Catching up the manuscript in unwilling hands, she tried to avoid the reproach of her studio. No less than three unfinished watercolors littered the table, the small spinet was pulled apart, half tuned, the instruments lying forgotten on the bench. Yards and yards of brightly colored Italian silks lay tossed in a pile by her sewing machine, with one vivid swath tied loosely around the dressmaker’s dummy. Holly needed a complete new wardrobe for her next tour, starting with Ashley’s opening next weekend. Anne’s duties were clear; her inspiration, however, was at a low ebb. With painful determination she slogged through another ten pages, then tossed the manuscript aside to stare out into the gloomy late morning.
It didn’t look as if the rain was going to let up in the slightest. It came as a heavy drizzle, soaking into the already drenched ground, dripping through the hole in the roof and widening the stain, rotting the already weakened timbers, probably overflowing the bucket she’d put underneath it. The weather report hadn’t even held out the faintest promise of clearing—the rain was supposed to continue all weekend long and into Monday. Whether she liked it or not, she was going to have to face the roof in the pouring rain, and the wonders of schistosomiasis couldn’t keep her from it.
Well, the longer she put it off the worse it would be. Better to get it out of the way before the whole roof fell in. It was an easy enough spot to reach—all she had to do was climb out the dormer window in the back bedroom and edge along the roof no more than a couple of yards. Whether or not the slate would prove slippery in the rain was a complication; not to mention the fact that she had already proven singularly inept when it came to patching the slate roof. More slates usually broke beneath her too enthusiastic hammering than she needed to mend in the first place.
It was early afternoon when she accepted her fate. The slates were damnably slippery beneath her sneakered feet, and they proved even more brittle than usual with her admittedly nervous patching job. Her wet fingers were numbed with the cold as she worked on the split slates, her black hair was soaked about her head, the rain running in icy rivulets down her back to settle at the base of her spine. She could only be thankful that that particular area of the roof had a fairly mild pitch—every time she tried to shake the rain from her line of vision she felt her tenuous hold on the tile slide a tiny, terrifying few inches. She had almost finished patching the final tile when an all too familiar crack signified that she’d managed to shatter still another. She was too cold, wet, weary and frightened even to curse as she pulled another slate from her workbelt. The slate spun out of her numb fingers, dancing down the angle of the roof and over the edge. Anne watched it go with a sick feeling, then reached for the final slate. If she blew it this time she’d have to crawl back into the house and then once more onto this rain-slick roof. And this time she was going to live up to Proffy’s harsh words. Physically as well as spiritually she was going to be a coward and a quitter. For all her usual bravado, she didn’t think her nerves could stand much more.
She forced herself to work with painfully slow deliberation, prying up the broken tile and letting it follow its mate over the edge into the boxwood hedge below. To make matters worse, the wind began to pick up, icing her fingers, the constant whoosh-whoosh of the giant oaks above her head pushing her inexorably toward a panicked haste.
She was almost finished, the slate still intact beneath her delicate tapping, when she thought she heard the sound of a car through the heavy beat of the wind and the rain. She tried to peer out through the rain-swept afternoon, leaning a bit too far toward the edge of the roof. With a sudden sickening ease she felt her feet slip beneath her, felt her weight propelling her down toward the edge of the roof. She had strong doubts that the two-hundred-year-old boxwood would break her fall from three stories up. It would be a shame to crush those ancient boxwood, she thought dazedly, clawing for a foothold as she did. And then, amazingly enough, she found it—her foot caught in the aging but sturdy copper gutters that lined the edge of the roof. She lay there, facedown on the wet slate, unmoving as she tried to regain some semblance of control. Her heart was pounding loudly in her ears, so loudly she almost didn’t hear the voice call out from overhead through the increasingly violent storm.
NOAH GRANT should have known better than to have turned his battered old car in the direction of Lambertville. He couldn’t even begin to fool himself that it was directly on his way from Philadelphia to New York, couldn’t tell himself he had any reason to roam over the tumbled-down elegance of the huge old house once more. And with the steady, pouring rain he couldn’t even pretend it was a desire to see the rapidly burgeoning spring countryside.
No, he was going to do something incredibly stupid, dangerous and self-indulgent, something that could sabotage all the work of the last three months, sabotage his final hurrah in the world of law. And he was going to do it anyway, because he simply couldn’t help himself. He was going to see Anne Kirkland.
That is, if she lived long enough. Speeding along the rutted driveway, splashing through the rain-filled potholes, he kept his eyes riveted to the slight figure clinging to the roof, cursing steadily under his breath. The ancient VW slid in the mud, and quickly, deftly he turned the wheels into the direction of the skid, regaining control almost instantly until he ended up against one of her prized boxwood hedges. He took the steps three at a time, that constant litany of prayer and curse under his breath, then wasted valuable moments trying to find which window she was hanging out of, all the time envisioning her sprawled and smashed on the ground below. It wasn’t until he came to the back bedroom, the rain-wet curtain flapping in the breeze from the open window, that he found her, still clinging like an exhausted limpet to the slate roof.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” His voice was rough, masculine and very angry, but he kept it low enough not to startle her into loosening her grip.
