d retained them for some reason, that was all.
Not for anything would she have admitted that she had thought, just for a moment, that she’d actually seen the thick white page of a Bible opened, and the names and dates written there in a carefully formal hand.
She walked to the stairs and climbed them.
He’d left the door open this time. When she reached the landing, she heard the scrape of his trowel against the wall. Letting out a relieved breath, she crossed the hall.
And was warm again, just looking at him.
“Need a hand?”
He glanced back, saw her standing there in her classic sweater and pleated trousers. “Not in that outfit. I just wanted to get this coat finished, and I thought you needed some sleep.”
She contented herself with leaning against the doorway to watch him. “Why is it that manual labor is so attractive on some men?”
“Some women like to see guys sweat.”
“Apparently I do.” Thoughtfully she studied his technique, the slide of the trowel, the flick of the wrist. “You know, you’re better at this than the guy who did my place over the shop. Very tidy.”
“I hate drywall work.”
“Then why are you doing it?”
“I like when it’s finished. And I’m faster than the team I hired.”
“How did you learn?”
“We were always having to fix something out at the farm.” He twisted his neck, cracking out kinks. “When I left, I did a lot of handyman stuff.”
“Then started your own company.”
“I don’t like working for somebody else.”
“Neither do I.” She hesitated, waiting while he scraped off his tools. “Where did you go? When you left?”
“South.” He stooped to bang the top back on the bucket of compound. “Picked up some jobs here and there. Figured out I was better at swinging a hammer than running a plow.” Out of habit, he reached into his shirt pocket, found it empty. Swore. “Quit smoking,” he muttered.
“Good for you.”
“It’s driving me nuts.” To keep himself busy, he walked over to check a seam he’d finished the night before.
“You went to Florida,” she said prompting him.
“Yeah, that’s where I ended up. Lots of construction work in Florida. I started buying houses—dumps—fixing them up, turning them over. Did pretty well. So I came back.” He turned to her. “That’s about it.”
“I wasn’t prying,” she began.
“I didn’t say you were. There just isn’t much to it, Regan. I had a rep when I left here. Spent my last night in town in a bar fight. With Joe Dolin.”
“I wondered if there was history there,” she murmured.
“Not much of one.” He slipped off the bandanna he’d twisted at his forehead to keep the hair out of his eyes, stuffed it in his pocket. “We just hated each other’s guts.”
“I’d say your taste in enemies is excellent.”
Restless again, he moved his shoulders. “If it hadn’t been him, it would have been somebody else. I was in the mood that night.” His grin flashed, but there
“You were just a boy.”
“You’ve never been a boy, so you don’t know that made it ten times worse. I’d gotten through the night, even gotten a kick out of it. And here it was morning, dawn breaking, and I stood here with my teeth chattering. When it passed, I just stood looking out this window. And I thought, no damn house is going to get the better of me. Nothing’s going to get the better of me. I’ll own this house before I’m finished.”
He smiled then, set the glass down. “I don’t know how many times I came back here, alone, after that. Waiting for something to happen, wishing it would, just so I could stand up to it. I crept through every room of this place at one time or another. I heard things, saw things, felt things. The night I left town, I promised myself I’d come back.”
“Now you have it,” she said quietly.
“Yeah.” Faintly embarrassed, he looked down at her. “I never told anyone that.”
“Then neither will I.” She lifted a hand, touched his cheek. “Whatever your reasons, you’re doing something important. This house has been neglected too long.”
“Were you frightened, staying here through the night?”
“No. Not of the house.”
His brow lifted. “Of me?”
“Yes. I’m frightened of you.”
The humor faded from his eyes. “I was rough with you,” he said carefully.
“I don’t mean that.” She turned away. Out of habit, she set a kettle on the stove, flicked on the burner. “I’ve never been the way I was last night, with anyone. So out of control. So…needy. I’m a little surprised when I think back and… Well.” She let out a shaky breath, searched out a filter for the drip cone.
“Surprised? Or sorry?”
“Not sorry, Rafe.” Making the effort, she turned back and met his eyes. “No, not sorry at all. Uneasy, because I know now exactly what you can do to me. I knew making love with you would be exciting. I didn’t know it would be so shattering. Nothing about you is tidy or predictable. The way I like things to be.”
“I want you now. That should be predictable.”
“My heart jumps,” she managed. “Literally, when you say things like that. But I do need things to be tidy.” Opening the can of coffee, she deliberately measured out scoops. “I imagine your men will be coming along in an hour or so. This probably isn’t the best time to talk this out.”
“Nobody’s coming today. There’s better than two feet of snow out there, on top of what we already had.”
“Oh.” Her hand faltered, spilling ground coffee on the stove.
“We’re snowbound for a while, darling. You can talk all you want.”
