Unknown (6 page)

To Sara’s delight, Brad’s home had a double-tiered piazza running the fully long length of the house. And as she parked behind him in the driveway, the sight of an elegant aged magnolia greeted her. Suddenly a sense of arriving at a place where she belonged swept over her.

‘It’s just the charm of this old residence which has greeted so many newcomers before,’ she reasoned in an attempt to shake off the peculiar sensation, adding, ‘and I’ve always loved piazzas and magnolias.’ Still the impression lingered.

Walking through the back door behind Brad, she found herself in a large, spacious kitchen. An open door on her left revealed a bedroom, and it was in there that he placed her suitcases. The room was furnished in antique maple with handmade patchwork curtains and a matching quilted bedspread. The walls were white while the carpeting and woodwork were a pale yellow. If she had decorated it herself it couldn’t have suited her better. ‘I admire your decorator’s taste,’ she said, unable to hide her enthusiasm.

‘It does suit you,’ he murmured, regarding her curiously, then added stiffly, ‘I chose the furnishings myself.’

‘Then it’s your taste I admire,’ she rephrased her compliment, her ,manner taking on a stilted formality under his scrutiny.

Entering the kitchen loaded down with art supplies, Steve interrupted the sudden heavy silence that had fallen between them. ‘Where do these go?’ he asked.

‘Third floor, first door on your right,’ Brad instructed, swinging abruptly around and going back out to his car for another load.

Unable to resist seeing the skylighted room as soon as possible, Sara also hurried out to her car and gathered up an armload of paintings.

‘What this place needs is an elevator,’ Steve complained when she caught up with him on the third floor landing.

Sara, however, did not respond as she passed him and walked into the promised studio. It was perfect. The skylight was large and centred, flooding the room with sunlight. The walls were white and the floor was a polished hardwood with an oval, braided area rug covering most of the surface. A couch and a small table were the only other furnishings, giving her plenty of room for her equipment and products.

Brad entered carrying her folded aluminium table which she used for her messier supplies.

‘You ever consider putting in an elevator?’ Steve demanded as the men unfolded the long table and set it up against one of the walls.

‘After today I might,’ Brad returned with a grimace, and the two men exchanged a comradely laugh.

Sara realised that this was the first time she had actually heard Brad Garwood laugh. In fact, it was the first time this morning that he had even smiled. In spite of the banter the two men had continually exchanged regarding the amount of art materials one woman could acquire, Brad had retained an air of indifferent reserve, especially in Sara’s company. Considering the position in which she was placing herself this should have been
reassuring, but instead his manner left her feeling disgruntled.

As the men started downstairs, she followed more slowly. It wasn’t just the man’s attitude which was distressing her. It was the house itself. Although she had never been here before, it felt comfortable, as if she had entered the home of a very dear friend. Being tense and overwrought she had expected to feel uneasy in the unfamiliar surroundings, but paradoxically, it was the lack of uneasiness which was making her apprehensive.

A couple of trips later, she was arranging the materials already brought up to her studio when Steve came in with an armload of items, followed by Brad with two sculptures.

‘That’s it,’ her brother announced with an exaggerated sigh, then added as he paused to look around, ‘I wonder if an artist lived here before. This room looks as if it was built for one.’

‘I had the skylight put in,’ said Brad, an indefinable edge to his voice. ‘There’s one in my workroom, too.’

‘Why fix up two rooms with skylights?’ Steve questioned.

‘I was considering knocking out the adjoining wall to increase the size of my working space, but I just never got around to doing it,’ Brad explained, dusting his hands off on his jeans, then hooking his thumbs in the pockets as he too surveyed the room.

Nodding to say that he understood how easy it was to put off large projects, Steve glanced at his watch. ‘Speaking of work, I think it’s time I got back to the office.’ The glance he threw towards Brad suggested that he thought his boss should be leaving too.

‘I’ll be in a little later,’ said Brad. ‘I still have some work to finish up here.’

‘Right, boss,’ Steve replied with only a hint of a frown. Pausing by the door he added, ‘I’m going to go ahead and assign two more men to The Pines’ site.’

