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James laughed scoffingly. "Then you were the only one."
"How's your mother?"
He stood up suddenly, his body tense. "She's all right, I guess."
Laura was stunned by his apparent indifference. While James was growing up,
Leona Paden had held countless jobs to support her son and husband. But
because of chronic absenteeism and illness, she earned the reputation of being
unreliable. Shortly after her husband's death, however, she had moved from the
shack by the railroad tracks into a small, neat house in a respectable
neighborhood. Laura rarely saw Mrs. Paden anymore. She kept to herself. It was
rumored that James supported her, so it came as a shock to Laura now that he
would dismiss his mother with an uncaring shrug.
He went around the room, picking up an object and examining it carefully before
setting it down and going to the next. "Why are you selling the place?"
Laura didn't like feeling that he was a prosecutor cross-examining her, so she
stood up, too, and went to the window with the hope that she would see Mrs.
Hightower's car coming up the lane. "Father died last February, so I live here
alone. It's ridiculous for one person to live in a house this large."
He watched her intently. She was careful to keep her expression inscrutable.
"Before his death, only you and your father lived here?"
"Yes. Mother died a few years ago." She averted her eyes. "Of course Bo and
Gladys Burton lived in the quarters," she added, referring to the couple who had
worked as domestics for her family for as long as she could remember.
"They don't anymore?"
"No, I let them go."
"Why?"
"I didn't need them any longer."
"You don't need a housekeeper to help you take care of this rambling house? And
didn't Bo do all the handiwork and yard work?"
"I like doing it all myself."
"Hmm."
That nonverbal observation clearly told her that he didn't believe her. His
doubtfulness was highly irritating. "Look, Mr. Paden—"
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"Oh, come on, Laura. I know it's been a long time since we've seen each other, but
you can still call me James, for crying out loud."
"All right, James. It looks as though you and Mrs. Hightower got your signals
crossed. Why don't you make another appointment to meet her here tomorrow?"
"I want to see the house tonight."
"I'm sorry. She's not here, and it doesn't look like she's coming."
"I waited a long time out there in the dark until you showed up. I really don't need
the realtor, since you're here. You can show me around."
"I don't think that's proper."
One eyebrow inched its way up his forehead until it formed an inquisitive arch
over his eye. "Why, Miss Laura, did you have something improper in mind?"
"Of course not," she snapped. "I only meant that the house is Mrs. Hightower's
listing. She asked me today if she could show a client the house this evening. I
consented and promised to make myself scarce. The only reason I came home
when I did was because I thought you'd be gone by now. I'm sure she wouldn't
appreciate my interference."
"It makes no difference to me whether she appreciates it or not. I'm the client. The
customer is always right, and I would welcome your interference. Who could show
the house better than someone who has lived in it since the day she was born?"
The words went through Laura like vicious shards of glass. Who indeed? Who
knew and loved every nook and cranny and creaky floorboard of the house that
had been built by her great-grandfather? Who polished the heirloom silver, long
before it was necessary, just for the pleasure of handling it? Who waxed the
antique furniture until it shone in the sunlight that filtered through the
windowpanes? Who knew a story behind nearly every object in the house? Whose
heart was breaking because she was being forced to sell?
For as long as she could remember, the house and its history had entranced her.
Her grandmother had told the stories that Laura, as a little girl, had repeatedly
requested and never tired of hearing. Now Laura willed herself not to cry when
reminded that she would soon, by necessity, have to part with the house.
"I might know more about the house than Mrs. Hightower, but I still don't think
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it's a good idea for me to butt in."
"Or is it the client that you don't think is a good idea?"
She glanced up at him quickly. "I don't know what you mean," she said hesitantly.
He moved forward, until he was standing so close to her, she had to tilt her head
back to look him in the face.
"You don't think I'm good enough to buy your house."
Because he hit the target so squarely, Laura was startled. "I think no such thing."
"Yes, you do. But no matter what you think of me, my money's green and I can
afford the house."
Feeling trapped, she moved away from him. "I've heard about your success with
those … those…"
"Automotive-parts stores."
"I was very glad for you."
He laughed shortly, scornfully. "Yeah, I'm sure everybody in town has toasted my
success. They were so sure when I left here ten years ago that I'd be in prison by
now."
"Well, what did you expect everybody to think? The way you— Never mind."
"No, go on," he said, stepping around in front of her again. "Tell me. The way I
what?"
