7

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Sophie found Quentin in Dierenpark’s library, measuring the columns that supported the wraparound gallery above them. It was a long, narrow room with books running the length of one wall and a series of arched windows marching along the opposite side. Quentin’s brooding face was in sharp contrast to the morning light pouring in from the windows as he jotted down the measurements in the small notebook he always seemed to have with him.

“Did you complain to the Weather Bureau about me?”

His pencil froze as he glanced up at her. “I sent a telegram suggesting their illegally installed equipment needed relocation. I also wanted to verify that you were indeed associated with the organization.”

“You think I would lie about that?”

“At the time I did. Now that I know you better, I understand you are perfectly willing to let people exploit your foolishly naïve disposition.”

She squared her shoulders and took a few steps closer. “Don’t you understand that people sometimes do things simply for love? I know I was in the wrong when I set up that station without permission. I didn’t think the family would ever return, and the station causes no harm, but I still should have asked one of your lawyers and I’m sorry I didn’t.” She paused to catch her breath so her voice would stop shaking. With his complaint to the bureau, he’d done so much more damage than he realized.

“I’ve spent the past year working to get the Weather Bureau to invest in an upgraded climate observatory in New Holland,” she explained. “I’ve done it all on my own without a bit of help or encouragement from anyone. I’ve drafted proposals and circulated petitions. I’ve listened to people tease me for being idealistic and irrational. No one, not even my own father, thinks I have a chance at persuading the Weather Bureau to plant that research station here, but I’ve worked so hard. And in one afternoon, you’ve stained my reputation with them out of pure meanness.” She rarely spoke so harshly, but it didn’t put a dent in the iron expression on his face.

“Why does this mean so much to you?”

How could she explain years of feeling useless and adrift? A man born with the Vandermark name had opportunities showered on him since birth, while people like her had to go find them—and that wasn’t easy in a dying village.

“Because I want to have a sense of purpose in this world.” She should know better than to expose her feelings so freely, for it hurt when he smirked at her answer.

“Odd, it seems like you’ve had a purpose for quite a while.” Grasping his cane, he limped toward the walnut desk on the far side of the library. “Come here. There’s something I want to show you.”

After plopping into the desk chair, he slid open a drawer and tossed a photograph at her. It was the postcard sold to the tourists that showed Sophie as a five-year-old, standing in the grand salon and clutching a bouquet of tulips almost as tall as she.

“My goodness, what a charming little girl you were,” he said coolly, but his eyes were dark with accusation.

Sophie stiffened but didn’t move. She’d been only a child when the photograph was taken and could hardly be accused of wrongdoing, but she didn’t like where this conversation seemed to be heading. “What would you like me to say?”

“Who took the photograph?”

My father. She had no intention of telling Quentin that. Given his hard-eyed expression, Quentin was out for blood.

“I was five years old. You don’t really expect me to remember, do you?”

He pushed himself to his feet, grabbed his cane, and lurched around the desk in that lopsided gait she was coming to know so well. She felt like an insect trapped in a web as the spider drew closer. Her mouth went dry, and she took a step back, but he didn’t seem angry, he seemed . . . curious.

“The rest of the world may think you are an innocent lamb in the woods, but you are twice as clever as you let on. I doubt anything escapes your notice, despite your wide-eyed innocence. Who took the picture?”

She blinked, surprised at the dubious compliment. “Why should I tell you?”

“Miss van Riijn, the statute of limitations for trespassing on private property has long since expired, so the photographer is in no danger of criminal prosecution. Since you tell me you were five years old, this corresponds with when your father first became mayor of New Holland. A coincidence?”

Any attempt to quibble would only antagonize him. “You know it’s not,” she admitted.

His smile of satisfaction was a wolf’s smile. “My men have learned a great deal about this town and its quixotic mayor. It appears the intrepid Jasper van Riijn set about the town’s salvation while watching how the tourists sailed past New Holland on their way to the more famous resorts farther north. The Vandermark house was his linchpin to coax them to linger in the village, and he decided to exploit every conceivable angle.”

“Why are you so hostile? Not everyone was born with millions of dollars at their disposal. My father is only trying to protect the town he loves.”

“Then it is likewise perfectly legal for me to initiate a lawsuit for punitive damages against your father. He has two decades of ill-gotten gains from exploiting my family’s ancestral home—”

“But what about the statute of limitations? You just said that photograph was too old to be used against him.”

“For taking the photograph, yes, but the exploitation continued until two weeks ago when I returned and threw out the staff that had been selling photographs of our house and allowing special tours without authorization. That I can still sue over. You have been making free with this house for the past twenty years. I’ve learned you grew up playing with the groundskeeper’s children. Playing hide-and-seek in the meadow. Picking our wildflowers and harvesting our oysters. As you got older, you read almost every book in our library.”

Her face heated with embarrassment, for everything he said was true. Yes, she’d plundered his library. Those books gave her wings, and she wouldn’t apologize for having dared to crack open the abandoned volumes.

