Into His Private Domain. Janice Maynard
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their wealth around, flaunting their abundance. She had a hunch that the fiercely private Gareth would just as soon not be around people at all.
She wandered back toward the garage, stopping to stand on tiptoe and peer in the windows. Every pane of glass was spotless. She saw the Jeep, along with four other vehicles—a vintage Harley-Davidson motorcycle, a classic black Mercedes sedan, a steel-gray delivery van, and a small electric car.
The odd assortment intrigued her. Nothing about Gareth Wolff was easy to pin down.
She walked around the rear of the garage, and there, at the back of a large clearing, stood a third building. The exterior was fashioned to match the house and the garage. But this structure was smaller. A stone chimney, similar to the three on top of Gareth’s house, emitted a curl of smoke. Feeling more like Goldilocks than she cared to admit, Gracie gave into the temptation to explore.
Instead of a traditional front door, the side of the building closest to Gracie was bisected by double garage doors, one of which was ajar. Feeling like the interloper she was, Gracie peeked inside.
Gareth stood opposite her, his big hands moving a scrap of sandpaper back and forth across an expanse of wood. He worked intently, all his focus on the project at hand.
The interior of the building was comprised of a single large room, partitioned here and there, but fully open to view. One quadrant stored lengths of lumber, another held shelves of small figures that appeared to be birds and animals. A large vat of some kind of liquid-soaked strips of wood. Other tables were laden with myriad hand tools.
The air smelled pleasantly of raw wood and tangy smoke from the open fireplace. An enormous skylight shed golden rays onto the floor below, catching dancing motes of dust along the way. Piled curls of wood shavings littered the floor at Gareth’s feet.
Though she knew it was unwise, she moved forward into his line of sight. His head jerked up, and he stared at her, unsmiling.
She tucked her hands behind her back. “I take it this is your work?”
He put down the sandpaper and wiped his hands on his jeans. As he stepped from behind the workbench, she saw that the old, faded denim had worn in some very interesting places, emphasizing his masculinity in a throat-drying way.
“Did you eat?”
She nodded.
“And Annalise found you?”
A second nod.
“Do you remember anything?”
She swallowed hard. “No.” Nothing concrete.
When he grimaced, she tried to squash an unreasonable feeling of guilt. He couldn’t be any more frustrated than she was about her situation. “Sorry,” she added, wondering why it was that women always seemed to feel the need to apologize and men seldom did.
He leaned against one of the rough-hewn posts that supported the vaulted ceiling, his hands in his pockets. The plain white T-shirt he wore was as sexy as any tux, and she had a gut feeling that he could wear either with ease.
As he surveyed her from head to toe, he frowned. “Why haven’t you changed?”
“Is there a dress code?” Maybe she was a smart-ass in her previous life.
Finally… a small smile from the man with the stone face. “I thought you’d be eager to get out of those clothes.”
Her stomach plunged at his suggestive words, but her brain wrestled with her libido. “I’ll change later. Didn’t seem to make sense to get all cleaned up when I was coming outside to explore. It’s a beautiful day.”
He nodded abruptly. “Glad you feel up to getting around. Does your head still hurt?”
“A little. I only took one pain pill. Didn’t want to sleep the day away.”
The conversation stalled. She worked her way closer. “What are you making?”
He paused, as if considering whether or not to answer. Then he shrugged. “A cradle.”
“For someone in your family?”
“No.”
Sheesh. It was like squeezing a stone to get water. “Then who?”
He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, a gesture she was beginning to associate with his response to her. “A member of the British royal family.”
She gaped. “Seriously?”
He cracked a smile, a small one, but definitely a tiny grin. “Seriously.”
“Tell me. Spill the details.”
He shook his head, his eyes dancing with humor. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you. That information is on a strictly need-to-know basis.”
She pursed her lips, wondering why she could remember things she’d read in line at the grocery store while scanning the front page of a gossip rag, but not be able to visualize her own home. Rather than dwell on that unsettling fact, she put two and two together.
“Ohmigosh,” she cried. “Are they pregnant? Is it—”
He put a hand over her mouth. “Uh, uh, uh… No questions. My lips are sealed.”
They were so close together she could smell the soap he’d used in the shower… and the not unpleasant odor of healthy male sweat. For some weird reason, her tongue wanted to slip out and tease his slightly callused fingers. His eyes darkened and she could swear he was reading her mind at that very moment.
She gulped and backed up a step. A more lighthearted Gareth was definitely dangerous. “Does your improved mood mean that you believe me… about not remembering, I mean?”
His hand fell away. “I’ll admit that deliberately falling to substantiate a claim of amnesia seems a bit far-fetched. I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. For the moment, at least.” His dark eyes seemed to see inside her soul.
She pretended to examine his workshop in order to give her ragged breathing time to return to a more normal cadence. “You must enjoy all this… the peace, the creativity.” Her voice rasped at the end when she swallowed hard, caught suddenly by a memory of her own hands spreading paint across a canvas. Watercolors, maybe? The image left her.
He nodded, watching her with the intensity of a hawk stalking prey. “It keeps me off the streets,” he deadpanned, seemingly relaxed.
But she had the notion that he was tense beneath his deliberately casual demeanor. She picked up a bottle of linseed oil and rubbed the label. “Why do you do it? Certainly not for the money.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Gracie.”
She turned to face him, frowning. “What? Do you have some weird need to prove yourself and not lean on the family money?”
“You’ve been reading too many novels.” He chuckled. “I’m quite happy to enjoy my share of the Wolff family coffers.”
“And by the way,” she said, “what is the family business?”
“Railroads originally, back in the 1800s. We’ve diversified since then. Most of the Wolff ancestors were good at making money from money.”
“And now?”
“We took a hit, like everyone… when the economy tanked. But my father and my uncle are shrewd businessmen. We have interests in shipping, manufacturing, even agriculture to some extent.”
“But you make furniture.”
He nodded. “Indeed.”
She put a hand on the piece of walnut he’d been sanding. Already, the finish was smooth to the touch. “Indulge me,” she said, wondering if she was being far too nosy. “How much does a cradle for a royal cost?”
He shrugged, an enigmatic smile teasing