When the Spirit Is Willing Read online

  She squinted at his face, mentally adjusting the picture of him that had stayed in her mind since the previous day. He must be Carter Kincaid, she supposed. There wasn't much point in him pretending to be if he wasn't.

  "It really was tremendously rude of me to dash into your house the way I did," he went on. "I do hope you'll forgive me."

  She nodded, still feeling disoriented. The package in his left hand was box shaped, she noticed. Too big for a shoe-box.

  Apparently catching her glance, he lifted the parcel. "I brought a small present for your daughter," he said. "Jessica, isn't it? To make up for scaring her last night."

  She had to say something. He must think she was an idiot. Should she invite him in? He had acted pretty strangely the previous night, but she didn't think he was dangerous; the plumbers had told her when she'd questioned them that Carter Kincaid was an okay guy. More important, though he was no bodybuilder, he had good shoulders and what seemed to be a tightly muscled body underneath that elegant suit. Muscle she could put to good use.

  Ulterior motives won out over caution. "Won't you come in?" she asked, feeling like the spider inviting the fly.

  He smiled agreement. That was quite a smile he had. Engagingly crooked. Slightly devilish. Sexy. Charming. Charm was something she'd experienced before…and never wanted to experience again. Maybe Carter Kincaid was dangerous, after all. Inside her brain a door slammed shut.

  As if by magic, Jessica appeared in the foyer. Her small ears could detect the word "present" a block away. "How do you do," she said, just as Laura had taught her.

  "Very well, thank you. I'm Carter Kincaid," the man said, bending to shake her hand as if she were a grown-up. Jess would like that. "I'm also known to a few of my friends as Abraham Lincoln," he added gravely. "They watch out for me on the backs of pennies."

  As she giggled, he handed her the package. With a quick glance at her mother for permission, Jessica opened the gift in her usual efficient and tidy manner, folding the paper and setting it on the hall table before opening the box. Jessica was heavily into recycling.

  "Oh, it's a baby doll," she said, making a laudable effort to sound delighted. "Thank you, Mr. Kincaid."

  "Why don't you take her up to your room and play with her?" Laura suggested to cover the suddenly eloquent silence.

  "Right," Jessica said. After carefully placing the lid back on the box, she walked swiftly up the stairs, the box stuck under her left arm.

  "I guess I goofed," Carter said in a valiant attempt at good cheer. "I'm not used to little girls, I'm afraid. The lady in the toy store assured me that little girls loved a doll better than anything."

  "Jessica will love it once she gets used to it," Laura said.

  Carter raised his expressive brows at her again and she found herself blurting out the truth—which was that Jessica preferred playing with cars and trains and miniature tool kits. "Her father went overboard on role modeling," she explained. Setting the nosegay on the hall table where it reflected in the mirror above it, she stood back to gauge the effect. "Absolute perfection," she murmured. "Thank you, Mr. Kincaid." It was an unusually thoughtful man who would take the trouble to match gift to giftee so imaginatively, she thought. An unusually charming man.

  "Would you like a cup of coffee?" she asked. Anyone who brought gifts was entitled to refreshment, she told the part of herself that was questioning the invitation. Besides, it was a good way to get the man into the kitchen.

  Leading the way, she realized she'd turned the coffee-maker off earlier. "I'll have to nuke the coffee in the microwave," she apologized. "As you can see, we're a little disorganized in here."

  Carter Kincaid glanced at the new pipes sticking out of the eight-foot-wide gap she'd cut in the bottom half of the kitchen wall. "The original pipes were still in place?"

  "Not quite the first set, but they were old enough not to be rustproof." She produced a smile that felt completely phony, probably because she was about to lead up to her ulterior motive. "I'm a great one for authenticity, but when it comes to practical matters like plumbing and wiring, I'm all for upgrading."

  "Very sensible of you."

  "I won't be plastering that wall, either," she went on, following through as smoothly as Jack Nicklaus on the fairway. "Plastering's a pain. And the end result's the same with drywall, especially since I'll be hanging wallpaper over it." As though struck by a sudden thought, she looked at him guilelessly. "I wonder—as long as you're here—would you mind doing me a favor?"

