Nat leaned back in the passenger seat, arms crossed, and stared out at the fields of grass and knee-high corn streaming by the window.
Funny how just a few hours ago he’d wanted nothing more than for Chloe to shut her mouth. At the moment, on the contrary, he would have paid a great deal more than the proverbial penny for her thoughts. What was going on inside that beautiful head?
He understood why she might be a little miffed with him for overplaying his part. The kiss in particular. The warmth of the kiss. She clearly hadn’t expected he’d take the charade so far. He’d taken advantage of the situation, no question about it.
On the other hand, what red-blooded male wouldn’t have?
Besides, he’d done her a favor by playing along. Especially since she hadn’t bothered to give him a clue what their phony engagement was all about. Especially considering the claw marks and bruises she’d inflicted.
“All right, Chloe,” he finally broke the silence as they approached her grandmother’s house. “Enough’s enough.”
Chloe threw him a startled glance.
“I think I deserve to know what’s going on. What was that all about back there?”
“Oh. That.”
“Yeah. That.”
She hesitated, as if she didn’t know whether or not she could trust him with the answer. Nat clenched his jaw. What was it with her anyhow? You’d think he had claws and fangs.
“All right then.” She turned off Ridge Road onto her grandmother’s long, steep driveway. “It was about …” She hesitated. “I needed your help.” Again she stopped, sighed, and then finished, “I was just trying to save my grandmother’s reputation, Nat.”
“Save your grandmother’s reputation! What are you talking about?”
“Talk. That’s exactly what I’m talking about.” She glanced at him and then back to the gravel driveway. “There’s been talk about you and Gran-Marie.”
He jumped. “You’re kidding!” Then he remembered the conversation he’d interrupted in the kitchen earlier in the day:
I think you should know, people are talking.
Bah. People will talk from here to eternity.
Don’t you care what people think, Gran-Marie?
“What kind of talk?” he asked cautiously.
Chloe said nothing for a moment, then answered vaguely, “You know. Wealthy widow, con man …”
Nat let out a low whistle. No wonder she’d been so hostile toward him! “And Earlene Boyd must be one of the people talking,” he mused aloud.
She nodded.
“Oh, Chloe. I’d never do anything to hurt your grandmother. Or you. I hope you know that.”
She brought the car to a stop behind Madame Marie’s lime green Peugeot and pulled the key from the ignition. “That’s the thing, Nat. I don’t know. All I have to go on is your word. And Gran-Marie’s intuition.”
“What about your own intuition?”
“I’d rather have facts.”
Nat looked out the window, away from the house, toward the line of trees that marked the creek bed. Facts, he wasn’t ready to give her. Facts, he still wasn’t entirely ready to face himself.
He turned his eyes back toward Chloe and found her watching him. “Nat?”
“Trust me,” he said.
For a long moment she searched his face. Then she sighed and reached for the door handle. Clearly it wasn’t the answer she’d wanted.
He sat in the car for several minutes after Chloe got out, watched the late afternoon sun set her hair afire as she crossed the yard, noticed the gentle sway of her hips as she climbed the stairs to the back porch.
He saw her eyes as if they still gazed at him—those eyes a man could get lost in. He remembered the feel of her in his arms, and the first uncensored response of her lips to his kiss. He remembered as if he still held her.
Even then, even feeling the swift, sudden kick of desire and a soul-hunger so powerful it was almost painful, even though his longing threatened to sweep him out to sea in its tow—
Nat wouldn’t admit to himself that it was too late.
Trust him, Nat had entreated.
At this point, Chloe asked herself, what choice did she have? It was either trust him or move in with Gran-Marie for the duration. Something she couldn’t possibly do.
The truth was, Gran-Marie had always been a good judge of character. Maybe Chloe didn’t trust Nat, but she did trust Gran-Marie. If Gran-Marie trusted Nat, couldn’t that be enough? At least to get through the rest of the weekend? They did need to reach some decisions about the house.
It would have to be enough, she decided. For the moment, she would put aside her questions and doubts and concentrate instead on plans for Gran-Marie’s renovation. Renovation, after all, was something she knew. Something she could do something about.
“All right,” she said as the three of them sat down to supper in the dining room, “we’ve got work to do. Let’s talk exterior color schemes.”
Gran-Marie looked pleased. “I have the idea or two.”
“No drastic changes, I hope.” Chloe speared a bite of new potato. “The neutrals you’ve stayed with all these years are so tasteful, Gran-Marie.”
“Non,” her grandmother said. “I am ready for the change. Brown is old. I want bright.”
“Bright?”