"The way you caroused in those cars you were always tinkering with."
"I worked in a garage. Tinkering with cars was how I made my living."
"But you delighted in scaring other drivers by whipping in and out of traffic with
your hot rods and motorcycles. That's how you got your kicks. Just like tonight!"
she said, pointing toward the lawn through the wide, tall windows. "Why were you
hiding there in the bushes just waiting to scare me to death?"
He grinned. "I wasn't waiting for you. I was waiting for Mrs. Hightower."
"Well, you would have scared her too. Looming out of the dark on that horrible,
noisy thing. She would have fainted. You should be ashamed of yourself."
He leaned down, laughing softly. "You can still get mad as the dickens, can't you,
Laura?"
She drew herself up. "I'm extremely even-tempered."
He laughed again. "I remember when you lit into Joe Don Perkins for knocking
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over your cherry Coke at the soda fountain in the drugstore. A bunch of us had
gone in there to buy … uh … never mind what we were buying, but I'll never forget
how Joe Don tucked in his tail and slunk out of the drugstore after you let him
have it with both barrels. You called him a big, clumsy oaf."
&nb
sp; James was bending over her now, having backed her against the windowsill. He
reached up and playfully tugged on a strand of light blond hair that lay against her
cheek, then rested his palm there. "I remember thinking how damned exciting you
were when you got mad." His voice dropped. "You're still exciting." He stroked her
cheek.
"Don't," she said sharply, turning her head away.
The sensual smile on his lips narrowed into a line of bitterness. He withdrew his
hand. "You don't want me to touch you? Why? Aren't these hands clean enough?"
He held both hands, fingers spread wide, inches in front of her face. "Look, Laura.
I don't work in a garage anymore repairing rich folks' cars. See? There's no grease
under my fingernails now."
"I didn't mean—"
"The hell you didn't. But let me tell you something. I'm clean enough now to
breach the door of Twenty-two Indigo Place and I'm clean enough to touch you."
His breath struck her lips in hot gusts. She gazed up at him with fearful blue eyes.
He took another step closer.
They were suddenly caught in the headlights of a car as it pulled into the driveway
that formed a half circle in front of the house. Laura's instinct was to duck for
cover and put as much distance as possible between James Paden and herself.
But she couldn't move until he got out of her way, and he didn't move for what
seemed like a long time. And for as long as he took to straighten up to his full
height again and move away, he kept his eyes riveted on her face.
Flustered, she smoothed her hair and ran her damp hands down her skirt before
making her way to the front door to answer Mrs. Hightower's knock.
"Hello, dear." The real estate agent – round, jolly, and friendly – blustered in.
"I'm sorry I'm late, but I was unavoidably detained. I tried to call… Oh, hello! You
must be Mr. Paden." She advanced on him like a Sherman tank, her hand
extended. She shook his heartily. "I apologize again for being late. Isn't it lucky
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that you caught Laura at home? I should have been here to introduce you, but
then, you mentioned on the telephone that you already know her, didn't you?"
"Yes," he said in a low, thrumming voice. "We've known each other for years."
Laura avoided looking at him.
"And have you seen the house?"
"We were waiting for you," he said.
"Well, then, I won't delay you from seeing it any longer. It's so lovely. Laura, you
have such insight into the house's history. Will you accompany us, please?"
"I'd be happy to," Laura said, ignoring James's I-told-you-so expression.
For the next half hour, they toured the gracious rooms of 22 Indigo Place. Though
the house had been in Laura's family for several generations, it had been carefully
and lovingly maintained. There were certain areas that needed attention, but by
and large the house was immaculate. There was a total of fourteen rooms,
exclusive of the entrance hall and the central hallway upstairs. Each room was
beautifully furnished in keeping with the Greek revival architecture.
Laura tried to sound detached as she went through her spiel, but, as always when
talking about Indigo Place, she quickly warmed to her subject. Her audience was
attentive. James was charming and polite to the realtor, who basked in his
attention. Laura gritted her teeth each time Mrs. Hightower simpered at
something clever he said.
They concluded the tour in the entrance hall. Mrs. Hightower smiled up at James.
"Isn't it wonderful, Mr. Paden? Was I exaggerating over the phone?"
"No, you weren't, Mrs. Hightower, but then, I was acquainted with this address.
