Home for Love

• CHAPTER ONE
  
• CHAPTER TWO
  
• CHAPTER THREE
  
• CHAPTER FOUR
  
• CHAPTER FIVE
  
• CHAPTER SIX
  
• CHAPTER SEVEN
  
• CHAPTER EIGHT
  
• CHAPTER NINE
  
• CHAPTER TEN
  
• CHAPTER ELEVEN
  
• CHAPTER TWELVE
  

"Orange, Ms Melrose. You're painting my library orange!"


Kate glared at Steven across the table, her hazel-gold eyes sparking against the flint gray of his. "That shade happens to be peaches and cream," she informed him stiffly.


"Oh, Lord. Where did you buy something like that?" He grimaced, reaching for the pizza carton.


"I mixed it myself."


Steven's hand froze in the air, the slice of pizza midway to his mouth. His gaze seemed to soften. "Look, Kate—it's fine. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."


"Don't be ridiculous. I'm a professional." She bit viciously down on her pizza. "I'll paint it over tomorrow. I know just the color—institutional white."


He sighed. "I
knew
your feelings were hurt. Just leave it peaches and milk or whatever."


Kate swallowed hard. "Mr. Reid—feelings have— "


"It's Steven." He leaned forward and placed his hand, warm and gentle, on hers.


"Feelings," she tried again, "have nothing to do with this!" But even as she spoke her heart was pulsing in her throat at his nearness.


"I think they do," he remarked quietly. "Quite a lot, in fact…"

Ellen James wanted a writing career ever since she won a national short story competition in high school.
Home for Love
is her first novel, and readers will enjoy its warmth and wit. Ellen lives with her husband in New Mexico, where they met—and where she plans to set her next Romance.

ISBN 0-373-03052-5

Harlequin Romance first edition May 1990

Copyright © 1990 by Ellen Jacob Cain.

There was something special about the house. Kate's heels clicked over the scarred wooden floors; her fingers probed gently along mildewed wallpaper. She clambered up to the dusty attic, then went down to rummage in the dank basement. After she had poked about to her heart's content, she returned to the library and settled back in a window seat. San Francisco Bay shimmered far below her, tiers of rooftops sloping down to the water's edge. Kate savored the view, then turned to her briefcase. She snapped it open and took out her notepad.

The house was not stunning or imposing. It had no pretensions to grandeur, unlike so many of the places Kate decorated. And that was exactly why she felt drawn to it. This house had been built in another era— built solidly, to last. Anchored firmly to the top of the hill, it seemed more concerned with sheltering and guarding its inhabitants than with any outward display of beauty.

Kate gazed dreamily around the room, pen poised motionless over her notepad. Homely and homey all at once… but she knew she could bring out the hidden grace here, show the house that it could be beautiful. Just look at that wainscoting, and the sweep of the stairway in the hall.

Kate frowned, pushing a mahogany-red curl back from her forehead. She didn't like the impersonal way this job had been offered to her. The house belonged to a lawyer, Steven Reid, but his secretary had been the one to call and make all the arrangements. After several visits to the house Kate still found it difficult to believe that anyone even lived here. The furnishings were sparse and looked suspiciously like rental furniture. This house was definitely not a home.

"But you will be," Kate murmured. "I promise." She settled back more comfortably on the worn cushion and traced her finger along a crack in the window. As a child her one prized possession had been a doll-house, haphazardly nailed together out of scraps of lumber but truly magnificent to her young eyes. She'd spent hours arranging and rearranging the miniature furniture, dreaming of the day she'd have a real home to love—a place far more inviting than her family's cramped, dreary little house.

Kate shook her head ruefully, pulling herself away from the memories. She was no longer a wistful child but an adult with her own interior-decorating business. And she was very proud of that business, no matter how much she sometimes had to struggle to keep herself financially afloat. She hadn't thought in a long while about owning a home of her own. This house had started the longing again, reminding her of that wonderful, shabby dollhouse she'd cherished so long ago.

