It Started with a House..... Helen Myers R.
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 wanted 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.
That gave him an idea and, as he returned to the kitchen, he reached for his BlackBerry and clicked on her number in his address book. For a moment he thought he would only get her voice mail, but then she was on the line saying hesitantly, “I didn’t expect to hear from you again today.”
“Am I pushing my luck?”
After a pause, Genevieve replied softly, “I have no right to say that—I kissed you back.”
Reaching over to her wineglass, Marshall stroked his thumb over the hint of lipstick on the rim. “And left me wanting so much more.”
Clearing her throat, Genevieve said, “Ina just signaled that I have a call holding and my least patient agent is about to barge into my office.”
Taking the hint, Marshall made his point quickly. “I have an request, plea or whatever you want to call it. I’ve just finished going through the house to see all you did, and I’m stuck. I’m an administrator and idea guy. I can renovate a building and suggest an atmosphere that I’m going for, but I don’t know anything about decorating until I see what I like.”
“That sounds like an apology, not an request.”
“Help.”
There was another pause, then her weak, “You’re not playing fair.”
“Darling, I’m not playing at all. If you don’t agree to help me, I’ll have to hire a perfect stranger, and I don’t want a stranger around, I want you. When you aren’t driving me to distraction, you’re a balm to my weary soul.”
“You seem to be overlooking that I have a job.”
“Not at all. This could be lunch dates, dinner dates and getting-to-know-you weekends. No pressure, no rush.”
“I think I already experienced your idea of ‘no pressure.’”
“But as you noted, you kissed me back.” Heartened by the wry tone in her voice, he entreated, “I improve over wine and with time.” To his relief, Genevieve managed a genuine chuckle. Growing serious again, Marshall added, “Genevieve, I’ll unpack and set things out, but you have an eye, I can see that. And you have the added benefit of having seen many of the properties in the area and undoubtedly have seen what works and what doesn’t.” He softened his voice. “I promise to be the gentleman you want me to be until you feel comfortable with taking things to another level.”
She was silent for several more seconds and then said, “I have to take this call. Let me think about it, okay?”
“Fair enough.”
As Marshall disconnected, he wasn’t entirely satisfied. He would have liked her to say that she would call him back later, see him tonight, but at least she hadn’t turned him down outright. He would have to find the patience to wait for her to give him what she could of herself. Just the thought had him feeling restless and depressed again. But remembering what he’d promised her, he went to attack the nearest stack of boxes.
As soon as Genevieve disconnected from the call that had been holding on her office phone, Avery Pageant pushed open her door and with her usual untimid style draped herself over the nearest of the two chairs facing the cluttered desk. Avery’s exotic Eastern scent followed then settled around the brunette like an intoxicating presence signaling anyone without eyes that she wasn’t a woman who expected to be overlooked or taken for granted.
“Since when do you close your office door when you aren’t with clients?” she asked, glancing at Genevieve over her red reading glasses.
Genevieve didn’t stop shuffling through the yellow phone messages their receptionist-secretary Ina Bargas had handed her when she’d entered the building, but she knew it was useless to ignore the question entirely. If anyone was more persistent than her mother, it was this woman, whom fellow agent Raenne Hartley teasingly dubbed “Dragon Lady.” “I needed a few minutes before this interrogation commenced. But now that you’re here, how are you?”
“Taking some exception to the term interrogation. I think we should open a bottle of wine at your place or mine after work—yours, mine hasn’t been dusted or vacuumed in ten days—and get in some serious girl talk.”
Genevieve dropped the phone messages, only to gesture expansively. “Are you not looking at this disaster? I’ll be here making sense of things until at least nine tonight.”
“The price of success. Cooperative soul that I am, I volunteer to go get the wine and help you. We can talk in between phone calls and printouts. It’ll be the working woman’s pajama party.”
“I have a better idea—I’ll buy you a bottle of wine if you’ll go away.”
“I