  "My pleasure," he said. What else could he say?

  Banishing all feelings of guilt—when muscle was available, a woman had to reach out and grab it—she smiled at him again. "I need to bring in a sheet of drywall from the garage."

  "Happy to help," he said, without noticeable enthusiasm.

  For which she could hardly blame him. But at least he was taking off his suit jacket and rolling up his sleeves. That seemed to indicate willingness, didn't it? There was a small raspberry-colored stain on his shirtfront. He caught her looking at it.

  "Punch," he explained. "I attended a garden party this afternoon." The boyish smile flashed again. "I loathe punch, don't you? Trying to sieve fruit through my teeth always leads to disaster."

  I don't spend a whole lot of time at garden parties, Laura thought of saying, but managed not to. She felt nervous, she realized. It had been a long time since she'd been alone in a room with a gorgeous man. In his shirt sleeves, the hint of muscle became more of an out-and-out statement. She was pretty sure Abraham Lincoln's shoulders had never looked this good. "Follow me," she said, noting with embarrassment that her voice had become slightly hoarse.

  She managed to grab her end of the wallboard fairly efficiently—he hoisted his as if it were made of balsa. He even volunteered to be the one to walk backward as they maneuvered the heavy board around doorways and along the halls.

  "You can break into my house any day," she said gratefully after they'd heaved their load onto the sawhorses.

  He frowned at her. "I did not break in, Mrs. Daniel. Your front door was open last night. Wide open."

  Narrow-eyed, she looked at him. "So you said." Picking up the coffee jug and an old towel, she dusted off the cardboard that protected the long harvest table and gestured him onto a stool. Then she poured coffee into a mug, put it into the microwave and punched Auto 1.

  Casting a longing glance at the sheet of drywall, she asked, "Do you mind if I work while we talk?"

  He shook his head. "Anything I can do?"

  "Not this time." She put the mug in front of him and picked up her notebook, where she'd written down the figures she needed. With a pencil and straightedge, she started transferring the measurements to the board.

  Carter Kincaid took a sip of coffee, managing not to grimace too obviously. Then, as he looked around at the walls, a frown furrowed his forehead. "What have you done with all that beautiful old wainscoting?"

  "I removed it. For its own protection." He'd sounded accusing and she couldn't help bristling, her stiff tone reflecting her annoyance. "It's also a lot easier to refinish when it's off the wall and I can lay it flat."

  He was looking at her apologetically now, which he did very nicely, she had to admit. He really was extremely charming. There was that word again.

  "I should explain my interest, Laura." He hesitated. "You don't mind if I call you 'Laura'?"

  "Not at all," she said, without allowing her voice to soften by even a half tone.

  "I think I've told you already that I'm the curator of the Kincaid Museum, and a member of the historical society," he said. "Naturally, I have an interest in all the old houses hereabouts. But there's another reason I'm so fascinated by this one. I lived here until I was six years old."

  She glanced up at him, surprised, then went back to drawing in the outlines of the dishwasher outlets and the water pipes.

  "I've retained fond memories of The Willows," he assured her. "I drive by frequently, just to keep an eye on the
old place. I visited once during the last owner's residency. I admire all the changes you've made so far. Those I've seen, that is."

  Was he angling for an invitation to view the rest of the house? Probably. Should she let herself be persuaded? Why not? No one but the workmen she'd hired from time to time had seen what she'd done. At least Carter Kincaid appreciated her work. "I haven't done much upstairs yet," she said, "but the rest of this floor is finished. Would you like to see it?"

  He was on his feet instantly, obviously eager. Or maybe he was just anxious to get away from the warmed-over coffee. He followed her admiringly through all the downstairs rooms. He especially liked the living room. He stood for a long time looking around at the elegant yellow-and-white wallpaper, the freshly whitewashed ceiling medallions, the fireplace's black iron surround, which she had burnished to a coal-bright gloss.

