It wasn’t cool enough for a fire, so the logs that Matt had set upon the fire grate remained unlit. He really wasn’t much of a drinking man, so the beer he’d opened when he returned home from the clinic remained on the kitchen counter, where he’d left it. The stack of mail he’d pulled out of the mailbox sat in a tidy pile on the table in front of the old, dark blue plaid sofa he’d had since his college days, and the TV remained on, the volume turned all the way down, while Matt sorted his options. He could slip his video copy of The Scarlet Claw—just maybe the best Sherlock Holmes movie ever made—into the VCR. Or he could finish reading The Final Problem.
Or he could call Pumpkin Hill and ...
And what? he asked himself.
Ask Georgia Enright why she’s still there after he’d told her that he expected her to be gone by today?
And there was absolutely no doubt in his mind that she was there. That calm but certain defiance that had smoldered in those green eyes until they had burned with emerald fire—that snap set of her bottom jaw—that solid hands-on-hips, try-and-make-me stance.
Oh, she was there all right.
Nothing about the woman had said Yes sir, I’m on my way, sir.
All day his nerves had hummed with the frustration of knowing that it was Wednesday, that she was still most certainly at Pumpkin Hill, and that he had no means of forcing her to leave. Even Laura had not backed him up, though he had suspected she would not. And wasn’t that part of the problem, part of what was eating at him now? That Laura had taken Georgia’s side, against him?
Yeah, and who did he have to thank for putting Laura in the middle?
“Me,” he said aloud.
Artie raised his head and looked up at Matt.
Matt looked down at Artie. He sighed with the resignation of knowing that he had made a total ass out of himself by making a pointless demand on Georgia and imposing childish expectations on his sister. Laura would not go back on her word to Georgia, and his own sense of fair play made Matt grudgingly admit that she should not. Like it or not, Georgia Enright was living at Pumpkin Hill, and there she would stay until she decided to leave. The only way to avoid her would be to stay away, and that was one thing he could not do. Pumpkin Hill was his haven, his sanctuary, a place that had always offered peace, a place where he could relax, a place where he could dream and plan for the future.
And besides, he had great plans for that barn. Someday it would be home to the Pumpkin Hill Veterinary Center, complete with the most up-to-date surgical facilities. He reached under his chair and pulled out the leather binder that held the plans he had drawn up for his animal hospital. The first floor would have treatment areas as well as housing for ailing farm animals—horses, sheep, goats, cows—and state-of-the-art equipment. The second floor would have offices and a sort of big, open conference area, where vets from all over could come to discuss new modes of treatment, and those who were on the cutting edge in the areas of nutrition and holistic veterinary medicine could share their knowledge. If he closed his eyes, he could see it....
He closed his eyes, but all he could see was a delicate face framed in hair the color of candlelight.
Muttering a mild curse to dispel the vision, he reached for the remote control and turned on the video. He’d deal with Georgia Enright on the weekend. Right now, there was The Scarlet Claw. Basil Rathbone as Holmes, Nigel Bruce as Doctor Watson. As good as it gets. He settled back to enjoy murder and mayhem as the famed detective journeyed to Canada to investigate the death of Lady Penrose....
Saturday’s noon appointment—routine shots for an Airedale—having been canceled due to illness on the part of the dog’s owner, Matt closed the clinic at twelve-twenty and headed home to pick up his dog.
“Now you listen up, Artie,” he said sternly as he backed out of his narrow driveway, “no more fraternizing with the tenant, you hear? We’re going to keep this all very businesslike, okay? She’s the tenant, we’re the landlord. We’re not going to play fetch with her and we’re not going to let her scratch behind our ears, you hear?”
Artie drooled onto the scuffed leather seat, then turned his head to look out the window.
“Yeah,” Matt muttered. “That’s what I thought you’d say.”
It was just a little past one when Matt drove up next to the barn and parked his pickup. He swung the door of the cab open and hopped out, then stopped in midstride and asked Artie, who had leapt past him to water the nearest tree, “Do you hear what I hear?”
Matt took two or three steps, then stopped, frowning. “Classical music, that’s what it is. And it’s coming from the barn.”
He took off across the yard—a man with a mission—and went through the open door and up the steps. The music grew louder as he approached the second floor, and when he neared the top, he stopped, dumbfounded.