“The novels of Ann Radcliffe were always my favorite,” she said, her chin held high.

“It shouldn’t surprise me that even your choice of reading material is quaint and overly sentimental.”

She turned her face away. Dierenpark had seeped into her soul and spirit, but he was making it impossible to stay here. Instead of saving Dierenpark, it seemed she was only putting her family in danger.

“Mr. Vandermark, I don’t believe it is wise for me to continue tutoring your son if I am exposing my father to litigation. I will make arrangements to relocate the weather station immediately, so at least one of your concerns will have been addressed.”

“No need to be so hasty,” he said in a rush.

“In the brief time we’ve known each other, you have threatened me with a lawsuit, tarnished my reputation with the Weather Bureau, insulted my faith, and attacked my taste in literature. I think I’ve overstayed my welcome. I will prepare lunch for the household then head into town to find a new location for the weather station.”

It hurt to even say the words. She expected Quentin to gloat in triumph, but he pushed to his feet, his face alert and eyes fierce.

“You can’t quit!” he thundered. If she wasn’t so upset, the incredulity on his face would have been comical. He looked like he wanted to lunge across the desk and manacle her to the floor to stop her from leaving.

“You can’t force me to cook for you.”

“I didn’t hire you to cook. I hired you to mentor my son.”

“Pieter is welcome to join me wherever I establish a new monitoring station, for he shouldn’t be punished because you can’t look at a person without threatening a lawsuit.”

It was hard, but she managed to keep her composure as she turned to leave the library, closing the door softly behind her.

Quentin waited a solid ten minutes before pursuing her. Which was a struggle. He fought the impulse to follow her to the kitchen to continue their argument, but that would tip the scales in her favor. It would betray how much he enjoyed her company and wanted her to stay.

Everything about her fascinated him. Her charm, her beauty, her bizarre combination of intellect and innocence. She looked as sweet as a newly unfolded daisy, but he suspected she might actually be tough enough to repel bullets with her untarnished dignity. Her buoyancy annoyed him at the same time as it attracted him.

It was bewildering, but Sophie’s cheerful disposition and quick banter managed to worm beneath his defenses each time he saw her. He wasn’t used to enjoying a woman’s company. He’d ignored that piece of his soul ever since Portia died, but Sophie’s presence made him cognizant of the hollow place that had been empty for so long. It was easy enough to ignore when she wasn’t around, but when she traipsed into his line of sight, it summoned up old yearnings for the sparkle of a woman, for summer evenings at the seashore, for lying on a blanket to watch cloud formations overhead and hoping the world was more profound than what he could see and touch.

A woman of Sophie’s attractiveness would never be interested in someone like him, so it was frustrating that he couldn’t stop these flights of the imagination, but he wasn’t going to let his son be deprived of her company over a little snit. He didn’t really intend to sue her father over those photographs, he just wanted to goad her a little. He didn’t expect her to quit.

He remained seated behind the desk, clenching and unclenching his fists as he planned his strategy. This was . . . well, this was suddenly and unacceptably galling. If Sophie realized how much he needed her, she’d raise the stakes and probably start haggling over the preservation of this house, which was the only thing he could never offer her.

After ten minutes, he forced his features into a smooth mask of disinterest as he approached the kitchen. He heard her before he saw her. The thumping sounded like she was attacking a punching bag. Rounding the corner and staying partially concealed in the kitchen archway, he watched her turn a wad of dough on a floured countertop, using her fist to punch a large hole in the center.

“Your attack on that bread dough is reminiscent of the way Rome went after Carthage. I certainly hope I’m not the cause of your surge in brutality.”

She pretended not to hear him, but the tightening of her mouth betrayed her. Even as he crossed the kitchen, she refused to acknowledge his presence. He stood beside the window that had been cracked open to allow a weak breeze to filter into the room.

“It looks like it might rain this afternoon,” he said casually.

“It won’t.” She gave the dough another turn then flipped it with practiced hands into a stoneware bowl and covered it with a damp cloth. “It will be cloudy all day and won’t rain until this evening. After that, we will have two, maybe three days of clear weather.”

She said it without looking at him, but with such confidence he couldn’t resist taking a little dig. “Then I see no reason why you can’t tutor my son for two, maybe three days on the roof here at Dierenpark.”

“Possibly because I am under threat of a lawsuit here.” She carried the bowl to the windowsill, still not looking at him. She rinsed her hands in the basin then dried them in an economy of movement he found oddly attractive. Such simple motions but graceful and timeless in a way that appealed to him.

He clenched his teeth. Was he truly attracted to a woman because of the grace with which she washed her hands? It was appalling, but true.

She began stemming a bowl of strawberries, and he gaped at her quick and efficient fingers flying through the task. He leaned closer for a better view, and his eyes widened.

