his reflection in the window above the sink, but more, she felt the warmth of him radiating into her. Imagined his breath stirring her hair. Pictured it until she could feel the strands stirring and then had a hard time keeping her wet hands from grabbing the back of her neck to still the shivers she felt there.
“Did you want something, Reed?” She rapped the question out like a drill sergeant, trying to shatter her awareness of him standing behind her, breathing.
His arm sneaked into the corner of her vision as he reachedpast her to put his plate on the counter to the side of the sink. As she opened her mouth to snarl at him again, she felt a light weight drop onto her shoulder. A dish towel. At the same moment, Spencer snaked his hands down the length of her arms until his fingers tangled with hers in the hot water. He tugged her hands up.
“I’ll finish up here.” His voice was normal, denying the intimacy of their position. She was caged between his arms, between the solid strength of his body pressed against her back and the edge of the counter against her hips. She shivered and knew he felt it.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Those who cook don’t clean.”
“Addy.” He let go, dragged the towel off her shoulder and wrapped it around her hands, then turned her to face him. He ducked down a little to capture her downturned eyes with his own. She stopped avoiding them. “I’m sorry you’re stuck here for the night. But since you are, you’re my guest, and guests don’t scrub pots.”
He smiled at her and her stomach tripped and fell down an elevator shaft. Did his eyes have to be so damn blue?
“Besides—” he gave her a little push toward the door to the hall “—I know you’re dying to take a look around.”
She stuttered to a halt and turned back to him, hands still cocooned in the towel. “I like it better when you’re not being so nice to me.”
He covered the smile well. “I know.”
She threw the towel at his head.
Catching the cloth one-handed, he turned to the sink with sublime indifference to her scowl. He waggled fingers in the air over his shoulder.
“Run along. I’ll find you when I’m done here.”
She stuck her tongue out at his back.
“That’s very mature.”
Damn. She’d forgotten that he could see her in the window’s reflection. Time to get out before she made even more of an ass out of herself.
She ignored the central staircase for the time being, its two sets of stairs crossing like department-store escalators in the middle, one coming from the front and one from the back of the house. There were still more rooms on the ground floor that she’d yet to venture into.
The house faced west and was split in half by the massive staircase, with rooms opening to the north and the south off the side halls that ran the length of the building. The library butted up against the kitchen, at the rear of the north side of the house, with the tiny tea closet behind the next door as she walked slowly toward the front of the house. Another bathroom came next, this one done in shades of cream and palest gold.
The last room, at the very front of the house, was long enough that two sets of intricately carved wooden doors that slid into recesses in the walls opened onto it from the hall. She entered at the near set.
She felt as if she’d stepped into a Jane Austen novel.
It was a music room. Or at least that was what she supposed you would call it. Mossy green walls imposed an atmosphere of meditative calm, with framed copies of what looked like original music scores scattered here and there. At the front of the room, where light from the windows would fall upon it as the sun set, was a massive ebony grand piano. A harp, gilded and taller than she was, stood in the middle of the room near a clustered arrangement of chairs and sofas. Balancing the room at the near end was another piano, this one smaller and oddly constructed.
A small, framed black-and-white photograph just
“Did you want something, Reed?” She rapped the question out like a drill sergeant, trying to shatter her awareness of him standing behind her, breathing.
His arm sneaked into the corner of her vision as he reachedpast her to put his plate on the counter to the side of the sink. As she opened her mouth to snarl at him again, she felt a light weight drop onto her shoulder. A dish towel. At the same moment, Spencer snaked his hands down the length of her arms until his fingers tangled with hers in the hot water. He tugged her hands up.
“I’ll finish up here.” His voice was normal, denying the intimacy of their position. She was caged between his arms, between the solid strength of his body pressed against her back and the edge of the counter against her hips. She shivered and knew he felt it.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Those who cook don’t clean.”
“Addy.” He let go, dragged the towel off her shoulder and wrapped it around her hands, then turned her to face him. He ducked down a little to capture her downturned eyes with his own. She stopped avoiding them. “I’m sorry you’re stuck here for the night. But since you are, you’re my guest, and guests don’t scrub pots.”
He smiled at her and her stomach tripped and fell down an elevator shaft. Did his eyes have to be so damn blue?
“Besides—” he gave her a little push toward the door to the hall “—I know you’re dying to take a look around.”
She stuttered to a halt and turned back to him, hands still cocooned in the towel. “I like it better when you’re not being so nice to me.”
He covered the smile well. “I know.”
She threw the towel at his head.
Catching the cloth one-handed, he turned to the sink with sublime indifference to her scowl. He waggled fingers in the air over his shoulder.
“Run along. I’ll find you when I’m done here.”
She stuck her tongue out at his back.
“That’s very mature.”
Damn. She’d forgotten that he could see her in the window’s reflection. Time to get out before she made even more of an ass out of herself.
She ignored the central staircase for the time being, its two sets of stairs crossing like department-store escalators in the middle, one coming from the front and one from the back of the house. There were still more rooms on the ground floor that she’d yet to venture into.
The house faced west and was split in half by the massive staircase, with rooms opening to the north and the south off the side halls that ran the length of the building. The library butted up against the kitchen, at the rear of the north side of the house, with the tiny tea closet behind the next door as she walked slowly toward the front of the house. Another bathroom came next, this one done in shades of cream and palest gold.
The last room, at the very front of the house, was long enough that two sets of intricately carved wooden doors that slid into recesses in the walls opened onto it from the hall. She entered at the near set.
She felt as if she’d stepped into a Jane Austen novel.
It was a music room. Or at least that was what she supposed you would call it. Mossy green walls imposed an atmosphere of meditative calm, with framed copies of what looked like original music scores scattered here and there. At the front of the room, where light from the windows would fall upon it as the sun set, was a massive ebony grand piano. A harp, gilded and taller than she was, stood in the middle of the room near a clustered arrangement of chairs and sofas. Balancing the room at the near end was another piano, this one smaller and oddly constructed.
A small, framed black-and-white photograph just
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