The woman was dancing in his barn. Right where his conference tables would be.
Anger bubbled up inside him and was about to boil over. But just as he opened his mouth to yell, just before his What the hell do you think you’re doing in my barn? could roll out, he was spotted by his niece.
“Uncle Matt! Uncle Matt!” Ally fairly flew across the floor, a look of sheer joy on her face. She, too, was dressed all in pink and looked like a gumdrop. “You came to watch me dance!”
She flung herself into his arms, and habit caused him to hoist her over his head.
“Aunt Georgia is teaching me how to dance,” Ally told him breathlessly. “She is a real ballerina. And she’s teaching Samantha and Mary Beth, too. She said ‘the more the merrier,’ so I could bring friends. Want to see what I can do?”
“Sure, sugar.” He set her down on the rough wooden floor, trying to avoid the eyes of one Ms. Enright. She had looked over her shoulder when Matt had come up the steps, and it had seemed to Matt that she had looked mildly amused when she’d seen how quickly Ally had defused him. He met her gaze from across the distance and said, “Sure. Let’s see what you can do.”
Recognizing a challenge, Georgia raised one eyebrow and pointed to a folding chair where he was, he assumed, expected to sit.
“All right, girls.” She directed her attention to her three little students, who lined up next to three folding chairs. “Let’s do that again. Right hands on the back of the chairs ... now, First Position. Heels together, toes out, legs stretched straight. Your feet should look like what, Samantha?”
“A straight line.” Samantha responded boldly.
“That’s right. A straight line. Very good, all of you. Now, let’s move our arms into position ... very nice, girls. Lovely. Now, can you move into Second Position? Does anyone remember where your heels belong?”
Georgia smiled as the little girls watched each other, trying to recall.
“Very good, Ally. Now, open your arms just a little more, Mary Beth, yes, like Samantha has done.”
Ally and her friends were adorable and eager to learn. Georgia was enjoying herself—or had been, before Darth Vader had shown up.
“Back into First ...” Georgia told them, demonstrating, “then again into Second ...”
A black streak darted across the floor and pounced upon her from behind.
“Artie!” She cried, laughing as the dog nearly knocked her off her feet. “I’m glad to see you, too!”
Matt rose from his chair to grab the dog, trying not to look at her face, with its joyful smile as she patted the dog’s big head, nor at her body, which he couldn’t help but notice was trim where it should be and full in all the important places. He crossed the floor to retrieve the dog, commanding his eyes not to fall beneath the level of her chin. It was better this way, he rationalized. Anything below her chin was trouble.
Then again, those eyes could do real damage to a man, and those lips, curved as they were into a smile as she grabbed the dog’s collar and passed it to Matt, seemed to draw him like a magnet and cause him to tingle in places he was better off not thinking about.
“Come on, Artie.” Matt tugged at the dog’s collar.
“Uncle Matt, aren’t you going to stay and watch us dance?” Ally called.
“Ah, no, sugar. I think I need to ... to take Artie out.” Matt backed toward the stairwell, aware that he was dangerously close to staring at those shapely petite legs. As a matter of fact, he realized, there was no place where it was safe to look, when the woman was wearing little more than that little pink thing. Being a man who knew when to cut his losses, Matt figured the best place for him was someplace other than where he was.
He forced himself to take the steps at a decent pace. Closing the door behind him, he stepped into the sunshine and exhaled.
Ballet in his barn.
Then again, it was for Ally, and she had seemed to be having one hell of a good time.
“Hey!” Laura rolled down the window of her car and waved as she drove up and parked behind Georgia’s Jeep.
“Hey, yourself,” he shouted back. He wasn’t sure why, but he really didn’t feel like talking to his sister right now. He knew he’d end up yelling about the whole Georgia thing all over again and just didn’t feel up to it. He wished he could just go right on back up the steps and through the door into his apartment. Why hadn’t he done that while he was up there and had the chance?
He knew why. He’d ignored his own good advice and permitted his eyes to drop below her chin. The sight of that trim little bottom in that little pink thing as she’d walked away from him was almost enough to make him forget that she was merely a presence to be tolerated on a strictly temporary basis.
Almost.
“Did you see Ally?” Laura was asking.
