Читать книгу Dreaming Ivy - Rhonda Lee Carver - Страница 6

Chapter 2

“Why do you have to go, Max? I’m only in town for a few days before I leave for California. I can’t believe you’re leaving me.”

Max Shepard eyed Renee. She was his comfortable, pleasing-to-the-eye diversion. He couldn’t call what they had a “relationship.” Maybe a friendship with benefits. “I’m not leaving you,” he finally said. He turned to her, giving her tousled blond hair and slender body, outlined under the thin white sheet, a long, slow perusal. He slid her his most meaningful wink of appreciation before going back to packing his tattered leather bag.

“But why to Morgan Sites? Where the hell is that anyway?” Her words bordered on a wail. He clenched his jaw in reaction.

He swiped a hand through his hair and sighed. He didn’t have a relationship, with her or any other woman, because of this very reason. He couldn’t even understand why they were having this discussion. “Renee, you travel all over the country. You’re gone most of the time on modeling shoots. When you do roll into town, every few months or so, we reunite, have a drink, share dessert–usually in bed. You haven’t cared that I wasn’t around before to keep you entertained.”

“I thought you’d be happy that I visited. It’s been months since I’ve been here last.”

“Sure, I was happy. I was just surprised to see you.” The words came out automatically. He instantly wished he could’ve snatched them back. Sugar-coating the truth wasn’t his style–and for some reason he hadn’t been pleased that she’d dropped by unannounced. Coming home late from a book signing, he had found her waiting, naked, in his bed. Only an ungrateful ass would have complained about a sexy, available woman. But, exhausted and spent, all he’d wanted to do was fall into bed alone and sleep. Her luscious body in his king-size bed hadn’t even tempted him into adult playtime. Angry that he’d denied her, she’d gotten out of bed, stomped around the room and thrown a temper tantrum. He couldn’t give a damn anymore at that point. If she’d called first he’d have told her he wasn’t up for company. Sometime in the middle of the night she’d come back to bed.

“Can’t you postpone your trip for one day?” She moved languorously toward the edge of the bed, causing the sheet to slide off her shoulder, in the process revealing her firm, expensive D cups.

Her body was definitely a weapon against a man’s libido. Normally the sight of her nudity would result in a tent behind his zipper, but it just wasn’t working for him. Was he ill? After all, she was good. Not just good, but skilled at seduction. That’s what made her great at her job–seducing the camera lens.

He glanced over her pert, pink nipples. Not one twitch.

There was something wrong with him.

He didn’t have time for this. He certainly couldn’t let Renee’s passive-aggressive behavior deter him from his focus. “If it makes you feel any better, it’s not a pleasure trip. I’m going to be holed up in some old, dilapidated house for two weeks. And to top it off, I have a rookie journalist shadowing me.” He still couldn’t believe he’d agreed to the tagalong, but in the scheme of things he really didn’t give a shit.

An elegant groan escaped her throat. “I thought you were supposed to be alone?” She looked up at him through a perfect veil of false eyelashes.

“I did, too. That was the plan, but damn these people in these small towns. They find a way to bust a man’s balls every time. They think their towns are separate from the rest of the world.” He sighed. “I guess if I really cared I’d say ‘screw it.’ But hell, let the woman do her job. Everyone’s got to get ahead somehow.”

Renee’s mouth opened into a faultless O. “A woman?” Lifting a thinly manicured brow, she made an expression that he was certain had taken her years to perfect.

It didn’t do a thing for him. He continued packing. “Yeah. So what?”

“Should I be jealous?” She reached up and ran her red fingernail down his abs, stopping at the waist of his jeans.

“Not unless you want to push me away.” He shot her a quick glance.

In a soft, sexy voice she said, “If you stay, I’ll cook you a meal. Afterward, I’ll cook you.” The tip of her tongue came out, licking her plump bottom lip, as if to drive the hidden meaning home.

He chuckled. “You cook? You don’t even know how to boil water, Renee.” His words weren’t mean to offend her, but she drew back and hammered him with a cold blue stare.

“Oh yes, I do.” She huffed and covered her body with the sheet. He guessed it was a way of punishing him.

“Okay, maybe you do know how to boil water.” He shrugged.

“Three minutes on high in the microwave,” she snapped.

Closing the suitcase and clicking the lock, he sat next to her on the bed, kissing her gingerly on the lips. “I’m sorry.” He meant it. He usually wasn’t in such a foul mood. He didn’t know what it was, but instead of exciting the hell out of him, Renee was beginning to repulse him.

Before he could move away, she shimmied closer and burrowed her bare breasts into his chest, whispering into his ear, “Stay.”

“I’m going.” Enough. His patience grew thin. He got up and grabbed his suitcase. “Don’t forget to lock up on your way out.”

* * * *

A prickle slithered up Ivy’s spine as she approached Thornton House. The place gave her the creeps. Were the rumors getting to her? She laughed. Her trepidation had nothing to do with gossip and had everything to do with the idea of sleeping with creepy crawlies and whatever else lurked in the shadows.

