The Secret Gift (21 page)

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve interrupted your work.”

Graeme turned down the music. “No, it’s fine. I was due for a break. Been at it since we got back this morning.”

Libby glanced at the drawing. “What is this?”

“Well, it’s supposed to be a new government office in London.”

“Oh, so you’re an architect, as well as a castle caretaker?”

Graeme nodded. “I guess I’d hoped a stint in the country would help nurture some creative thought. God knows, this project could use all the help it can get.”

“You don’t sound very fond of it.”

He shrugged. “It is a very
capable
building. It has everything it could need in the way of modern conveniences. Everything, that is, except for a soul.” Graeme frowned. “These aren’t my plans. They are the most recent attempt in a long line of other attempts on this project. Thus far, none of them have managed to garner approval from the project’s main patron, the Prince of Wales.”

“Prince, as in Prince Charles?” Libby blinked at him. “You’re working for Prince Charles?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. My firm has been retained to come up with a design that will satisfy him. I studied his architectural principles closely at university, so it was felt I might be able to resurrect what most have deemed a doomed project.”

That and, given his family connections, it was thought that Graeme would have a better chance of passing muster with the notoriously high architectural standards of the prince. Graeme kept this last little bit to himself.

“That’s quite a responsibility.”

Graeme sighed. “Indeed. The thing is, I agree with the prince’s opinions about the previous designs. None of them were up to the standard. The problem is I just can’t seem to figure out how to break the pattern.”

Libby was looking at photographs of the present site that Graeme had pasted up on the wall, as well as photographs from the early twentieth century and engravings from even earlier than that, when the building had had a much different purpose.

“It used to be a playhouse,” he told her. “In its heyday it saw the likes of Sarah Bernhardt and Lilly Langtry treading its boards.”

“And now it’s to be a government building?”

“Yes, after having stood empty for nearly a decade. It’s got a fine location, but thus far none of the designs have been approved.”

Libby was looking at the designs and the photographs alternately. “I don’t know much of anything about architecture, but it looks like so far, all of the designs have sought to completely change the building’s facade.”

“That was the idea. It was just a matter of which change would best please the prince. Nothing too modern, or industrial. It must keep with the overall ‘flavour’ of London.”

“Have you considered working with the facade instead? There’s such a history there. It would be a shame to have it vanish behind some stark official-looking structure.”

Graeme was peering at the drawing. “You think I should fashion a government facility after a playhouse?”

“Why not? You said the previous designs lacked a soul. The fact that this once was a playhouse is that building’s soul.”

Graeme considered her idea. It wasn’t completely without merit. In fact, he had to admit, the more he thought about it, the more the notion of it truly intrigued him, even stoking a creative flame he’d begun to think was lost.

One of the biggest subjects for debate in the British capital city was that argument of modern architecture versus historical heritage. Throughout the twentieth century, the great noble mansions that had defined the city’s squares two hundred years before had been torn down, demolished in the face of modern-day commercialism. After the damage of the Blitz of World War II, much of the rebuilding done in the city had been a matter of haste and cost-effectiveness against aesthetics. By comparison, after the Great Fire that had destroyed part of London in the seventeenth century, it had taken Christopher Wren thirty-five years to build St. Paul’s Cathedral alone, and it was arguably one of the most distinctive features of the cityscape.

Perfection takes time. It was an idea that had been lost in the modern world’s “do it now, do it fast” mentality. As such, modern architecture has been labeled, not without reason, as “sterile” and “uninspired.”

This project could prove the exception to that rule.

“You mentioned the Internet ...” Libby said, interrupting his thoughts.

“Oh, yes. The computer’s just there.” He waved across the room. “Just click on the browser’s icon and it will connect automatically.”

With Graeme obviously lost in his work, Libby took a seat behind the computer. Clicking the icon, she waited while the modem connected, watching Graeme out of the corner of her eye as she did. He was studying the drawings and photographs, and his expression was focused. Apparently her idea had struck a chord in him. In fact, he was so engrossed, she’d almost bet she could be standing there naked and he wouldn’t notice.