Gran-Marie pierced a forkful of French-cut green beans. “Bright,” she said firmly. “The pink of a flamingo, the yellow of a dandelion, and the blue of a peacock.”
Chloe wondered if she looked as horrified as she felt. “You’re kidding, I hope.”
“Sans blague,” said Gran-Marie, frowning. “About this house I do not kid.”
“You know,” Nat offered, his voice soothing, “if you wanted to paint the house in keeping with the style, I’ve been doing some research.”
“Oui? Then you have seen the old houses dressed up like the rainbow.” Her frown cleared. “Like the many-colored coat of Joseph.”
“Like a circus carousel,” Chloe grumbled. “Leave her with some dignity, Gran-Marie!”
Nat cleared his throat. “It’s true, Madame, that the Victorians used many colors on their houses, perhaps five or six. To show off the gingerbread and the shaped shingle siding. The porch rails and balusters. The sashes. But to make all those colors work together, they had to mute them. ‘Saddening’ the colors, they called it.”
Gran-Marie shook her head. “I will not have her sad.”
The corner of Nat’s mouth lifted. “Let’s call it soft, then. Mixing a color with a little of its complement grays the tone. Makes it softer. If you want to be authentic, Madame, perhaps you and Chloe could choose a medley of five or six muted tones.”
“Hmm.” Chloe contemplated the slice of lemon-pepper chicken on the end of her fork. A palette of grayed tones was certainly preferable to flamingo pink, dandelion yellow, and peacock blue. “The idea has possibilities, Neville.”
Gran-Marie clapped her hands, her face beaming. “We will get the paint chips soon and find the compromise, Natty.”
After supper they retired to the parlor, where Gran-Marie dug out a pachisi board. Jean-Claude jumped up on the chaise longue where he could see the action and settled down on the afghan with his chin on his paws.
“Now,” said Gran-Marie, “while we play our game, we will decide what to do with the floor in the vestibule.”
“Ugh,” said Chloe, rolling the dice. “I know the linoleum’s right for the period, but that worn old stuff has got to go. How, is the question.”
Nat picked up the dice as Chloe moved her marker around the board. “A heat plate and an old-fashioned wide-bladed scraper to start with. Maybe we can get it up without too much damage to the wood underneath.”
“Then what?” asked Chloe.
“I say no more linoleum,” Gran-Marie said.
“Perhaps a natural finish on the wood?” Chloe suggested.
“Maybe. Or we could paint it.” Nat counted off spaces with his marker, claiming a spot from one of Chloe’s playing pieces and knocking it back to the starting position. “The Victorians often painted their softwood floors,” he added, as if he hadn’t just done a very mean thing. “Spatter dash was a favorite finish.”
“Spatter dash?” Gran-Marie picked up the dice and rolled them.
“Just like it sounds,” Nat said. “Madame, you could knock Chloe’s piece back home with that roll.”
“I could knock you back home too, Natty. See there? But this time I will not.” Gran-Marie moved a playing piece ahead without taking out either of her opponents. “I would like to hear more about this spatter dash.”
“The earliest spatter-dash floors featured dark spots spattered on a gray background,” he explained as the play continued.
Gran-Marie shook her head. “I am not so sure about gray on the floor. For the porch, yes. But in the vestibule?”
Nat leaned back in his chair. “You might like the effect of two or more light colors spattered on a darker background. One popular combination was red, white, and yellow on blue.”
“Speaking of blue,” said Chloe, “It’s back to the beginning for you, Neville.” She bumped one of his blue playing pieces off the board.
“I would like to see a picture or two,” Gran-Marie said, then added smugly, “Oh, and so you know, mes amis—this game? He is mine.”
“What?!” Chloe and Nat cried in unison. But there was no disputing it as Gran-Marie moved her last playing piece across the finish line.
Nat scooped up the markers and closed the board. “If you hadn’t been so intent on knocking me off, she’d never have gotten away with it, Chloe.”
“Me?! Knocking you off?!”
“Mes enfants! Does it not occur to you that Marie Antoinette Babineaux Delacroix Smith simply has the talent for pachisi?”
“Ha,” said Chloe.
“It does occur,” said Nat diplomatically.
“Merci, mon ami. Now,” Gran-Marie said, “is my nose correct in telling me my granddaughter’s bag holds truffles from the Sweet Shoppe?”
“Ha,” Chloe repeated. “Do you really think you deserve a truffle after trouncing us so soundly?”
“We do have truffles,” Nat said. “If Jean-Claude hasn’t sniffed them out and devoured them.”
Jean-Claude, hearing his name, looked up, yawned, and settled his head back on his paws. He clearly hadn’t been caught up in the excitement of either the game or the conversation.