“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Yes, I did.”
“Isn’t she too cute?” Laura got out of the car and crossed the grassy distance between them. She leaned up and kissed his cheek. “I’m glad to see you came around. You won’t be sorry, Matt.”
He started to tell her that he hadn’t exactly “come around,” when the door behind him blew open and the three little dancers came bolting out, each carrying something to the house.
“Mommy, Uncle Matt got to watch us dance.” Ally stopped and pulled her feet into First Position again. “We did First and Second Position, and if we practice all week and remember next Saturday, Aunt Georgia is going to teach us Third and Fourth Positions!”
“Well, pretty soon you’ll be dancing up a storm,” Laura laughed.
“Oh, no, Mommy. There are lots of things to learn before you can dance up a storm,” Ally told her earnestly. “It takes a long time to become a real ballerina like Aunt Georgia.”
“Did you have fun?” Laura smoothed back the hair from Ally’s face, which was flushed more from excitement than from exertion.
“Oh, yes.” She spun around and lost her balance, tipping over onto the grass. “I love to dance. I’m going to be a dancer just like Aunt Georgia when I grow up.”
“Hey,” Matt said, “I thought you were going to become a veterinarian and work with me.”
“I can do both,” Ally answered without a second thought. “I will dance and I will be a veterinarian.” She turned to her companions and said, “Let’s go get something to drink, then we’ll go down to the pond.”
“Ally!” Laura called after her as the three girls sped toward the house. “Change your clothes first!”
Ally was already up the back steps.
“I better go make sure they change,” Laura told Matt as she took off after her daughter. “Stop on over at the house and have a cup of coffee with me.”
He was about to call after her that he’d rather not, when he heard the sound of the door behind him slamming into the outside wall of the barn. Startled by the sound, he turned in time to see Georgia step out, folding chairs under each arm. With her left foot, she was attempting to close the door. Chivalry and animosity warred within him.
Still, his mother had taught him better.
“Here, I’ll take those,” he said curtly as he reached to take the chairs from her arms. Not below the chin, he reminded himself.
Too late.
“I have them.” She smiled mechanically, making a point of not looking at him.
“Fine. Suit yourself.” Matt could almost hear his mother’s reprimand. He sighed. “I’ll get the door.”
“Fine.” She headed toward the farmhouse awkwardly, the chairs being too tall for her to comfortably carry under her arms, but not for one minute inclined to admit it.
“Thank you,” she said without turning around.
“You’re welcome,” he called to her back as she walked away.
Not below the chin didn’t count if he couldn’t see her chin, he rationalized, and for one long, sweet moment, he watched those killer legs carry the rest of her across the farmyard.
He crossed his arms over his chest and tried to think of what to do next. He had thought perhaps he’d try to talk her into leaving, but recognized the sheer futility of that. She wasn’t going anyplace. There was no point in even discussing that. He’d seen the look on her face. Hell, he’d seen the look on Ally’s face. He may not like it, but he wasn’t stupid enough to think he could actually do something about it.
Okay, fine. She was staying. He’d just have to find things to do while he was here that would keep him out of her way.
Like ... like ... he looked around, searching for possibilities.
Like painting the old henhouse.
He went into the barn in search of a ladder and some sort of implement that would scrape off the old paint.
“Matthew Bishop, what the hell are you doing?” Laura demanded from eight feet below the ladder he was standing on.
“I’m scraping old paint off the henhouse,” he replied calmly.
“Why?”
“Why?” He looked down and frowned. “Because I can’t paint it until I scrape off the old, loose paint.”
“I meant, why are you painting the henhouse? We haven’t had chickens in there since Aunt Hope died.”
“Well, now’s the best time to paint it. While there are no chickens living in there.”
Laura shook her head as if to clear it. “We’re getting ready to leave, so come down from there and say good-bye to Ally. And try to be pleasant to Georgia, please. I don’t want you to upset Ally.”
“Why would my being less than pleasant upset Ally?” he asked, even though he knew the answer. Worse, he knew that Laura knew that he knew.
“Matt ...” Laura sounded exasperated.
“Okay.” Conceding defeat, he climbed down the ladder and stuck the scraper in his back pocket.
“Uncle Matt, will you come to my birthday party?”