The property was overgrown with weeds and sat back on a dead end road. If a person didn’t know the country roads of Morgan Sites, they wouldn’t know the three-hundred-year-old house existed. Seldom did anyone drive on the gravel road, by mistake or otherwise.

She drove through the broken, rusted gate and took in the view of the house. The red brick two-story was only a figment of the beautiful house it had once been. The windows were overrun with foliage and years of filth. There was no life, only darkness. Weatherworn shutters hung haphazardly. A place forgotten in time.

She frowned. Marshall said the owner had the house checked every so often for problems. There was a big problem. The house was missing underneath layers of grime and neglect.

Ivy climbed out of her car, fighting the urge to climb back in. She inhaled and exhaled through her mouth, gaining the strength she knew she had. Two weeks would fly by. She could tolerate it. At least the place had electricity, water and a roof. It could be worse.

She grabbed her bags out of the back seat and moved toward the house. “I must enter with an open mind.” Ivy chanted the words over and over.

She came upon the weathered porch and stopped in her tracks. A few warped planks thrown together didn’t classify as a porch. Many of the boards were missing and she didn’t trust the ones that remained. With the toe of her shoe, she tested the first step. The board seemed sturdy. With slow, deliberate movements, she walked up the stairs and across the dry rotted timber as it creaked in protest.

Reaching into her front pocket, she pulled out the skeleton key. When Marshall had handed it to her that morning, she’d laughed, thinking it was a joke.

It took her three tries until the metal slid into the lock, but it still wouldn’t turn. She struggled as irritation swirled in her stomach. She had a second’s worth of patience left when the bolt finally clicked. The heavy door screeched with age as she pushed it open. It stopped halfway. She pushed, but it wouldn’t budge. There was only enough opening for her to slip through.

Apprehensive, she peeked inside the two-foot-wide crack. She couldn’t see anything through the dark. She skimmed her hand inside the shadows and felt down the wall, hoping to find a light switch. Nothing. Grabbing her flashlight from her purse, she switched it on.

She left her bags and slid between the door and the frame. Once inside, her lungs were accosted with a deep mildew scent. A string of cobwebs attached itself to every inch of her exposed skin. She resisted the urge to scream.

Ivy concentrated on the house as she turned, flashing the light around the hallway. Even in its state of decay, it was magnificent. She guessed the hallway, with its antique wood flooring and dark wood trim, was once grand. A stunning glass chandelier hung from the tall ceiling. She’d never seen anything like it before. She wondered if it still worked. She found the switch and lifted it, jiggled it twice, but nothing. Not even a spark. She hoped it only needed a change of bulbs.

She continued her perusal as she moved along the shadows like a thief in the night. It was so quiet she found herself instinctively walking on tiptoe.

Stopping at the next doorway, she peeked in and shined her light around the small space. She stepped into the room with caution. A ratty-looking settee, a small wooden chair and a wooden table on its last three legs filled the area.

She wandered down the hall. The next room was absolutely gorgeous. A huge stone fireplace covered one wall. The massive wooden mantel was lost beneath years of dirt, but a swipe of her finger told her it remained in good condition. There was another spectacular chandelier, not in working order–no surprise–but there was enough light filtering in through the two large windows that she could shut off the flashlight. She dropped it back in her purse.

Faded and shredded drapes hung from bent rods. She pushed them open and a huge cloud of ageless dust exploded. She stepped back, coughing, and covered her mouth and nose until she could breathe again.

The sun flowed in, giving the room a golden glow, a new life. The house had so much potential. It was a shame it had stood empty for so long. Her mind conjured up a list of possibilities. It would have made an elaborate bed and breakfast accommodation or the home of a wealthy historical enthusiast, maybe even a home for a family.

When Marcus Thornton built the house in the early eighteen hundreds it had been a grand place, designed for beauty and wealth. During Marcus’s first marriage to Sarah Mitchell, there had been many social gatherings and parties with the most prestigious invited. When Sarah died, so had the social gatherings.

Ivy headed toward the modern French doors, guessing they were added by the most recent owner. Through the dirty glass panels she caught a blurry vision of the overgrown remains of a flower garden and a huge oak tree. There were several more small rooms, stripped of furniture, with no hints of past life.

Back in the hallway, she stopped and looked up at the winding staircase that seemed to sweep upward for miles. She couldn’t wait to explore the upstairs. She climbed each step as anticipation made her heart beat faster.

In the upstairs hallway the carpet was faded and threadbare. The four bedrooms were beautiful and spacious. One room tucked away at the end of the hallway was locked, which ignited Ivy’s curiosity. She tugged and pulled on the knobs of the double doors. They creaked but didn’t budge. She pushed. No movement.

Frustrated, she shook the knobs harder. Still nothing. On the verge of giving up, she tried again. It turned. Her mouth dropped open. A prickly sensation coursed through her as she stared at the door in bewilderment. Had it been locked? She checked the knob for a keyhole. There wasn’t one.