Almost.

Once the computer had made the connection, she easily accessed her e-mail account. There were several messages from Rosalia, a couple more from other friends and acquaintances checking in or sending those interminable jokes that circulate continually throughout the World Wide Web. There were customers checking with titles they were looking for. There was also a message from Mr. Belvedere. Libby clicked on his message first.

Miss Hutchinson
... (he never called her anything but)
I have considered your situation. I would truly hate to lose your knowledge and experience, but I can’t afford to keep you on salary if you’re not seeing to your duties in the shop. I must admit that your idea of continuing your scouting duties in the U.K. does have its merits. And I want to give you every opportunity to settle your family affairs as needed. So, I will appoint Miss Mancuso
(in other words, Rosalia)
as your standin here. You’ll work on commission. I’ll give you forty percent on the profit of anything you bring in. You will need to communicate with Miss Mancuso regarding matters you were involved in here so that she will be able to take care of anything that distance will prevent you from seeing to yourself. I hope this arrangement will prove acceptable. In the meantime, you will still have your expense account to cover the costs of purchasing and shipping. I have received correspondence from three booksellers in London whom you contacted, as well as a gentleman from an establishment called Leakey’s in Inverness. You’ve obviously been keeping the shop’s interests in mind. When you return to the city, we will discuss matters from that point on. And on a more personal note, if you should come across any rare editions of my own personal favorites,
i.e.
Tolkien, Clarke, Wells, I would be most grateful for your trained eye and expertise.

Libby smiled. Mr. Belvedere was a closet sci-fi-fantasy fanatic.

Forty percent was more than generous. In fact, given the paltriness of her salary when compared to the cost of living in New York, she’d just about been given a raise.

She closed the e-mail and typed a quick message back to him, confirming her agreement with his arrangement and thanking him for his consideration of her situation. She gave him a listing of the books she’d bought at the estate sale, indicating those that were already spoken for by her customers, and then offered any of the others. She P.S.’d that she’d be sure to snatch up any of the aforementioned personal favorites for him first chance she got.

She clicked on Rosalia’s messages next, which read just as the girl spoke, chatty, nonstop, with very little punctuation for breathing space. In them, she demanded to know everything about Scotland (mostly did the men really wear nothing under their kilts and were they all as good-looking as Mel Gibson in
Braveheart
). Libby e-mailed her back, expressing her excitement at their new working relationship. Then, with a glance at Graeme across the room, she added a P.S. assuring Rosalia that a good many Scotsmen were every bit as handsome as Mel Gibson in
Braveheart,
although she hadn’t yet personally discovered whether they really wore nothing under their kilts. “But,” she added finally, “I have every hope to have an answer for you very soon. LOL!”

As she sat there, stealing glances at him over the computer monitor, Libby allowed herself the momentary pleasure of envisioning Graeme in a kilt, shirt open at the neck, hair ruffled from the wind. Somehow she knew he would look very, very good. For that matter, he would have looked good in the Widow MacNamara’s Sunday kirtle.

She hadn’t realized she hadn’t yet clicked the
SEND
button when she suddenly noticed Graeme standing right behind her chair.

“Goodness!” She clicked the mouse button to close the message window and turned around.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you jump. I noticed you sitting with that rather intriguing smile on your face. I found myself curious as to what you were thinking about.”

“Oh, just my work,” she lied, and turned away from the computer.

He nodded. “I’ve some cold roast chicken in the refrigerator. Interested in a quick supper?”

“Sure.”

They were just leaving the room when the phone suddenly started ringing.

Graeme went for it, and as he picked up the receiver, Libby motioned with her hands that she would meet him in the kitchen.

He nodded, took the call.

“Graeme Mackenzie.”

“Darling!”

Graeme smiled. “How are you today, Mother?”

“Very well, dear. Had an invigorating day in the Lords.”

“Take any prisoners?”

“That horrible Lord Faversham tried to sway the vote on my pesticides initiative.”