For a dreamy moment Anne wondered whether she had indeed gone over the edge and was now in that delicious state between life and death. What would Noah Grant be doing here, calling her from above? And in such unwelcoming terms? Anyway, shouldn’t she be able to see her body lying there in the boxwood, hovering between life and death, and wasn’t there supposed to be a bright beneficial light coming from the great beyond? Unless she wasn’t heading for the great beyond, but someplace a great deal warmer and less welcoming. Well, no doubt she deserved it, and she could do with some warmth right now.
“Don’t move.” Noah’s voice came again from directly above her, soft and reassuring, and this time she lifted her head to look for him. It was hard to see him through the blinding rain, but he was there all right, perched on the edge of the window, about to follow her out onto the roof.
Summoning all her strength, she pulled herself slowly, tentatively to her knees. He was scarcely a yard away, just out of reach. Three feet had never seemed so far.
“You’d better stay there, Noah,” she called back in a calm voice. “It’s too slippery out here—you’d just go over the edge yourself.” She tested her weight carefully. “If you could hold out your hand for me I think I can make it up to you.”
“And if you can’t?” His voice was rough with anger and skepticism and something else.
She smiled up at him through the pouring rain. For some strange reason she suddenly, in the face of death, felt blazingly, gloriously alive. “Then it was nice knowing you,” she replied, her voice carrying across the slates.
“Damn it, Annie, I’m coming out.” He was halfway out of the window when Anne stopped him.
“If you do I won’t come in.” Her voice was stubborn, leaving Noah little doubt that she meant it.
“Are you trying to kill yourself? I hadn’t pegged you as a quitter.”
The words echoed unpleasantly in her head. “No, I’m not trying to kill myself. But I’d rather have my death on my hands than yours. And I assure you, these wet slates barely hold my weight—you’d slide off them so fast I’d barely have time to wave goodbye.” She gave him a
moment to consider it. “Trust me, Noah. If you hold out your arm to me I can reach it. I promise you.”
“What if I got a rope?”
“I don’t think there’s time,” she said faintly.
He was a dark silhouette against the open window as Anne watched him hesitate. She could hope it wouldn’t take him too long; her numb fingers couldn’t maintain their purchase for very much longer.
Slowly, almost in a dream, he leaned out the window and reached his arms out as far as they would go. He was just out of reach, and the few inches that separated the tips of his fingers from her huddled body seemed insurmountable. But she had promised him. She wasn’t a coward and a quitter, despite what Proffy had said. And she never, never went back on a promise.
The roof cut into the wet knees of her jeans as she edged herself upward. The traction beneath her Nikes was minimal but there, and the hands drew miraculously nearer. Near enough to touch, if she reached above her head. But she needed her hands down lower, to help lever her body upward. Slowly, painfully she crept upward, until she felt his fingertips brush her shoulders. And then she abandoned her last bit of care, reaching up for him as she felt her feet give way beneath her.
The hands around her wrists were like iron as they swung her up through the air with dizzying force, dragging her through the open window. Her knees caught on the sill, catapulting her against his chest, as her feet gave way beneath her, and she felt herself enfolded against a racing heart as they both tumbled to the bedroom floor. She lay there with him, trying to catch her breath and control the idiotic trembling in her limbs. She knew they were too weak to support her as yet, but she also knew she couldn’t lie in a heap on top of Noah Grant, no matter how tightly his arms held her.
Using all her meager strength, she pushed against the too comforting grip that surrounded her. To her intense disappointment he let her go readily enough, and she rolled away to end up against the wall, her breath still coming in rapid, shallow gasps.
Propping himself up on one elbow, Noah glared at her. She had never seen him look so fierce, she thought distantly. His Gypsy face looked quite frightening. “What the hell did you think you were doing?” he demanded.
“Fixing the roof.” She found she couldn’t move away from the wall, couldn’t even summon the energy to push the wet curtain of hair back from her face. She could feel tiny tremors begin to rack her body, and tried to stiffen her muscles to hide the betraying weakness.
“Hardly the best time to do it, wouldn’t you say?” It was practically a snarl in his delicious voice, and Anne felt her very tenuous control begin to slip.
“I can’t think of a better one,” she babbled nervously. “The roof was leaking—it had to be fixed. I didn’t see how I’d get someone out to do it, and besides, I probably couldn’t have afforded it. So I did it myself.”
“Damn it, Annie, you could have been killed!” he shouted, swinging to a sitting position. “I thought you had more sense than that.”
“I guess not.” The tremor was in her voice now, and she could feel the reactionary tears fill her eyes. She had to get out of that tiny room before she disgraced herself completely. Not only was she on the verge of hysterical tears, but she had the sudden, overwhelming urge to be sick. Her muscles refused to obey her, however. “Do you suppose you could leave me alone for a moment?” she managed to ask in a strangled voice.
“Why? So you can climb back out on the roof again? I wouldn’t put it past you.” The disgust in his voice flayed her already lacerated spirit.