“I have hope that Jean-Claude’s lesson has been learned.” Gran-Marie pushed back her chair. “Chloe, ma chère, perhaps you will share your truffles if I can find some mint-flavored cocoa to go with them.”
Nat built a fire in the parlor, just a small blaze, and the three of them ate truffles, drank hot cocoa, and tossed around ideas in its rosy glow. Chloe had to admit she was enjoying herself immensely. Thinking about design on the scale of a house was a refreshing change after three years of working on the hospital remodel.
“What do you think for the walls?” her grandmother asked between bites.
Chloe wrapped her fingers around her mug. “Painting would be easiest.”
“But wallpaper is more in keeping with the times,” Gran-Marie said.
“Stenciling had its heyday during the Victorian era,” Nat volunteered. “The library has several books with instructions and period patterns. It doesn’t look all that difficult.”
Gran-Marie beamed. “C’est bon! We will check these books out, Natty.”
At ten o’clock, they said good night and retired to their rooms. Chloe changed into an eyelet-trimmed nightgown and crawled into bed, but sleep was elusive. After all, she’d spent a good part of the afternoon sleeping.
So she tossed and turned and replayed the day. A day full of surprises. A day full of surprising feelings, not the least of which was her response when Nat Neville grabbed her in the Coast-to-Coast and kissed the living daylights out of her. Such hunger she’d felt. Such longing!
Maybe she’d been out of circulation too long. Maybe she should say yes to that nice Duwamish Hospital administrator who’d asked her out a couple of times. If she was going to complicate her life by getting involved with a man, a hospital administrator was certainly a better match for her than an itinerant handyman.
On the other hand, Nat wasn’t your ordinary, run-of-the-mill itinerant handyman. What he was, she didn’t know. But he wasn’t that.
It didn’t matter, she told herself firmly. Not as long as Gran-Marie was happy. And she was. Chloe hadn’t seen her grandmother so carefree, so alive and engaged, since before Gran-Bert had first taken ill. Whatever else he was or wasn’t, Nat was good for Gran-Marie.
She tried to remember what the hospital administrator looked like. Tall, slim, brown hair beginning to gray. Blue eyes or brown? She couldn’t remember.
No matter. She knew she wasn’t going to get involved with him. Or anyone. For one thing, she didn’t have time. She’d never had time, as more than one man had told her.
Still…
That kiss had been awfully enticing.
She rolled from her back to her side, drawing her knees up, trying to get comfortable. She rolled from her side to her stomach, pulling the pillow over her head. Finally she rolled out of bed, threw her plush, apricot-colored robe over her nightgown, and crept down the stairs to the kitchen. There was one slice of Gran-Marie’s French apple pie in the fridge.
But the light in the kitchen was already on, and Nat Neville, wearing a terry robe over a pair of cotton pajamas, was pulling the pie tin from the refrigerator.
“Wait just a minute,” Chloe whispered indignantly. “That piece of pie has my name written on it.”
“Oh?” Nat whispered back. “Then why was it calling my name loud enough that I could hear it all the way upstairs?”
Chloe closed the kitchen door behind her and said, her voice low, “You sure it wasn’t a Ding-Dong calling?”
Nat shook his head. “We never stopped at the market. There isn’t a Ding-Dong in the house.” He grinned. “But if you promise to share one with me tomorrow, I’ll share my pie with you tonight.”
“It’s my pie.”
Nat pulled the pie tin closer. “Haven’t you heard? Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”
“Oh, all right then!” she grumped.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked as they sat down at the kitchen table a minute later, each with a slim slice of pie and a glass of cold milk.
She shook her head. “I napped too long this afternoon. You?”
“Have trouble with insomnia. Though I have to say it’s been better since I’ve been working for your grandmother. Oh, speaking of your grandmother—don’t you think we’d better tell her we’re engaged before she hears it from somebody else?”
“Very funny, Neville. But you’re probably right. Knowing the Pilchuck pipeline, the news will be all over town by noon tomorrow. To tell the truth, I’m surprised nobody called tonight.”
“Especially all those ladies who’ve spent years despairing you’d ever find someone,” Nat teased.
“A gentleman wouldn’t have brought that up,” Chloe huffed. “Anyhow, yes. We’ll tell Gran-Marie in the morning.”
The kitchen door popped open. “Tell me what?” Gran-Marie asked, shuffling across to the sink in her paisley robe and her fluffy slippers.
Nat and Chloe looked at each other. The corner of Nat’s mouth lifted. “I think you’d better tell her, Chloe. I’m the type who’d just blurt out that we’re engaged.”