Matt knelt down so that Ally could jump onto his back. “Now, when have I ever missed a birthday party?”
“Never. You never have.” She hugged his neck.
“And I never will.” He twirled around so that her head dropped back and her hair, now out of its ponytail, spun around, and she laughed heartily. His niece had never failed to touch his heart. One day, he knew, she would break it by falling in love with someone her own age, but not yet, he reminded himself. Not yet.
“You promise?”
“Of course, I promise.” He lifted her over his head once more before setting her feet on the ground. “How could it be time for your birthday again?”
She giggled and nodded. “It is. In two weeks.”
“Two weeks? That’s not possible.” He frowned. “Didn’t you just have a birthday?”
“Last year, silly.” She hopped into the car.
“Well, then, I guess I’ll see you in two weeks at the inn.” He closed the car door, reaching through the window to tweak her nose. “Anything special you might want this year?”
“Ballerina Barbie,” she answered, nodding enthusiastically. “But my party won’t be at the inn. It’s here, at Pumpkin Hill. All my friends are coming!” She leaned halfway out the window so that he could kiss her cheek. “And we’re all going to dance!”
Matt heard laughter, like the tinkling of fairy bells, behind him. He didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.
“And Aunt Georgia said that next Saturday, Jamie and Carly can come dance with us, too!”
Laura looked across the hood of the car. “Georgia, you can still change your mind. It’s good enough that you’re willing to take a few of her friends from Bishop’s Cove. You don’t have to add kids from O’Hearn, too....”
“It will be fun. I’m really enjoying it.” Georgia dismissed her concerns.
“I’ll talk to you later.” Laura waved and drove off, three little girls in the backseat calling “Thank you!” as she drove away.
The car left the drive, leaving both Matt and Georgia painfully aware that they were alone.
“Well, I guess I’ll go back to scraping paint,” he said awkwardly.
“You do that,” she told him and walked off toward the garden.
He couldn’t help but notice that she had changed into jeans and a shirt. He liked the pink thing better.
It was almost dark when he decided it was safe to come down from the ladder. He’d just go right on up to his apartment, take a shower, then run out and grab some dinner.
His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
Maybe he’d run out for dinner first.
As he lowered the ladder, it occurred to him that if his arms were covered with paint chips, his face probably was, too. And he probably had lots of it in his hair, too. He’d have to shower or settle for some fast food. He hated fast food.
He put the ladder away, then whistled for Artie. The dog was nowhere to be seen. Laughter drifted from the open windows in the kitchen of the farmhouse, and he’d bet anything that that was where his traitorous dog was. He went to the back door and listened.
“Artie, you are so cute,” he heard Georgia say. “Now, sit, and I’ll give you another carrot. Good boy.”
Matt’s stomach growled again.
He knocked on the screen door, which was open. He could see her as she walked toward him, looking more graceful, more elegant in jeans than most women did in designer gowns.
“I was looking for my dog,” he explained.
“Oh. Come on in. He’s having a snack. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I usually don’t let him eat between meals. It’s not good for him,” Matt said, pretending not to see the Liar, liar, pants on fire look on Artie’s big slobbery dogface.
“Oh. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
Artie’s look changed from accusatory to displeasure. Matt continued to ignore him. Just as he was trying to ignore the aromas that wafted around him, teasing his nose and tantalizing his stomach.
Matt couldn’t help himself. Without wanting to, he gazed beyond her to the stove, the source of the wonderful smell of curry, one of his favorites spices. His nose betrayed him by sniffing.
“That smells like—”
“Curry.” She nodded, and turned to the stove to lift the lid off one of two saucepans. “I’m making curried vegetables with rice.”
“It smells great.” He had to call ’em as he saw ’em.
“Would you like some?” she asked without turning around.
“Ah, no, that’s all right,” he backed away from her, wishing he could look away from her trim little self leaning against the stove. “I have to get cleaned up and get back to Shawsburg.”
When she turned around, he was still standing there. There were little flecks of paint in his hair, and a trace of tiny white speckles across the bridge of his nose like albino freckles. It was all she could do to keep her fingers from brushing them away.
“Was there something else?” she asked.
“Ah, no. Well, actually, yes. I was wondering if I could just go down to the basement and grab a jar of plum jam.”