“No,” she said. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
He got her into the bathroom and to the toilet just in time, holding her trembling body as the spasms racked her, murmuring soft, soothing endearments as one hand stroked the damp hair away from her face. She knew she should be miserably embarrassed, should use the moments between spasms to order him away, but in truth she was grateful for the strong arms supporting her miserable body, for the warm voice and soothing hand. When the final wave of nausea had passed he moved her away, leaning her weak body against the wall again as he rose and wet a washcloth. The cool, damp cloth against her flushed face was blissfully welcome.
All anger had fled from his dark face. “How are you doing, Annie, love?” he asked gently. The worry in his voice was richly satisfying.
“I’ll be fine,” she whispered. “I guess I was more frightened than I thought.”
“I guess you were.”
With difficulty she roused herself. “I should thank you.”
A brief smile lit his face. “My pleasure.”
“Hardly that,” she murmured. “But I appreciate it, nonetheless.”
“And I would appreciate it if you stayed off wet slate roofs,” he said, carefully bringing a light touch back to the atmosphere. “In the meantime, I think you could do with dry clothes, a fire and a snifter of cognac to warm you.”
“Sounds divine,” she said with a weary sigh. With a supreme effort she pulled herself to her feet, using the wall for support for her trembling limbs. “Why don’t you go ahead with the fire, and I’ll be right down?”
“And how do you expect to get there—crawl?” he countered, fully aware of just how weak she was. Before she realized what he was doing she felt her body swept up into his arms. The sudden dizzying feeling of weightlessness set her stomach to roiling again, and she controlled the nausea with an extreme effort. Besides, she knew full well that there was nothing left in her stomach to get rid of.
“You’re back in your own bedroom, I take it?” he murmured, striding down the hallway to her door. She could do no more than nod, bemused, as he carried her in, dropped her on the bed, and with calm efficiency began stripping off her sodden clothes. She couldn’t help but remember the last time she’d been on this bed with him, equally naked, and a hot flush covered her body as he quickly undressed her. She could see the small grin that quirked at the corners of his mobile mouth, but he kept his eyes bland and his hands efficient as he wrapped the threadbare towel around her shivering body.
“You’re going to have to get better towels,” he said lightly, rubbing her skin briskly. Slowly, surely, feeling began to penetrate her chilled bones beneath his expert ministrations, and she nearly cried in protest when his hands left her.
She wasn’t prepared for his equal efficiency in dressing her. Impersonal hands pulled on the cotton bikini panties, the warm faded jeans, the soft silk and cotton shirt. That they hadn’t bothered with a bra didn’t escape her notice, but she decided to ignore it as he roughly towel-dried her hair, then took a step back to survey his handiwork.
“I think you’ll live,” he observed, an impish light in his eyes. “Especially once we get something warm and alcoholic in you. I must say, you’re the only thirty-four-year-old woman I know who can still blush.”
“I’m probably the only thirty-four-year-old woman you know who gets herself into such embarrassing situations,” she shot back, feeling braver once she was clothed. “If you want to go ahead with the fire, I promise I can make it downstairs without falling flat on my face.”
He wasn’t fooled by the lightness in her voice. “And you’d like me out of your bedroom,” he added, and his smile broadened as her blush darkened once more. “All right, but use the banister when you come downstairs. Did we drink all the cognac?”
“I bought some more. I should never have allowed myself to develop a taste for it—it’s too expensive an indulgence. I’m afraid this old house is my only allowable indulgence,” she mourned.
“Well, tonight you need it. Where do you keep it?”
“In my studio.”
He nodded. “I’ll see you in the library. If you’re not there in ten minutes I’ll come looking for you.” He was gone before she could say anything. Too late she remembered the mess her studio was in, the watercolors laid out for anyone’s prying eyes. Well, there was nothing she could do about it. She could hardly race down there and beat him to it—at this point it would take all
her strength to get her down the winding stairway and into the library.
“Stupid, stupid,” she told herself sternly, pulling herself together and heading toward the hallway. Slowly her limbs were regaining the strength that panic and stress had robbed from them, and with the return came intense curiosity and a sort of frightened satisfaction. What in heaven’s name was Noah Grant doing here, arriving like a deus ex machina, just when she needed him most? That must have been his car she had heard through the keening wind. And he was here, alone with her in this big, rain-besieged house, and heaven only knew when Proffy would return.
A sudden, wretched thought flared into her brain. He had doubtless brought Holly back to pick up her car. Her sister was probably down in the kitchen, raiding the refrigerator at that very moment. And for the very first time in her life Anne wished her sister on the other side of the world.
The fire was blazing in the old fieldstone fireplace when Anne walked into the library, the wool socks on her chilled feet silent and slippery on the shiny wood floors. It took her a moment to decide the safest place to sit, choosing the far corner of the comfortable couch a moment before Noah came back in, two brandy snifters and the cognac on a tray. Anne peered behind him, but there was no Holly lurking in the shadows.
“You look a little more human and less like a drowned kitten,” he observed, pouring her an indecent amount of cognac and pressing it into her hand. “How are you feeling now?” He sat down by her feet, taking his own cognac, the long slim fingers warming the bowl of the glass as he watched her.
“I feel more human,” she murmured, taking a cautious sip. “Where’s Holly?”