  "Who did you get to refinish all the woodwork?" he asked. "It's a terrific job. It can't have been easy to retain that wonderful old patina."

  "I did it myself."

  He looked astonished. Also impressed. Which was very gratifying. She couldn't resist adding, "I do almost everything myself, except for plumbing and wiring and those few jobs that require brute male strength."

  His eyes glinted.

  "Most of the woodwork's oak," she went on before he could comment. "But the paneling in the den is butternut and all the doors throughout the house are golden cypress. They'd been painted green by the previous owner, if you can imagine that."

  He grimaced. "I don't have to imagine it. I saw the crime after it was committed. I seriously considered hanging the owner by his thumbs, but he was a fairly nice man who loved his wife and kids so I let him off." He gestured widely. "Thank you on behalf of Port Dudley for undoing the damage."

  She was beginning to feel self-conscious. "The woodwork's my favorite part of any restoration," she said lamely.

  He had wandered over to the bookcase and was examining its contents, mostly books on carpentry and plumbing, various styles of Victorian architecture and traditional interiors. "You make a habit of restoring old houses?"

  She had only herself to blame for his curiosity. She'd given away just enough clues to arouse it, she supposed. That was the trouble with taking anyone into one of her lovely rooms—her enthusiasm loosened her tongue.

  She walked over to the bow window and sat on the edge of the window seat. "It's the way I make my living," she explained. "My husband and I started restoring Victorian houses for resale when we got married six years ago. I've kept it up because it's a way to be home with Jessica. When Brady and I met I had just graduated from college and was working in interior design. He was a carpenter with a bent toward fine finishing—an artist in his way. We were both living in San Francisco. So our partnership worked well."

  On houses, anyway.

  "I understand you're… that is…"

  He looked uncomfortable, and Laura helped him out. "My husband died a year and a half ago. A skiing accident."

  "I'm sorry."

  No need to go into any detail about the accident.

  "This house is pretty big for two people," he commented. "When I lived here with my parents we had a couple of live-in maids and a housekeeper, too."

  How nice, Laura thought, then chided herself for being waspish.

  He was running a hand over the red-and-white flowered upholstery of the sofa's back. For a moment, Laura was distracted by the graceful movements of his strong fingers.

  "It looks very homey," he said.

  Why was there such a wistful note in his voice? Laura wondered, and felt a softening going on inside her. She could picture him as a small boy, running through this house, climbing on the window seats, galloping up the stairs, the way Jessica did.

  Their eyes met. And held.

  After a moment, he cleared his throat. "You brought the furnishings with you?"

  She nodded and tried to put a friendlier note in her voice. Just because he was an attractive man was no reason to be rude to him. "Brady and I developed a philosophy regarding our work. Always finish one room at a time. Because we lived in the houses we remodeled we tried to avoid chaos throughout. It's probably slower that way, but it's a lot more comfortable. Following that line of thinking, I gradually gathered together furniture that would go with Victorian houses."

  He was looking at her again. A perpetual smile seemed to hover on his mouth, tempting her to smile in return. What was he finding so amusing when he gazed at her with those dark eyes?

  "It's all very attractive," he said after a short silence.

  Was it her imagination that there was an underlying personal note in the apparently general compliment?

  It was about time to ease him out the door, she decided. "I'm glad you like what I've done here, Mr. Kincaid," she said dismissively.

  "Carter," he said again, showing no signs of leaving. He seemed hesitant all of a sudden, as though searching for the right way to put something. He put one hand behind his head to rub his neck, and the furrow was back in his forehead. "I think maybe we have to talk about Priscilla," he said at last.

  Damn. She'd hoped he'd leave that subject alone. She headed back into the kitchen and picked up her pencil. After a second's hesitation, he followed her and sat down at the table again.