Well, he had just discovered the one part of the fragile, willowy Sophie van Riijn that was not beautiful. She had the hands of a farmer’s wife, with trim nails and tough calluses. The backs of her hands were heavily nicked with tiny burns and scars. He supposed all cooks had such scars, but for some reason he hadn’t expected to see them on Sophie. They made him like her even more.

“What if I promised not to sue your father over those silly pictures?” he offered.

“Not good enough,” she said without looking up as she grabbed a knife and began dicing the strawberries. “You’ll find some other ancient offense to sue him over.”

“There have been a lot, have there?”

She dropped the knife. “You see? That’s exactly what I mean. No matter what I say, you manage to twist it and use it against me. I can’t trust myself around you, and the sooner I’m away from this house, the better.”

This would never do. Instead of persuading her to stay, he was pushing her away faster. Most of his life had been spent among hard-hitting corporate industrialists who didn’t flinch at a little blunt language. He wasn’t used to apologizing to anyone, and it made him feel exposed and weak. He couldn’t look at her. How ghastly to be at her mercy, but he liked her and didn’t want her to leave. And Pieter needed her. He swallowed hard, prepared to do whatever it took.

“I have been short-tempered and rude,” he admitted. “I promise to refrain from any lawsuits for violations committed at Dierenpark prior to my return, provided that your father stops circulating rumors about my family. And stops selling the photographs, as well.”

That should have pacified her, but she scooped up the strawberry stems and dumped them into a waste bowl and headed outside. He watched through the open doorway as she tossed the stems onto the kitchen dump, her mouth still a hard line. He parsed his words carefully as she returned to the kitchen.

“I’ve often heard that women are like elephants in that they never forget an offense, no matter how genuine the apology.”

“That was an apology? I’m sorry, I mistook it for another legal salvo.”

“It was an apology. I’m not accustomed to delivering them, so I may be a bit clumsy.”

Her lips twitched. He was going to crack her composure if it killed him, but she was still sulking as she began slicing a loaf of bread, and he still hadn’t won her agreement to stay and tutor Pieter.

“King Solomon had seven hundred wives,” he said. “I’ll bet he had a lot of practice delivering apologies. Women can be so fussy about these things.”

She kept slicing the bread without looking at him, and he started to feel like an idiot. He had been in the wrong, and she deserved an honest apology.

“Please,” he said, dropping every trace of cynicism and looking her squarely in the face. “I have no desire to sue you or your father, and my son truly needs you. I need you. I can be a bad-tempered fool, and I’m sorry. What will it take to convince you to keep tutoring Pieter?”

More money, shorter work hours . . . whatever it took, he intended to provide it. She said nothing as she continued slicing the bread with breathtaking speed, but she performed the task fearlessly. Such a simple gesture yet so classically Sophie, the way she handled everything from the surly bodyguards to taming the bees with grace and ease.

“I’ll agree on one condition,” she finally said.

He cocked a brow, curious why she suddenly seemed so nervous.

“There is an abandoned timber mill on the outskirts of town,” she said.

“I know. My great-grandfather operated it until the day he died.”

“And it’s been shuttered ever since,” Sophie said. “I’d like to show it to you.”

The way she held her breath and the hungry expression in her eyes put him on alert. She was up to something. “Why?”

“I think it might be suitable for turning into one of the upgraded climate observatories the Weather Bureau is starting to build. They would pay you handsomely to lease the space.”

He had no interest in amassing more money, but he sensed this was important to her. She briefly outlined her ambition to apply for a full-fledged climate observatory here in New Holland and how she hoped to use the mill as leverage. It was fascinating to watch the way energy sparkled in her eyes as she talked. Sophie seemed to harbor a wellspring of dreams and ambition just waiting to be tapped, even if she aspired to something as improbable as this.

He squeezed the handle of his cane, wishing her expression didn’t remind him so much of a young architect who once aspired to equally far-fetched dreams. “If I look at the mill, you’ll continue to tutor Pieter?”

“I’d want you to do more than just look at it,” she said. “I’ve been putting a proposal together outlining the merits of locating an observatory in New Holland. If I can offer a ready-made building for the site, it will make the proposal even stronger. I’d like you to look at the mill and consider giving your approval in my proposal. If you do that, I’ll be happy to keep working with Pieter.”

“Has bribery worked for you in the past?”

“This is my first try,” she said, a bit of humor dancing in her eyes. “But I have hopes.”

“We’ll go this afternoon.”

He turned away from the eagerness blossoming on her face. He didn’t like the prospect of being dragged into the wilderness with her. The rest of the people in this town might underestimate her, but he’d quit doing so on that second morning when he’d recognized Sophie’s purity of spirit that never seemed to fade. Her sort of luminous hope was dangerous for him. It cast a spotlight on the grim limitations of his life. He could only watch, never participate, in Sophie’s bright optimism and faith in a perfect world.

She would be appalled if she ever sensed his attraction to her, but he would keep it tightly contained. His son needed her too much to risk frightening her off because of this wild, unwieldy, and unwelcome fascination he harbored for her.