It Started with a House... Page 3

  Inwardly shaking her head at this potential emotional maelstrom, Genevieve called the office. Her senior agent Avery Pageant answered. “How are things going?” she asked.

  “Ina and I are holding the fort,” the forty-two-year-old divorcée replied. “She’s in the kitchen getting our lunches ready. We’re both eating late today to avoid dinner. Raenne is off showing the Cook farm.”

  “Did she have her boots and gun with her when she left?”

  “Yes, Mommy.”

  The friendly taunt didn’t offend Genevieve. They were a close group and although she was the youngest in the office—with Raenne thirty-five, and Ina thirty-three—they all understood that, as the broker, Genevieve was key to the reputation and soundness of the business. They also knew there was a huge difference between showing lakefront property and a good-size farm with creeks and wildlife. Often that wildlife was of the deadly variety. Then there was the matter of who was asking to see such property. Raenne was married, but you couldn’t tell it by her redneck husband, who would travel three or five states for a bass tournament yet wouldn’t act as backup to his wife when she showed large tracts of land. It was left to Genevieve to remind her staff to be cautious; only last year a female agent a few towns away had been murdered showing property—and that had occurred in a development!

  “What about your afternoon appointment?” she asked Avery. “Is that still on?”

  “No, the couple found out they won’t get the financing for that much house. At least they didn’t waste my time. I’ll hunt them something more in their price range and get back to them.”

  “Good for you. All right, I’m planning on being back there within the hour.”

  Genevieve had just disconnected when she heard the French doors open behind her. Listening to Marshall’s footsteps as he approached, she pointed across the cove at the cedar two-story partially hidden by seventy-year-old pines. “It looks like one of your on-the-road-again neighbors is back in town.”

  “Beau Stanton the singer, right?” Marshall stopped beside her and handed her one of the glasses. “Based out of Nashville, I believe you said.”

  As the small caravan consisting of a sparkling top-of-the-line pickup truck, a cargo van and two SUVs of equal quality parked on the driveway, Genevieve nodded. “That’s the one. Those pricey black vehicles almost resemble a presidential entourage, don’t they?”

  “They don’t look quite as bulletproof.”

  “Of course. There’s that.” And Marshall would know better than she would given his background of hobnobbing with the rich and famous. Worried that she might have sounded as if she was showing off, Genevieve grew silent.

  “Didn’t you tell me that he had the walls of his house built with extra insulation and the windows specially designed so that he won’t irritate neighbors during rehearsals and jam sessions? Considerate of him,” Marshall said, “although I wouldn’t mind hearing a tune or two now and again.”

  “Not at three or four in the morning you wouldn’t. When musicians jam, they’re not aware of the time. He loves it here,” Genevieve said, finally turning. She knew what Marshall had done to make her feel comfortable, and thought him all the more a gentleman for it. “The lake has become a creative inspiration to him, so, like you, he’s determined not to create any bad blood with his neighbors.” She nodded with simple admiration. “You’re kind to overlook my ignorance and you paid excellent attention when I first showed you the place.”

  He touched his glass to hers. “In the end, it’s all in the details, isn’t it?”

  “I can’t argue with that,” she murmured, once again wondering what else he was implying. After taking a necessary sip of the delicious vintage, Genevieve dove, perhaps too eagerly, into a reminder of who else he shared the deep cove with—bankers, retired sports stars, a world-renowned surgeon and her mother in the Mediterranean-style those two properties over. On their first tour of this home, with her typical full disclosure style, she’d made him and Cynthia fully aware of the familial connection. Cynthia had suffered a frightening coughing-choking fit at the news.

  “You’re kidding me? I love her work!” she’d declared. “If she could write faster, she might get me to give up cigarettes.”

  Marshall hadn’t been amused at his wife’s dark humor, considering her already fragile health, but Genevieve had eased the moment by promising that she would let her mother know and would get any books she wanted autographed. Sadly, that had remained a commitment unfulfilled.