“Well.” After clearing her throat, she faced him again. “I just think it’s best if we both understood things.”
“What things?”
“Things.” She bit the word off, furious at herself for hesitating. “Things that we didn’t quite finish outlining last night. That what we’re having is a mutual satisfying and physical affair, no strings, no entanglements, no…”
“Complications?”
“Yes.” Relieved, she nodded. “Exactly.”
Surprised to find himself annoyed with her cool-headed description—one that should have mirrored his own wishes—he scratched his head. “That’s tidy enough. But if that means you’re planning on seeing somebody else, it’ll get messy when I break him in half.”
“Oh, of all the ridiculous—”
“And cut off his—”
“Stop that.” She blew out a heated breath. “I have no intention of seeing someone else while we’re involved, but if I—”
“Smarter to stop there,” he said quietly. “Let’s just say we have a mutually satisfying and exclusive physical relationship. That suit you?”
Calmer, she turned back to pour boiling water through the filter. “Yes, I can agree to that.”
“You’re a piece of work, Regan. You want the contract in triplicate?”
“I only want to make sure we expect the same things.” She concentrated hard on covering the grounds with water, on being sure not to pour too much water, or too little. “We haven’t taken time to really get to know each other. Now we’re lovers. I don’t want you to think I’m looking for any more than that.”
“And if I’m looking for more?”
Her fingers whitened on the handle of the kettle. “Are you?”
He looked away from her, toward the window and the softly falling snow. “No.”
She closed her eyes, telling herself it was relief she felt at his answer. Only relief. “Well, then there’s no problem.”
“No, everything’s dandy.” His voice was as cool and detached as hers. “You don’t want romance, saves me the trouble. You don’t want promises, I don’t have to lie. We want each other in bed.” He reached for two mugs. “That keeps it simple.”
“I want you in bed.” Pleased with her casual tone, she took the mugs from him. “But if I didn’t like who you are, we wouldn’t have gotten there. I’ve wanted other men.”
In a deceptively calm gesture, he flicked her hair behind her ear. “Now you’re trying to make me mad.”
The fact that he couldn’t see how difficult it was for her to be so open, to keep things simple, made it easier. Oddly enough, this kind of openness seemed completely natural with him. “I’m trying to give you a compliment. I wouldn’t have come here last night, hoping you’d be here, if I hadn’t cared about you.”
“You came to drop off candlesticks.”
“You’re an idiot.” Amused at both of them, she poured coffee. She hadn’t realized sexual frankness could be fun. “You didn’t really buy that, did you?”
Intrigued, he took the mug she offered. “Yeah, I did.”
She sipped, smiled. “Sucker.”
“Maybe I don’t like sneaky, aggressive women.”
“Yes, you do. In fact, you’re hoping I’ll seduce you right now.”
“Think so?”
“I know so. But I want my coffee first.”
He watched her take another delicate sip. “Maybe I want my shirt back. You didn’t ask if you could borrow it.”
“Fine.” With one hand, she undid the buttons. “Take it.”
He nipped the coffee from her hand, set both mugs aside. Her smug smile had him scooping her off her feet. She was laughing and assaulting his ear as he carried her back down the hall. The front door swung open, letting in cold and blowing snow and a figure crusted with white.
Shane dragged off his cap and shook himself like a dog. “Hey.” Casually he kicked the door closed. “Your car’s buried to the wheel wells, Regan.”
“Oh.” With a fumbling hand, she clutched the shirt together and tried to mirror his easy tone. “We got a lot of snow.”
“Over two feet.” Unabashed, he grinned at his brother. “Figured you’d need someone to plow you out.”
“Does it look like I want you to rescue me?” Disgusted, Rafe strode into the parlor and dumped Regan on the settee. “Stay right there.”
“Rafe!” Futilely she tried to tug the hem of the shirt down over her legs. “For heaven’s sake!”
“Right there,” he repeated, and headed back into the hall.
“That coffee I smell?” Shane asked conversationally. “I could use some.”
“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t break your neck.”
Shane took off his gloves, blew on his chilled fingers. “’Cause I rode over here in a blizzard to save yours.” He leaned forward, but couldn’t quite see into the parlor. “She’s sure got legs.”
“Where do you want to die?”
“Just an observation.” His grin only widened, the MacKade dimple flashing. “Hey, who knew? I figured you were stuck here, without transportation. Alone. Then, when I saw her car, I thought maybe she needed a lift into town.” Again he inched forward, hopeful. “Maybe I should ask her.”
“One more step and they won’t find your body till spring.”
“If I win, can I keep her?” When Rafe snarled, Shane erupted with laughter. “Don’t hit me, I’m frozen. I’ll break.”