“Sure.” She unlocked the basement door and turned on the light. “Of course. It’s your basement, your jam ...”
He tried to avert his eyes on his way downstairs, but that faint scent of spring flowers mixed with curry teased him as he passed her, and he couldn’t help himself. His eyes lingered on her face. It was a hard face for a man to turn away from, and it held him for what seemed like a very long moment.
“I’ll just ... go on—” he heard himself mumble when he realized how long he’d been staring—“downstairs ...” His feet made brief thumping sounds as he ran down the steps.
When he came back up, he was empty-handed.
“Did you change your mind?” she asked. “About the jam?”
“I couldn’t find it.”
“Plum?”
He nodded.
“I know there’s some there. I saw several jars last week.” She dried her hands on a towel and motioned for him to follow her back down the steps.
He followed.
She turned the small light on in the corner of the basement and opened the cupboard doors. She knelt down and began moving jars around on the second shelf.
“Here,” she said, handing up two large jars of peaches, “hold these so I can look around in here. You moved things a bit.”
“I might have.” He stepped up close behind her, taking the large glass jars from her hands.
“Ah, here they are. You must have pushed them toward the back.” She swiveled around a bit and started to rise, not realizing how close he was. When she stood up, she found herself just below his chin, her hands and the jars skimming his chest.
She looked up at him, struck by the depth of his dark brown eyes, the long lashes like so much thick fringe. The proximity of his face startled her. She tried to move back, but the cupboard was behind her, and she was trapped between it and his body. There was a very male presence about him, and her reaction to it caught her breath in her throat. For the first time in a very long time, Georgia was speechless.
Matt looked down into her face, and fought back the bad angel who had come from nowhere to perch upon his shoulder and whisper in his ear. Kiss her. Kiss her now.
“Ah ... I’ll take ...” Matt reached for the jars of jam she held, only to realize that he was still holding the larger jars.
“Oh. Right. Here. I’ll take the peaches ...” She seemed to be fumbling as much as he was, and they made an awkward exchange of the jars in a tight space.
It hadn’t occurred to Matt that he could have just backed up.
It hadn’t occurred to Georgia to ask him to.
“Well, then.” He cleared his throat. “I guess we’re done down here.”
“Right.” She turned her back and bent down to replace the jars of peaches on the shelf.
When she stood back up, he still hadn’t moved. “Matt? Was there something else you wanted?”
“What?” The bad angel, who had been at that moment comparing the sight of her butt in jeans to that of her butt in her leotard, encouraged Matt to respond in a manner guaranteed to win him a smack across the face.
“Oh, no. No. This is fine.” Matt slapped a hand over the bad angel’s mouth and opted for the high road. “Thanks.”
Georgia closed the cupboard door and turned out the light. For a moment, she was lost in the darkness. With his free hand, Matt reached out, seeking her face, just to make certain that she had not, somehow, disappeared before his eyes. The fingers of his right hand found bone, and they lightly traced the line of her cheek before pulling back.
“You’re welcome.”
The sound of her voice broke the spell, and somewhat nonplused, Matt stood aside, motioning for her to go ahead of him to the steps.
She climbed them softly, and he followed closely, the bad angel filling his mind with randy thoughts as they ascended to the kitchen.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to stay?” she asked.
“I ... um ... really have to get back,” he muttered. “To Shawsburg.”
If he didn’t leave, he’d be drooling as pathetically as Artie was. And not necessarily just from the curry.
“Oh. Okay.” She lifted the lid again and tossed in a handful of raisins, then a handful of green onions.
“So, thanks.” He opened the door and walked through it as quickly as he could.
“For what?”
“For ... for feeding my dog.” He slapped the side of his leg and Artie caught up with him.
From the doorway, Georgia watched Matt cross the yard to the barn, where he went up the outside stairs to his apartment. She was still watching as the lights appeared in the rooms she knew to be his kitchen, his bedroom, his bath.
Unconsciously, her fingers followed the path his had taken along the side of her face.
She had instinctively known that there was no good reason why he had to rush back to Shawsburg. In spite of the spark that had passed between them—his hand to her face—it was obvious that he wanted to avoid being anywhere near her. She had known that he didn’t like her, didn’t want to get to know her, so it shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but it had.
It shouldn’t have hurt, but it did.