She opened the doors wide and looked in. She held her breath. The master suite. It was without a doubt the most elaborate, beautiful room of the house. The pink walls were faded but remained pretty. The three large windows overlooked the garden and out over the rolling hills. She wasn’t sure how much work the current owner had done, but the massive four-poster, cherrywood bed remained, covered in a green satin comforter. She couldn’t understand why it hadn’t been sold or destroyed along with the rest of the furniture in the house.

The entire bedroom was in good, moderately clean order. It held a certain warmth–something she couldn’t quite pinpoint.

She found the bathroom through a set of thin-glassed windows. It was fit for a queen. She could have fit her home bathroom into this one three times. The fixtures were lovely in bronze, the ceramic tiled floor and walls decorated with hand-painted flowers. The bath was vast. In curiosity, she turned the knob of the bath faucet. It gurgled twice, spat awkwardly, and then spurted a stream of water. The water was tainted a tan shade but she was sure if it were left running a short time it’d run clear.

She glanced at her slender watch. Her company would be arriving soon. With a twist of the faucet knob to off, she headed back into the bedroom.

Downstairs, Ivy turned the corner into the corridor. She stopped when she heard a creak. She listened. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a shadow sweep across the wall. She turned and looked as it disappeared. “Hello?” she called out. No answer. Was it Max Shepard? Hadn’t he heard her? She stomped down the hall and burst into the room. “Hello–”

The room was empty.

Ivy swallowed the taste of fright. A shiver raced across her skin. She had seen someone, or had she? She rubbed her eyes and sighed. Maybe the shadows were playing tricks on her.

Another loud crack in the flooring behind her sent Ivy twisting in alarm. The sun coming through the window blinded her. All Ivy could see was the flash of bright light before she acted on impulse. She drew her fist back and punched–landing on something solid. The force behind her connection with skin and bone sent her off balance, flailing backward. A hand on her wrist pulled her hard against a steely frame.

She brought her eyes up and met a dark stare, just as she felt wobbling. The impact of her body had sent him a step back. He lost his balance and together they fell to the wooden floor. The air whooshed from his chest as Ivy landed on top of the stranger.

Ivy cringed as she closed her eyes. She remained very still. She wanted nothing more than for the floor to swallow her whole. Several long seconds floated by. Neither of them said a word. She finally opened her eyes.

Embarrassed and confused, Ivy laid her palms against his shoulders, pushing herself up. She looked directly into his not-so-pleased expression and gulped. Enchanting green eyes, prominent cheekbones, midnight hair...and a pissed-off set to his jaw. She’d made a mistake–a huge one. “Max Shepard.” It wasn’t a question. She already knew the answer.

He narrowed his eyes. “Ivy Kennedy, journalist and amateur boxer?”

She couldn’t tell whether it was sarcasm or anger. She did notice the deep, rich tone of his voice did funny things to the pit of her stomach. His voice wasn’t the only toned part of him. Their bodies being pressed together gave her an up close and personal testimonial of his physical assets. From broad chest, tight abs to long legs, she could feel tight muscles and a curious bulge behind his zipper. She scooted her hip around the swelling in his jeans. Heat spread through her body.

One corner of his mouth lifted. “It’s my cell.” Could he see straight through her?

“Cell?”

He reached into his pocket, pulled out something and held up his phone. Ivy was certain her skin changed into the perfect color of mortification. She wondered just how bad this could get. She could handle this. Pasting a smile on her face, she said, “Nice to meet you.” The temperature rose between them into the triple digits. Their bodies seemed to melt together. Ivy’s nerves made her heady, making her feel like she floated on a cloud. He didn’t look like the pictures she’d seen on the internet. He looked more distinguished in person. “You’re older than I thought,” she blurted.

He curved his brow. “Older?”

Damn. “Older, I mean, in a good way.” All humor left his face. She licked her bottom lip and nervously pushed her hair behind her ear. “My mother said I have a bad habit of saying the most awkward things and rambling–” She swallowed. “–like I am now.”

She felt his heart race against her breast. His zipper started to swell again. Was that another cell phone in his pocket, or… Before her mind could complete the thought, he wrapped his large hands around her waist, and in one swift, easy movement he lifted her off him. He set her on her feet as he came to stand in front of her. “That’s better,” he said as he backed up. “Damn rug.” He kicked at the lump that must have been the reason behind their fall.

He was a tall man. Ivy guessed about six-feet-two. She certainly had to roll her head back to look into his eyes. He was also more handsome in person than in his photos. Not bad. Not bad at all.

“What’s that?”

She realized she had said the words aloud. She winced. “I mean, bad…very bad.” She pointed to the redness and swelling quickly appearing on his cheek. “I’m sorry.” Would he walk out? “I guess that wasn’t the first impression I’d hoped for.”

He stood there, silent. Awkwardly silent. This was a complete disaster. She’d humiliated herself and at the same time managed to give him a black eye to match the dark scowl on his face. Maybe she needed to start searching for a new job? Marshall would have her head for this.