  She drew in the last line, picked up her keyhole saw and started cutting. "I explained to you last night, Mr. Kincaid," she said over the grating noise, "that Priscilla is Jessica's imaginary friend, not a real person. As I told you, my husband died a year and a half ago. Jessica and Brady were very close. Our pediatrician thinks Jess probably adopted Priscilla to help her handle her loss. Ever since we moved in here she's blamed Priscilla for everything—lost tools, messed-up cosmetics, whatever." She rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand, suddenly feeling weary. "I guess when you came in here last night, she was afraid you were blaming me for your near accident, so she shifted the blame onto Priscilla."

  She bent to pick up the cutouts and dropped them in the trash bin, looking at him very earnestly. "I'm going to take Jessica for counseling. There's a child psychologist in Port Angeles who's very highly thought of. Next week—" She broke off and started sawing again.

  It was obvious that the subject of Priscilla was a painful one for her. But he had to find a way to explain to her that he had known Priscilla himself, no matter how odd that seemed.

  He stood and took up a position at the side of the wall-board, directly across from where she was working. "From what you say, it appears Jessica didn't talk about Priscilla until you moved in here."

  "That's true. I guess it was some kind of delayed reaction. Maybe…" She paused in her cutting, her voice trailing off.

  "I'd like to tell you about when I was a little boy," he said slowly, watching her face. She was a hell of a lot more attractive than he'd thought the previous evening. She wasn't short—she was petite. The baggy overalls had concealed a figure that was slender but shapely; the kerchief had covered a wealth of long straight hair that glowed a rich nut brown. All in all, she was a lovely, poised young woman. Her eyes, fringed thickly with lashes that today she had darkened with mascara, were the exact gray of a dove's wing. Beautiful. Though there was a sadness to them that made her seem vulnerable.

  He liked her mouth, too. Neither too small nor too wide, it had an upward curve that suggested a sense of humor, even though none had been apparent so far. It was firm enough in repose to show she also had a fairly strong will. She would need that strength to carry out the tasks she had set herself, he thought admiringly.

  She had picked up the saw again and was glancing at him nervously. "I had this friend when I lived here," he went on hastily, realizing he'd become distracted. "I don't know if she was a neighbor, or a family friend, or what, but it seems to me she was often here. She wore old-fashioned clothing. She was very pretty, I thought. She'd read to me, play games with me—all kinds of games—cards, Snakes and Ladders, hide-and-seek. She could hide better than anyone I'
ve ever known. She loved playing with model race cars, electric trains. I liked her a lot."

  He paused. She was looking at him blankly. Either the significance of all this wasn't becoming clear to her, or else she wasn't really listening.

  "Could I trouble you to help me put the drywall up?" she asked, gesturing at the gap in the kitchen wall.

  He hadn't really intended getting into construction work tonight, but he didn't seem to have much choice. Putting a good face on it, he grasped one end of the wallboard and helped her maneuver it into place. She did good work—the cutouts she'd made slid neatly over the pipes and electrical outlets. He held the board against the studs while she shot screws into it with an electric screwdriver.

  "Thanks a lot," she said, regarding the finished job with obvious satisfaction. "I couldn't think how I was going to manage this by myself. Jessica's not really up to it."

  Her smile showed she was joking. It also lit up her face as though a lamp had been turned on inside her, making her gray eyes luminous. He felt suddenly as if someone had punched him in the stomach and taken his breath away. How had he ever thought she was plain?

  "I hadn't remembered my friend in years," he said as she handed him a rag to wipe his hands. He was determined to finish this story whether she was interested in it or not. "Possibly I wouldn't have thought about her again if she hadn't run in front of my car last night."

  While she'd been bending to check the alignment of the pipes and outlets, he'd been admiring the curve of her rear. Straightening up as if a jolt of electricity had shot through her, she caught him ogling her. That firm mouth of hers tightened noticeably. He was getting very negative vibrations from Laura Daniel. Did she not like men, or was her disapproval just for him?

  "What on earth are you talking about?" she demanded.

  "I'm saying that the woman I knew when I was a child and the woman who ran in here last night are one and the same." He ducked his head so he could look directly into her face. "The woman I knew thirty years ago was named Priscilla."

  He could tell she was trying to absorb what he'd said. She failed utterly.