“Tried, but I gather from your auspicious mood, he has failed?”

“Of course he did, darling boy. And I might say miserably at that. I rather doubt he has much in the way of an arse left to sit on. Not that there was much there to begin with.”

Graeme chuckled. How he loved his mother’s candid sense of humor. As he listened to her detailing the ins and outs of her political day, his gaze strayed to the computer monitor. He reached for the mouse and started clicking on various menus to shut the computer down. A beep issued from the hard drive, followed by the appearance of a small message box on the screen.

There are messages waiting to be sent. Send, then quit?

Graeme hovered the mouse pointer over the yes button, hesitating. As his mother’s voice chattered on in his ear, he moved the pointer quickly to the e-mail outbox, remembering Libby’s jumpiness when he’d come upon her earlier.

Though he’d begun to let down his guard with her, he still couldn’t quite put to rest the last niggling doubt that she absolutely wasn’t one of
them.
He wanted to believe that she wasn’t, wanted it more than he’d wanted anything in a long time. But there was always the pessimistic suspicion itching at the back of his consciousness, plaguing his most personal thoughts.

She’d been quite anxious to get to her e-mail. Could she have been sending a message to the editor of
The Buzz,
perhaps? Or some other scrounging paparazzi, revealing Graeme’s whereabouts?

There was only one way he could be reasonably sure. It wouldn’t be the most gentlemanly thing to do, but perhaps just a quick peek at her e-mail could offer him the last proof he needed to put any suspicions firmly to rest.

He clicked on the message, read it quickly.

She’d been telling the truth. She had been writing about her work, after all.

His gaze paused on the P.S. of the message she’d sent to someone called Rosalia. He felt the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

So she wondered what a Scotsman wore underneath the kilt ... The image that came to mind warmed his blood a good two degrees.

“Graeme? Are you there, dear?”

He clicked the button to send the message on its way.

“What? Oh, yes, Mother. Sorry. Was reading an e-mail.”

“How are things going with the project? Any inroads on how to keep Prince Charles happy?”

“I’ve a notion of it. Need to work out some details.”

“Splendid! Even though I miss your face, perhaps this holing yourself up in the Highlands was a good thing after all. Even that wretched tabloid has shown evidence of moving on to greener pastures. I haven’t seen your name mentioned in two whole days.”

“Dare I hope?” He glanced at the office door. “Well, Mother, I’m rather in the middle of something right now, so I hate to ...”

“No need to apologize, dear. I understand. I’ve a follow-up to prepare for Lord Faversham’s faction. Do let me know when you’ll be coming down to London so we can meet with His Grace to discuss things after you finish this project. Ta, darling!”

Half listening, Graeme hung up the receiver and headed for the kitchen.

But when he got there, Libby wasn’t there.

“Libby?”

“In the study ...” Her voice called from down the hall.

Graeme hesitated when he reached the doorway. She’d laid out a blanket before the fire with two plates of chicken, some sliced fruit, and a bottle of wine she’d snagged from his wine rack. Candles were lit around the room, and the sun was just setting through the windows. She was humming, kneeling to arrange things on the blanket, and affording him a rather lovely view of her backside.

She looked up when she noticed him standing there.

His pulse jumped. His stomach clenched.

“I thought a carpet picnic might be nice.”

He swallowed hard, trying to tame his wild thoughts of stretching her out beneath him on that carpet. He came into the room and was greeted by the warmth of the fire, the warmth, too, of her eyes sparkling in the firelight. He lowered onto the floor beside her, and poured them each a glass of wine. The P.S. from her e-mail kept repeating itself through his thoughts. There was wine. There was firelight. For too long he’d denied himself the pleasure of the company of a beautiful woman.

Why the hell should he deny himself it any longer?

“Would you like—”

She never finished her question. Graeme reached for her, took her by the shoulders and pulled her against him as he captured his mouth with hers. He heard her suck in her breath in surprise, but a moment later she was kissing him back, splaying her fingers against his chest as he deepened the kiss, tasting her, knowing the soft caress of her tongue.