  Genevieve glanced toward the Texas version of a villa and hoped her mother wasn’t watching with her military-power binoculars from her second-story office. A tight publishing deadline was the only safe time Genevieve could be showing in the area and not be spotted without getting an immediate text message demanding, “Who is that?” When she’d first spotted Marshall Roark, Sydney had texted, “Who is that?”

  “I’ve lost you,” Marshall said. “Is something wrong?”

  “Can we go back inside?” Genevieve asked and began leading the way. “I’m afraid that if my mother catches sight of us standing here, she’ll invite herself over.”

  “Ah, yes. I seem to remember you referring to her as ‘part bloodhound and part shark.’”

  “She’s as environmentally efficient as the latter, too. Just about everything she sniffs out information-wise will end up in one of her novels. For someone who values his privacy, you’ll want to remember that.”

  “You sound like you’ve been nipped a time or two.” Marshall’s long strides helped him beat her to the door and open it for her.

  “Let’s just say you won’t find many Genevieves in East Texas. My namesake happened to be a character that she became so enthralled with, she couldn’t resist naming me that, as well. It helped being born forty-eight hours after she finished that manuscript.”

  “It’s a beautiful name,” he replied. “So the Genevieve-based character was someone your mother had met before?”

  “Who had enough tragedy in her life to become a book. Don’t bother asking me for the title,” Genevieve replied.

  “You tempt me, but I’ll resist for now.” Marshall tilted his head as they paused at the bar. “You can’t see that the name suits you?”

  “No more than Gigi does. That’s G.G., my married initials. Mother thought a character called Gabrielle Gallant was enough disguise to turn the most recent and painful chapters of my life into fiction, as well. The rest is another bit of New York Times–list history.”

  “Ah. Ouch. Now I’m beginning to understand,” Marshall replied thoughtfully. His look was sympathetic. “So you two aren’t speaking? Excuse me—now I’m trespassing on your privacy.”

  With a fatalistic shrug, Genevieve took a last sip of champagne and made herself set the half-full glass on the counter. “We speak. I’ve resigned myself to the reality that she’s incorrigible and, when she blithely shares her latest tromp into my life or the lives of others that I know and care about, she accepts that I need to avoid her calls for a day or a week, depending on the offense.”

  “You’ve opened my eyes to a different perspective. It’s one thing to see print page opinions or the headlines from the news portrayed on TV dramas a month after the fact, but I’m realizing it’s not so entertaining when it’s your own history in novel form.” Marshall continued, “Would I be getting too personal if I asked if Sawyer is your maiden name?”

  Genevieve tucked her BlackBerry into her bag. “Not at all. Charles Sawyer was my father. He died in a tractor accident when I was fifteen. As sad as that sounds, he was looking over some new land he’d just purchased. I guess I inherited his love of land. Mother’s current husband is Bart—short for Barton—Conway. Part saint, part Saint Bernard, not always tolerant of Mother’s shenanigans, but faithful, reliable, all of the qualities one needs with a high-maintenance wife like Sydney. They’re working on their tenth anniversary. My hunch is that he’ll stick. My prayer is he’ll stick. Between him and Dad was Whit. Whitfield Edwards.
You won’t hear that name spoken unless there’s an obituary notice. Not Mother’s,” Genevieve intoned.

  “Was theirs a bad experience partially due to things happening too soon after your father’s death?”

  Pointing her index finger at him, she replied, “Bingo. For a time, Mother did consider the working title The Expensive Case of Rebound but she never wrote the book…or learned from the experience. She started dating Bart at an investments seminar two weeks after her divorce was final.”

  “Sometimes it happens quickly for some people,” Marshall said, gesturing with his glass.

  Genevieve shook her head. “You can’t be interested in any of this.”

  “I actually believe in seminars. The results from several have kept me from firing a few employees.” When Genevieve failed to respond to that, he added, “What does Saint Bart do while your mother is writing? I didn’t see a boathouse, so I’m guessing he’s not a fisherman.”