Muttering threats, Rafe grabbed Shane by the collar and dragged him down the hall. “Eyes front, MacKade.” In the kitchen, he found a thermos, filled it with coffee. “Now beat it.”
“I’m going.” But Shane drank straight from the thermos. “The wind’s a bitch.” Grateful for the heat, he drank again. “Look, I didn’t mean to horn in on your little love nest,” he began, then stopped, lowered the thermos when he read quick fury in Rafe’s eyes. “Hey, are you serious about her?”
“Mind your own damn business.”
Shane whistled out a breath, screwed the top on the thermos. “You’ve always been my business. Regan’s a real lady. I mean that.”
“So?”
“So nothing.” Embarrassed now, Shane shifted position. “I like her, always have. I thought about…” Realizing he’d taken a wrong turn, he pulled out his gloves again and whistled a cheerful tune.
“Thought about what?”
Cautious, Shane ran his tongue around his teeth. He really wanted to keep all of them. “Just what you think I thought. Hell, look at her. A man’s bound to think.” Agile, he evaded Rafe’s lunging arm. “Think is all I did. I’m not going to fight you over thinking.” In a gesture of peace, he threw up his hands. “What I’m saying is, it’s great. You hit the jackpot.”
Temper vanished. Rafe reached for the pot again. “We’re sleeping together. That’s all.”
“You gotta start somewhere.”
“She’s different, Shane.” He hadn’t been able to admit it to himself, but it came easily brother to brother. “I haven’t sorted it out, but she’s different. She matters a lot.”
“Everybody’s got to take the big fall sometime.” Shane slapped a hand on Rafe’s bare shoulder. “Even you.”
“I didn’t say anything about falling,” Rafe muttered. He knew the implications of that. Falling in love. Being in love.
“You didn’t have to. Look, I’ll plow the lane, just in case. You got any food around here?”
“Yeah, there’s enough.”
“I’ll take off, then. It’s supposed to let up by mid-morning. I have animals to tend to, so if you need something, try Devin first. I might be out.”
“Thanks. Shane?” He turned, eyeing his brother. “If you so much as glance in that parlor on your way out, I’ll have to kill you.”
“I already got a good look at her legs.” Whistling cheerfully, Shane ambled down the hall. “See you, Regan.” It cost him, but he kept his eyes averted on his way to the door.
The minute she heard it slam, Regan pressed her face on her updrawn knees. Stepping into the parlor, Rafe winced at her defensive posture, her trembling shoulders.
“Look, darling, I’m sorry. I should have locked the damn door.” Gently he patted her shoulder and sat down beside her. “Shane doesn’t mean to be an idiot. He was born that way. He doesn’t mean any harm. Don’t be upset.”
She made a strangled sound, and when she lifted her face, it was wet with tears. Her laughter bubbled out like wine. “Can you imagine what we looked like, the three of us, in that hall?” She pressed her hand over her mouth and rocked. “The two of us half-naked, Shane looking like the abominable snowman.”
“You think that’s funny?”
“No, I think it’s hysterical.” Weak with laughter, she collapsed against him. “The MacKade brothers. Oh, God, what have I gotten myself into?”
Delighted with her, he hauled her into his lap. “Give me back my shirt, darling, and I’ll show you.”
Chapter 7
Cozy in the sleeping bag, Regan dozed by the fire. It sizzled, logs crackling, and brushed heat over her face and her outflung arm. She sighed, cruising with the dream, shifting toward her lover.
Her dreams were nearly as erotic as the reality of the past hours, vivid enough to have her stirring, and yearning. When she reached out and found herself alone, she sighed again, in disappointment.
The fire was lively, so she knew Rafe had built it up once more before he left her. The room was quiet enough that she could hear the ticking of the mantel clock marking time. Evidence of the night’s activities was all around her, in the hastily strewn clothes littering the floor, the torn bits of lace and the jumbled boots. And the evidence was within her as she stretched, feeling the warm glow of desire.
She wished he was there, so that he could stoke it as he had stoked the fire.
Still, it was a wonderful shock to realize she could lay claim to such a bottomless well of passion.
It had never been so before, she reflected, sitting up to exercise her stiff and sore muscles. Physical relationships had always been far down on her list of priorities. She wondered if, after her recent behavior, Rafe would be surprised to know that before him, she had considered herself hesitant, even a little shy, when it came to intimacy.
With a yawn, she reached for her sweater and pulled it over her head.
Knowing him, she decided, he’d just be smug.
It was a pity she couldn’t blame her celibacy of the past few years for her wildfire response to him. It felt as though her libido had been nothing more than dry timber set to the torch the moment he put his hands on her. But using abstinence as the major reason for her response would be far from honest.