‘Fine,’ Brad agreed, a note of dismissal in his voice.

Because Steve was in charge of the security for all Brad’s properties and projects, Sara knew that as private ventures the man had already built one large shopping mall plus an office complex. She also knew that The Pines, a townhouse community outside Charleston, was his newest independent project. The residences were all brick-fronted, styled to remind one of the Colonial period. There was a park with a lake in the northern corner and a large fenced playground in the centre, along with a small shopping area. It was well designed and the homes were being sold even before they were completed. Those that had been finished were already occupied. ‘Are you having trouble at The Pines?’ she asked, feeling suddenly very alone with the man now that Steve was gone.

‘One of our caterpillars ended up in the lake last night. More than likely it was just a couple of kids out for a joyride. They probably scared themselves so badly they won’t try anything else, but Steve thought it wouldn’t hurt to add a little extra security for a couple of days.’

‘He’s a very cautious man,’ Sara commented, her muscles beginning to tense as Brad continued to stand in the doorway watching her.

‘I know. That’s why I hired him. Sometimes, however ...’ he allowed the sentence to fade without completion as his features darkened momentarily, then regained their shuttered expression.

Feeling a desperate need to escape the man’s scrutiny, Sara stood up and smoothed out her jeans. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m starved. Since I’m now the cook and it’s lunchtime, I’ll go downstairs and see what I can find to whip up.’

‘Make it sandwiches,’ he directed. ‘I have plenty of cold cuts and very little else.’

‘All right,’ she threw over her shoulder as she started down the stairs, only to discover he was following her.

‘I’ve set up a household account,’ he explained as she extracted the necessary ingredients from the refrigerator and set up the coffee pot. ‘If you’ll sign this card, I’ll drop it off at the bank and you can start writing cheques today.’

Pausing momentarily, she did as requested. As she accepted the chequebook he handed her, their fingers touched, and she jerked away from the disturbingly fiery sensation. There was an intimacy about being alone in this house with this man she could not deny, and it caused her to have serious second thoughts about her present situation.

His mouth hardened into a tight line as he hooked his hands into his pants pockets and continued to watch her.

‘What kind of sandwich would you like?’ she asked, clearing her throat self-consciously under his steady gaze.

‘Ham and Swiss,’ he returned curtly.

She considered apologising for her abrupt behaviour but what could she say that wouldn’t be equally embarrassing. Choosing to pretend that nothing had happened, she continued preparing lunch. His eyes never shifted from her, and by the time she poured his coffee her nerves were near to breaking point. Picking up the plate with the sandwich, she carried it along with the coffee into the dining room and set them down on the table. For a moment Brad looked as if he was going to protest his ostracism from the kitchen table, then with an indulgently raised eyebrow he sat down.

‘Do you want milk or sugar or both for your coffee?’ she offered, her tone a stiff imitation of a stage-play maid.

‘Neither,’ he replied, matching her formal manner.

With a nod, she left. Back in the kitchen she made herself a sandwich, but when she tried to eat it, the thing tasted like cardboard. She did not understand what was happening to her, and this frightened her. Never had she been so suddenly or so keenly aware of a man. With Steve’s departure, the reality of what she had got herself into was becoming more and more acute. The three-storey house was beginning to feel about as big as a doll’s house. Angrily shoving the plate away, Sara chided herself for overreacting.

Brad Garwood’s cool reserve should have convinced her that he had no designs on her. Then the thought that his attitude during the morning could have been an act for Steve’s benefit suddenly popped into her mind. But Steve had been gone quite a while and Brad had continued to keep his distance. Who did she think she was anyway... a femme fatale? she grimaced into her coffee cup. The man had Monica Fallon to occupy him. Obviously he had momentarily considered a conquest on the side but was not willing to put any energy into it once he had been rejected. When this thought did not cheer her up, she frowned introspectively and began cleaning up the kitchen with the hope that physical labour would ease the confused tension building within her.