  “The only water Bart is interested in comes from his shower head or is the frozen kind—ice in his scotch. He likes golf, poker and the online link to his stock trader.” Genevieve pointed to the notes she’d left him. “Don’t forget the security people will be out tomorrow to check on your system and recommend upgrades.”

  “Thanks. Should I make a point to introduce myself to the police chief?”

  “Phil Irvine. I asked him to stop by in the next few days, but you’re right, it wouldn’t hurt to initiate the meeting yourself. He’s a good man. His son is a talented junior on the high school football team and already being watched by college scouts. His elder child, a daughter, died in a wreck last year. I’m only offering that because Phil can be a bit gruff these days. Please don’t take it personally.”

  Marshall stayed her hand as she reached for her bag. “Do you ever stop working?”

  His unexpected touch made it difficult to think, let alone answer. “I’m only trying to help make this impossible situation—”

  “Easier. You have. But, Genevieve, do you think you could go off the clock now and just talk to me?”

  She knew she should have resisted the champagne. So that intuition about his attraction had been dead-on, but while her heart skipped a beat in ridiculous pleasure, her mind—ever the devil’s advocate—was fast to hoist walls. “Oh, Marshall…you know that’s not a good idea.”

  “Then you realize that I don’t want to talk about my neighbors or your family, I want to talk about you.”

  She kept her gaze on the hand slowly clasping hers. “Yes.”

  “What if I asked you to dinner?”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  “Because there’s someone already in your life?”

  The easy way out would be to say, “Yes,” but that would be lying. However, she gently extricated herself and looped her bag over her shoulder. “Marshall…I’m flattered. Truly. And what you think you’re feeling is normal after suffering such a huge loss, but it’s not—”

  “Don’t say ‘real.’ Not only isn’t this a temporary aberration, I was attracted to you the moment I saw your photo on the realty Web site. When I actually met you, I was relieved that Cynthia shook your hand first because I needed a moment to collect myself.”

  His admission was everything a woman wanted to hear from a man she also felt an attraction to—only Genevieve wasn’t proud of having those feelings about the husband of a woman she’d hoped would become a friend. “Please don’t tell me that. Do you realize how bizarre that is? Cyn—”

  “Had been ill for a considerable while, you know that. Genevieve—of all women I’d have expected you to understand. I was a faithful husband until we met you. I took my ‘for better or worse’ commitment seriously.”

  “I appreciate you sharing that,” she replied. While she refused to let this get out of hand, she would hate for her image of him to be completely shattered.

  “But you’re still uneasy.” Marshall stroked his thumb over her soft skin.

  “Anyone would be.”

  “No, not anyone. You. You’re far more decent and principled than many of your sex, Genevieve. Believe me, from my past vantage point, I’ve seen plenty.” Then, with a faint smile, he added, “But I’m fairly certain that you blushed at least twice when I caught you looking at me.”

  Mortified, Genevieve pulled her hand free and covered her eyes. “Please tell me that Cynthia never saw that?”

  “She didn’t. But don’t torment yourself. She liked you and would approve of this. Us.”

  “There is no us. It’s just too soon.” She gestured toward the French doors. “Besides which, I’ve established a nice business here. Gossip could destroy a reputation in my business as quickly as getting called up on ethics charges.”

  “What are we supposed to do, pretend we feel nothing until the police and local gossips give the signal that we’ve suffered enough to suit them?” Marshall uttered something disparaging under his breath. “Speaking for myself, I’ve been through several kinds of hell watching the slow death of my wife, and the slower death of my marriage due to our spats about her inability to quit smoking. I want to feel something besides pity, regret, grief and guilt. I want my life back.”

  Genevieve understood, sympathized and even agreed with him. In principle. But, while she wasn’t a coward, she had to avert her eyes to protect herself from the intensity she knew was radiating in his. Marshall was a passionate man and she recognized that now that he was free and had made his feelings known, she was all the more vulnerable to him.