Whatever her life had been before, he’d changed it just by stepping into her path. It was certain she would never look at cozy nights by a fire in the same way again. It was doubtful she would look at anything in quite the same way again, she mused, now that she knew what she was capable of with the right…mate.
Just how, she wondered, did a woman go back to a quiet, settled life once she’d had a taste of Rafe MacKade? That was something she was going to have to deal with, one cautious day at a time.
At the moment, the only thing she wanted was to find him.
In her stocking feet, she began to wander the house. He could be anywhere, and the challenge of hunting him down, finding him busy with some chore—one she was determined to distract him from—amused her.
The chill of the bare floors seeped through and had her rubbing her hands together for a little warmth. But curiosity far overweighed a little discomfort.
She’d been through the first-floor rooms only twice before. First on her initial viewing to take notes and measurements. The second time to recheck them. But there were no workmen now, no sounds of voices or hammering.
She slipped into the room beyond the parlor, dreaming a bit.
This would be the library—glossy shelves filled with books, deep-cushioned chairs inviting a guest to curl up to read. A library table would stand there, she mused, a Sheraton if she could find one, with a decanter of brandy, a vase of seasonal flowers, an old pewter inkwell.
Library steps, of course, she continued visualizing, seeing it all perfectly, almost to the grain of wood. And the wide-backed chairs near the crackling fire would need cozy footstools.
She wanted a reading stand in the far corner, one with a cabriole base. She’d set a big, old Bible with gilt-edged pages open on it.
Abigail O’Brian, married to Charles Richard Barlow, April 10, 1856
Catherine Anne Barlow, born June 5, 1857
Charles Richard Barlow, Junior, born November 22, 1859
Robert Michael Barlow, born February 9, 1861
Abigail Barlow, died September 18, 1864
Regan shivered, swayed. She came back to herself slowly, her arms wrapped tight to ward off the sudden, bitter cold, her heart pounding as the vision faded from in front of her eyes.
How had she known that? she wondered, running a shaky hand over her face. Where had those names and dates come from?
She’d read them somewhere, she assured herself, but shuddered again. All the research she’d done, of course she’d read them. Very slowly, she backed out of the room and stood in the hall to catch her breath.
Of course she’d known the Barlows of that time had had three children. She’d looked it up. The dates must have been there, as well—she’d retained them for some reason, that was all.
Not for anything would she have admitted that she had thought, just for a moment, that she’d actually seen the thick white page of a Bible opened, and the names and dates written there in a carefully formal hand.
She walked to the stairs and climbed them.
He’d left the door open this time. When she reached the landing, she heard the scrape of his trowel against the wall. Letting out a relieved breath, she crossed the hall.
And was warm again, just looking at him.
“Need a hand?”
He glanced back, saw her standing there in her classic sweater and pleated trousers. “Not in that outfit. I just wanted to get this coat finished, and I thought you needed some sleep.”
She contented herself with leaning against the doorway to watch him. “Why is it that manual labor is so attractive on some men?”
“Some women like to see guys sweat.”
“Apparently I do.” Thoughtfully she studied his technique, the slide of the trowel, the flick of the wrist. “You know, you’re better at this than the guy who did my place over the shop. Very tidy.”
“I hate drywall work.”
“Then why are you doing it?”
“I like when it’s finished. And I’m faster than the team I hired.”
“How did you learn?”
“We were always having to fix something out at the farm.” He twisted his neck, cracking out kinks. “When I left, I did a lot of handyman stuff.”
“Then started your own company.”
“I don’t like working for somebody else.”
“Neither do I.” She hesitated, waiting while he scraped off his tools. “Where did you go? When you left?”
“South.” He stooped to bang the top back on the bucket of compound. “Picked up some jobs here and there. Figured out I was better at swinging a hammer than running a plow.” Out of habit, he reached into his shirt pocket, found it empty. Swore. “Quit smoking,” he muttered.
“Good for you.”
“It’s driving me nuts.” To keep himself busy, he walked over to check a seam he’d finished the night before.
“You went to Florida,” she said prompting him.
“Yeah, that’s where I ended up. Lots of construction work in Florida. I started buying houses—dumps—fixing them up, turning them over. Did pretty well. So I came back.” He turned to her. “That’s about it.”
“I wasn’t prying,” she began.
“I didn’t say you were. There just isn’t much to it, Regan. I had a rep when I left here. Spent my last night in town in a bar fight. With Joe Dolin.”
“I wondered if there was history there,” she murmured.
“Not much of one.” He slipped off the bandanna he’d twisted at his forehead to keep the hair out of his eyes, stuffed it in his pocket. “We just hated each other’s guts.”
“I’d say your taste in enemies is excellent.”
Restless again, he moved his shoulders. “If it hadn’t been him, it would have been somebody else. I was in the mood that night.” His grin flashed, but there