Where Secrets Sleep. Marta Perry
Читать онлайн книгу.
now realized was a cat carrier, its door hanging by one hinge. She raised it threateningly, and he had no doubt she’d hit him again at an unwary movement.
He raised both hands, palms out, and took a step out of range. “Take it easy. I could ask you the same thing. What are you doing in my shop?”
“Your shop?” she echoed.
Nick saw the doubt enter her face, and a delicate pink stained her cheeks. The green eyes were framed by uncompromising brows, and her heart-shaped face had a stubborn cast along the line of her jaw. As for her lips...for a moment he was distracted, and he forced himself to focus.
“That’s right, my shop. I’m Nick Whiting. This is the office and showroom of Whiting and Whiting Cabinetry. I repeat, who are you? How did you get in? Or maybe I should just call the police.” He sketched a gesture toward the pocket that held his cell phone.
“That’s not necessary.” Her chin lifted. “You’re Mr. Whiting? I’m Allison Standish.” She said it as if it should mean something to him.
It did. “You’re Ms. Standish? The long-lost granddaughter Evelyn left this place to?”
“I haven’t been lost, Mr. Whiting.” Her tone was cool. “But, yes. I’m the new owner of this building, so I have every right to be here.”
He raised an eyebrow, wondering if it would infuriate her. “You may or may not be the owner of Blackburn House, but this is my shop. According to my lease, I’m supposed to be notified in advance if the owner wants access.”
Nick had no idea if the lease actually said that, since it had been negotiated by his father years ago, but if it didn’t, it should.
“I see.” Her tone was icy. “I suppose I should have a look at all the leases, shouldn’t I?”
Naturally she would, possibly to his sorrow. Maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned it. He took the opportunity for a long look at her. Sleek chin-length hair the color of polished mahogany, earrings a delicate tangle of silver and jet, jacket of butter-soft leather and a silk shirt that molded full breasts, a skirt that flirted with her legs and a pair of high-heeled boots that looked capable of kicking if necessary.
Well. With this woman taking over Blackburn House, there might be a lot of changes coming.
* * *
ALLISON MADE A concentrated effort to collect herself. Her nerves, already shredded by the events of the day, hadn’t been up to this additional assault. It was taking every bit of control she had to keep her courage up with this obnoxious character. If he was typical of the tenants she’d have to deal with, the sooner she sold this place, the better.
She bent to pick up the cat, smoothing her hand over Hector’s ruffled fur. Poor thing. He’d had a bad day, as well. It was a shame he hadn’t managed to run his claws into Whiting’s leg.
Glancing up under her lashes, she assessed the man. Light brown hair, cut in a short, almost military style, and tanned skin. He had a jaw that proclaimed his stubbornness, and at the moment it was set like granite.
He met her gaze, and his eyes were a shade somewhere between gold and brown that reminded her of topaz. His gaze seemed to grow intent as he realized she was assessing him, and she looked down, trying to ease an affronted Hector into the cat carrier. He snagged the dangling door with one paw.
“Look at this. You’ve broken my cat carrier.” Tears stung her eyes. Ridiculous, but this really was the last straw. “How can I walk into the bed-and-breakfast carrying a cat in my arms? I can’t expect the owner to accept that. She wasn’t eager to have a cat on the premises as it is.”
Whiting knelt next to her, and a flicker of alarm went through her at the quick movement and his unexpected closeness. She caught her breath. How did she know he was really who he said he was? She shouldn’t be lingering in an empty building in a strange town alone with a man she didn’t know.
“You hold the cat. I’ll deal with the door.” His tone warmed, filled with amusement, as if he’d guessed what she was thinking.
Speechless, Allison gathered Hector into her arms and eased a little away from him. She watched Whiting’s hands as he worked on the carrier. They were square, strong, workman’s hands, a little scarred but deft and capable. In a moment he’d popped the door back into place.
“That should do it.” His hand moved toward Hector, who reacted with a hiss. Whiting retreated prudently and held the cage door instead while she stooped to bundle Hector inside. “I don’t think that cat likes me.” He rose, putting a hand under Allison’s elbow to help her up.
“It’s the traveling he doesn’t like. He’s had a rough day.” As she had.
“Looks like he’s not the only one.”
It was all she could do not to wince. “If that’s your idea of a compliment, I don’t think much of it.”
Whiting grinned, the sun lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling. “My mother says I have all the finesse of a bulldozer. I just meant— Well, you’ve had a long drive from Philadelphia, and it’s late to be inspecting a building, besides being assaulted by a stranger who breaks your cat carrier with his leg. I’ll help carry your stuff over to Mrs. Anderson’s place.”
“How did you know that’s where I’m going? Or that I’ve come from Philadelphia?”
Allison was instantly suspicious, but the gaze that met hers was guileless.
“You said you were staying at a B and B. There’s only one in town. And everyone has been buzzing about the unexpected relative scooping a piece of the pie.”
“Oh.” She felt foolish, which was probably what he’d intended. “Thanks, but I can manage my own things.” She straightened, grasping the carrier and her bag. “Good night.”
He nodded. Waiting until she’d left the showroom, he switched off the light, locked the door and strode off toward the rear of the building.
That was that, she thought, rather surprised that he’d given in so easily. He looked like the kind of person who’d keep pushing, as if being female meant she couldn’t manage to carry anything heavier than a feather fan. She made her way to the front door, paused a moment to admire the frosted patterned glass that must have surely been original to the building and let herself out, locking the door behind her.
By the time she reached her car, Nick Whiting was waiting there for her. She glared at him. “I thought we’d already established that I can manage my own bags.”
“You can, but you don’t have to.” He leaned against the car, blocking her entry, seeming immovable.
Allison wasn’t going to stand here all night arguing. She shoved past him unceremoniously, pulled out her suitcase and laptop bag, and clung to the handle when he attempted to take the suitcase from her.
“I can manage,” she repeated.
He raised one eyebrow, a trick she found annoying. “Come on, give me a break. It would reflect badly on my parents if I didn’t help you.”
“No one will know,” she snapped.
The grin transformed his face. “You’re not used to small towns, are you? Somebody always knows.” Before she could react, he seized the bag from her hand and strode off toward the bed-and-breakfast.
Allison had to hurry to keep up with his long, lithe stride, and she scolded herself for noticing how he walked or anything else about him. Hadn’t she just learned a painful lesson about the chasm between looks and character in a man?
When they reached the door, Whiting put the bag down and pressed the doorbell before she could reach it.
Allison fixed a smile on her face. “Thank you. You’re actually right about one thing. I don’t know anything about small towns, and I don’t intend to find out. I plan to sell Blackburn House as soon as possible.”