I've always admired the house from afar." Laura took the barb for what it was, but
ignored the significant glance he cast in her direction. "I'll give it careful
consideration tonight."
"Very well. Please call me if you have any questions." The realtor turned to Laura.
"Thank you for letting us see the house tonight. As soon as I hear from Mr. Paden,
I'll be in touch with you."
"Thank you, Mrs. Hightower."
"Good night, Laura."
Laura looked down at the hand that was extended to her. It was clean. And
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tanned. And strong. A well-shaped, masculine hand that she thought was
probably capable of exerting tremendous force and giving a woman exquisite
pleasure.
"Good night, James." She clasped his attractive hand briefly before letting it go.
"Welcome back to Gregory."
He smiled at her in a way that said he knew he was about as welcome in Gregory
as a skunk at a flower show.
He left with Mrs. Hightower, and Laura closed the door behind them. Even
through the heavy door, she could hear the realtor chattering in praise of the
house. She was treating this prospective buyer with kid gloves. Property that
commanded a price as high as that of 22 Indigo Place was restricted to all but a
handful of buyers. Thus far no one had seriously looked at the property. James
Paden was the first real candidate for new ownership, and Mrs. Hightower didn't
want to lose the potential sale.
Laura didn't move from the front door until she heard the motorcycle follow Mrs.
Hightower's car out of the driveway. As she went through the rooms turning out
lights, she chastised herself for not asking Mrs. Hightower who her client was
when she called earlier that afternoon. The only thing she had told Laura was that
he was an Atlanta millionaire who was looking for a home in which to spend his
early retirement.
Laura had expected a much older man. She had expected a stranger. She would
never have expected James Paden.
Scattered throughout the last few years, there had been numerous accounts of
him in the local newspaper. Only a few years after he left Gregory, he had earned
himself a name driving race cars. For fans of that sport, he was a celebrity, having
set impressive records for speed and daring while still in his twenties. There had
been an extensive write-up in an Atlanta newspaper about his retirement from the
race track. A few months later Laura read that he had opened an automotive-parts
store.
Since then, the townspeople of Gregory had watched with growing interest as
their hometown boy built that first store into a phenomenally successful chain.
The most recent report of James Paden – whom up to that point none of
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Gregory's citizens had wanted to claim – was that he had sold the chain of stores
to a conglomerate for a staggering amount of money.
Laura didn't care how much money he had made or how successful he had
become, he was still uncouth and ill-mannered. And how typically lower class it
was of him to flaunt his success in the face of a town that had openly scorned him.
Who cared?
She certainl
y didn't. Why couldn't he have been satisfied to keep his millions in
Atlanta? They didn't need them in Gregory.
Unfortunately that wasn't quite true. She needed money desperately.
The weight of her problem settled over her like a suit of chain mail. It stayed with
her as she went upstairs and entered her bedroom, which, she thought thankfully,
James had given no more than a cursory glance when he had viewed the house.
As she undressed, Laura bitterly recalled the day the executor of her father's
estate had asked her to come to see him. In his impressive book-lined office he'd
delivered the devastating news that she had been bequeathed nothing but a list of
irate creditors.
Aghast, she had listened as he explained that her father had been a disastrous
financial manager and had squandered the family fortune on bad investments and
unsound speculations. The attorney had put it to her kindly, but bluntly. She was
broke, having absolutely no means with which to pay the accumulated bills.
"But we lived—"
"Very well. Randolph would never admit that he was in trouble, much less let you
or your mother know that you were headed for financial disaster. "
Laura had scanned the ledger sheets until the enormity of her difficulties
overwhelmed her. "I can't even afford to eat."
"I'm sorry, Laura, that this is your inheritance."
"At least I have Indigo Place," she had said reflectively, flipping through a stack of
bills. The attorney's heavy sigh brought her head up, and she gazed at him with
mounting dread. "I do still have Indigo Place, don't I?"
He covered her hand with his. "It's mortgaged to the hilt, my dear. The bank has
notified me that unless they can recoup their losses within six months, they will
have no choice but to foreclose. I strongly suggest that you sell."
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That had been the final blow. She had lain her head on the attorney's desk and
sobbed. Slowly, however, she had confronted the reality of her dilemma. That she
was penniless was untenable, but nonetheless true.
As quietly as possible she had put 22 Indigo Place up for sale. When word got
around, as she knew it would, she had squelched negative gossip by saying that