But Kate didn't have time to daydream now. She began jotting down page after page of notes, all her creativity brought to life as she planned new possibilities for the house. Every time she came here she discovered something more to be done—that alcove in the hall would need its own small rug, the sink in the laundry room was badly cracked and had to be replaced. Kate wrote faster as her vision for the house deepened in color and vividness; her fingers grew cramped from their intense, eager pressure on the pen.

The knocker pounded against the front door, interrupting Kate's train of thought. She glanced at her watch, nodding in approval. The contractors she'd hired to do repairs were showing up right on schedule. She slid away from the window seat, stretching exuberantly. She'd never been quite this excited about a decorating job. Humming under her breath, she went to let the workmen inside.

Soon the house echoed with all sorts of intriguing sounds—nails screeching out of old boards, toolboxes clattering cheerfully. The house seemed to welcome all the noise and confusion, creaking comfortably at its joints. Kate was very busy the rest of the afternoon. She consulted with the carpenters and the electrician, stacked all her carpet samples in the hall and took down the musty draperies in the dining room. She badly needed her assistant, Paula, who was busy finishing the details of another decorating job.

Kate hurried through the downstairs hallway, stopping as she ran into a tangle of wires that spewed from the ceiling. She skirted a stepladder and held up a swatch of wallpaper in the light from the landing window. Peach roses or sprigs of violets? She'd better get some other samples over here before she made a decision. This narrow little hall would have to convey the welcoming nature of the house.

"What the devil is going on?" came a deep masculine voice behind Kate, somehow making itself heard above all the hammering and shouting. She swiveled and found herself looking up into angry, slate-gray eyes.

Their gaze was intense and strangely compelling. Kate fingered her wallpaper samples, unable to look away.

"Mr. Reid?" she managed. "I'm Kate Melrose—"

"Would you mind telling me what a wrecking crew is doing in my house?"

Kate gave him the smile she always kept on reserve for difficult clients. "Perhaps we can talk where it's quieter," she said, leading the way into the library. She closed the folding wooden doors. "There, that's better."

Steven Reid threw his jacket onto the lumpy sofa and loosened his tie.

"I just wanted a little paint slapped up around the place. I never said anything about demolition crews."

"I've taken on only minor repairs, Mr. Reid. Very necessary ones that shouldn't be covered up by a 'little paint.'" She allowed the slightest sarcasm to creep into her voice.

"I think I can decide what's necessary for my own house." He raked a hand through dark hair that was already thoroughly rumpled. "Look, I just got off a flight from New York. I've been staring at legal briefs for days, and all I want is a cold beer and a little peace and quiet. Do you think you could do something about that?"

Kate frowned at his autocratic tone, but held back her first biting response.

"Your fridge isn't working too well, so forget the beer. I'm having the wiring checked, though." She gave him an encouraging look, only to have him glare bale-fully back at her. He seemed a bit sinister, with that shadow of beard emphasizing a strongly molded jaw.

"You're an interior decorator, aren't you?" he rapped out. "I thought that's what Mrs. Adler said."

"Yes, of course."

"So you're not an electrician, and you shouldn't be fiddling with my wiring!"

"I've called in a very qualified man to do the job. I can personally vouch for him—"

"There's nothing in our contract about electricians," he said ominously. "And nothing about people tearing down my walls. May I remind you, Ms Melrose, that our agreement is a binding legal document?"

Kate folded her arms.

"I don't like the way that agreement was handled at all," she declared. "I had to sign it without even meeting you to discuss the house. Good interior design can be accomplished only after several consultations and—"

"Ms Melrose, don't lecture me. Just do something about all that racket!" he ordered. Kate clenched her teeth. There was no way she could muster up her difficult-client smile again, but she did manage a stiff nod before retreating through the folding doors. Once on the other side she allowed herself a full grimace. Why did this well-meaning house have to belong to such a cantankerous man? It simply wasn't fair.

"The client is always right," she muttered with absolutely no conviction, as she made the rounds to call off her forces.