Hearing him go upstairs, she collected the plates from the dining room and completed straightening up the luncheon dishes, after which she considered spending the next hour in her bedroom unpacking to ensure that she missed him when he left the house. Then realising that she needed to ask him what he wanted for dinner and when he wanted to eat, she scolded herself again. After all, she was his housekeeper. There was no way she could perform her duties and totally avoid the man. ‘If this was happening to anyone else, I’d say they had to be an idiot to have got themselves into this situation,’ she muttered as she opened each cabinet and drawer in the kitchen, making a mental list of what was present before moving on to the refrigerator. ‘And I'd probably laugh. Up until a week ago I considered myself a sane, rational person who only did minor dumb things. Now look at me!’

‘I understand that talking to inanimate objects is not a serious condition until the objects start responding,’ Brad’s voice cut the air behind her.

Startled, Sara whirled around, a deep blush darkening her face. ‘Have you been in here long?’ she demanded.

‘Only a moment. I'm not in the habit of eavesdropping, even on one-person discussions,’ he replied coolly, continuing towards the door.

He had changed into a suit and she knew he was on his way to the office. Clearing her throat, she said, T need to know when you’ll be wanting dinner.’

‘Seven,’ came his sharp businesslike response.

‘And do you have any preferences?’ she questioned. Stopping with his hand on the door, he turned to face her. ‘I’m sure whatever you prepare will be fine.’

‘But...’ she began to protest.

‘You fix whatever you wish. I’ll tell you when you have prepared something I dislike. Then we simply won’t have that meal again,’ he instructed, adding over his shoulder as he continued out the door, ‘I assure you, however, that I’m a very easy man to please.’

Sara stiffened defensively as she watched the door swing closed. Then recalling his cool attitude towards her all morning, she chided herself for reading innuendoes into his words that weren’t there.

After a trip to the grocery, she spent some time roaming around the house organising her work in such a way as to give herself the maximum amount of time to pursue her art. The arrangement of the house was simple. On the first floor was the kitchen, her bedroom with its private bath, an entrance hall and the dining room. On the second floor, as was traditional in these old homes, was the living room, or sitting room as it would have been referred to in times past. Then there was a combination library-billiard room and a guest bedroom plus a bath.

The third floor contained the master bedroom with its adjoining bath, her studio and Brad’s workroom. Wandering into his bedroom, all done in greys, blues and whites, she again found herself questioning her judgment in taking this job. The man’s presence was strong, creating an acute awareness within her of her own femininity.

Attempting to rid herself of the disturbing yet at the same time exciting sensation, Sara returned to the kitchen and started dinner, after which she reclimbed the stairs to her studio. Collapsing on the couch with her sketch pad, she paused to rub her sore leg muscles which were beginning to feel the strain of going up and down three flights of stairs on an almost continuous basis. Then attempting to ease the pain by reminding herself that this was great exercise for the heart, she opened her pad and began working. The idea she had been considering for her next painting, however, refused to materialise. In place of the tree-lined landscape she had meant to portray, a man’s profile began to take form. Tearing off the first sheet, she threw it away and determinedly drew a tree, then right next to it again discovered herself redrawing the profile.

‘It’s no use,’ she admitted to the empty room five sheets of paper later. ‘I’m going to have to do his face.’ Assuring herself that nothing more than an artistic urge was involved in this decision, she decided to use clay as her medium.

With the pot roast cooking slowly, she determined that she had plenty of time to run out and pick up the necessary materials. When she had an urge as strong as this, she knew it would only prolong the agony to put it off.

Carrying one of the heavy boxes of clay into the kitchen a little less than an hour later, she found Brad pouring himself a cup of coffee.

‘I’ll have your dinner on the table at seven as you requested,’ she promised, nearly dropping the box of clay as she deposited it on the floor and hurriedly washing her hands before checking the roast in the oven. ‘I had to run out to the art supply store for some material.’

‘You’ve got to be kidding.’ He shook his head in disbelief, leaning against the counter and watching her. ‘After all that stuff we carried up this morning?’