  “Look at me,” he ordered softly. When she failed to comply, he closed the short distance between them and put his fingers under her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You know what? I think you’re even more confused and trapped than I am by this world of cellophane morals and shredded principles, so this is what I’m going to do. I’m going to kiss you. Then you’ll leave—probably as quickly as I’ll want you to go, but for entirely different reasons. And we’ll talk again after you’ve had a chance to really get used to the idea. Understand?”

  She shook her head.

  Marshall exhaled in a brief, low laugh. “God help me,” he said, lowering his head. “Neither do I.”

  Chapter Two

  For the next hour after Genevieve left, Marshall sat at his desk in his new office, his gaze on Genevieve Gale’s business card from The Gale Agency. The colored photograph in the top left corner was flattering in that one-dimensional, photo-by-stranger way, but it didn’t begin to do her justice. The photo he was wishing he had framed before him was one fresh in his mind—Genevieve just kissed.

  His chest rose and fell on a deep breath as he sought the last nuance of her scent. She made him think of his first taste of lemon gelato years ago when he was fresh out of college and racing through Europe before he got too buried in his career. It had been refreshing and sexy, and addictive the way chocolate could be to others.

  Closing his eyes, he relived how she’d stared at his mouth until just before his lips touched hers, then raised her gaze to seek further confirmation of the truth in his eyes. He knew she’d seen it because his emotions had his heartbeat nearly rupturing his eardrums, especially when she’d touched her fingers to his face in appeal—for what, he wasn’t sure. To reconsider? To be sure he knew what he was doing? Coming this far, he couldn’t have stopped if he’d wanted to, and he definitely didn’t want to. He’d waited long enough for this.

  Genevieve. Like her name, she was elegant and graceful. A lady. A fine businesswoman and a person anyone would want as a friend. But there was much more to the woman, and he wanted to explore the far reaches of her mind, just as he wanted to learn every inch of that body.

  Afterward, she’d fled, pale, her caramel eyes strangely shadowed from the shock of her rediscovered passion, while her gently bowed lips were swollen from a kiss that had gone from whisper-soft to ardent before either of them could stop it. It thrilled him to discover she wasn’t as in control as her professional demeanor suggested, and to learn that she wan
ted him, too. Granted, she would continue to struggle with this and feel guilt—hell, he did and would for some time himself. You couldn’t live with another person for over a decade and a half and make every memory go away. Nevertheless, he was also grateful that he wouldn’t have to endure the bar scene and blind dates that would have been his future. The woman he wanted wouldn’t require a background search or blood test to prove her health status. Such a gift had to be treated with the utmost respect and care; however, having repressed his sexual craving for so long, he was like a parched creek bed ready to soak her up in one desperate swallow. It had been a challenge to let her go, and he was already wondering how long she would make him wait before he could see her again.

  Marshall made himself get out of the leather chair and do another, more thorough, examination of the house. He was impressed with how well Genevieve remembered Cynthia’s directives between draws at the oxygen mask of where she would put what. The furnishings seemed made for the house, a sturdy mix of leather and wood, the colors mostly earth tones with accents of green, eggplant and blue. None of the paintings were hung yet, just a few of the knickknacks were unboxed, and only one lamp—a Frank Lloyd Wright type of design, the shade made of agates and quartz, the frame brass. It looked as if it had been made for the house, and Marshall wondered if Genevieve had placed it on the sofa table behind the couch where it was immediately a focal point, or was it simply the resting spot decided by one of the movers? Never. It had to have been Genevieve. Poor Cynthia had a mathematician’s rather uninspired taste for decorating. If a lamp, ashtray or book was set on one end table, their twins had to be on the other. A wreath on one side of the door required a matching one on the other side. She was all about regimen and order, partly because of the way she grew up, partly because of losing her twin, Scott. Heaven knew he’d tried to figure it out and set her free to be more impulsive and experimental.

  In contrast, Marshall could already see by the few pieces that Genevieve had unpacked that she avoided clutter, and wasn’t afraid of mixing styles. He wondered what her home looked like. He wondered what else she could do with this place if given the opportunity.