The Ivy House

chapter 3

That was strange. Phoebe was sure she had closed the back door to the house behind her, but here it was, open again. Tamping down a wave of panic, since this was charming Queensbay and not the big city after all, Phoebe pushed open the door a little wider. It was probably one of the former tenants, maybe with an extra key, coming back for something they left behind. Hadn’t she seen an old stuffed animal—a teddy bear or maybe a bunny rabbit—in one of the rooms upstairs? Couldn’t leave Floppy behind now, could you?

“Hello,” she called. Her first attempt was weak, so she cleared her throat and called out again, “Hello, is someone there?”

She heard the floorboard creaking and looking up at the ceiling, she could see the floor sag as feet made their way across.

“You don’t look like you’re from the electric company,” she said, keeping close to the door just in case.

Feet, shod in Converse sneakers, and legs, in jeans, emerged down the steps, followed by a large brass belt buckle, a blue windbreaker, and finally, a head.

Phoebe watched as the man crystallized into view. A pair of sunglasses, aviator-style, hung in the v of the t-shirt that poked up through the collar of his jacket. The man loomed, Phoebe thought, as he reached the bottom step and casually supported himself by putting one hand on the wall, the other crooked at his side.

“Lovely place you’ve got here,” he said in a smooth voice that sent shivers shooting through her, despite the sarcasm.

He was taller than Phoebe by several inches, even in her high-heeled boots, which put him at well over six feet, and she could see that his arms were muscular underneath his jacket. He wore a smile though and Phoebe didn’t feel threatened so much as aware, hyperaware of his presence.

He was every inch a male and was assessing her, conducting a slow survey, starting with her face, running down the length of her body, and back up to her face. He stopped there, his gaze lingered, narrowing, and then a slow grin spread over his face.

Phoebe could only guess that he liked what he saw because he rocked forward a bit on his feet and leaned in.

She found herself pinned to the wall by a set of the darkest blue eyes she had ever seen. They were set in a tan face, a face that obviously spent a good deal of time outside. His hair was black, an inky, undiluted black. Dark brows slashed across a wide forehead, which ran down to a straight nose and then tapered to full lips and a charming cleft chin.

“It needs some work,” Phoebe admitted, because it was true and the only thing she could think of saying. Witty responses had never been her thing, especially when faced with a grin like that—cocksure and confident—which had a strange, tingling warmth spreading over her. She’d never had such a physical reaction to the very presence of a man before.

He touched the wall with the palm of his fist, and she could hear the plaster gently falling down behind it.

“Please stop wrecking my house,” she said, feeling her heart pump a little faster.

“That was just a light touch.” He took a step closer and she almost wanted to rear back.

“You need to leave right now,” she said, trying to hold firm. She had felt an instantaneous shock of attraction and knew that she needed to get rid of him.

“Sorry, the door was open. I thought I heard someone crying for help, so I just let myself in. Wanted to make sure you hadn’t fallen through the floor or something like that.” His tone was light, joking.

He laughed then, and the grin came quickly and he looked almost mischievous. “It was probably just the cry of a seagull. Were you down by the beach?” He took a step forward and Phoebe felt the need to step back, but she stopped herself, holding her ground.

She shifted the leather bag she was holding from one hand to the other and almost back again before she stopped herself. What had Savannah said? It is the small gestures that give you away. It was her way of saying never let them see you sweat.

Because this guy was making Phoebe sweat. Not nervously, as in he wasn’t a creep or causing her to wonder why she was alone in an empty house with him, but more along the lines of how she couldn’t stop herself from looking at his beautiful face, or the way, even in the jacket, she could see how his waist tapered in and then how his long, powerful legs were encased in his jeans. She hadn’t been this aware of a guy in a long time and the feeling was totally disconcerting.

He moved closer and she caught the scent of him. Something woodsy and spicy, just a hint of soap, nothing too overpowering. God, she was a twenty-eight-year-old woman, not some teenager, and already she could feel her heart start to flutter.

His eyes glinted down at her and Phoebe wished that she had closed the top button of her blouse, but to do anything now except meet him head on would betray the way he was making her feel.

“Can I help you with something?” She lifted her chin and met his eyes boldly, the way Savannah had told her to. Phoebe had never been much for channeling her inner femme fatale; still, the man had the grace to look a little ashamed that he had been caught staring.

“You just remind me of someone. Not sure who. Do you get that a lot?”

Phoebe smiled, but her back stiffened. It was a question she got so often that it annoyed her. Too bad, because before he had gone for the obvious line, she had felt that spark of interest on her part, her vivid imagination working overtime, wondering just how his wide, sensual lips might feel brushing against hers.

“Not really,” she demurred, while cursing the Ryan genes that showed so plainly in her face.

“Are you sure?” he said, snapping his fingers. “Because I swear, you remind me of someone. Let me see, someone famous. A model?”

Phoebe managed to arch an eyebrow. She had a swimmer’s body, moderately tall, wide shoulders and slim all over, but she’d never been mistaken for a model before.

“Nah, not quite tall enough, though those shoes make your legs go on forever,” the guy said, his eyes twinkling. He was smiling so outrageously that Phoebe almost didn’t mind that she was being blatantly hit upon. Perhaps his recognition of her had been fake, a cheesy come-on. Maybe he had no idea. “A singer?”

“Tone-deaf,” Phoebe countered.

“Too bad—you’d look pretty bad-ass up on stage.” Somehow, the guy had moved closer to her, invading her space and yet, Phoebe didn’t mind at all. He had lines around his eyes, as if he squinted too much in the sun, and his hands, one of which was splayed on the wall, like his clothes, were not those of a man who spent all of his time inside.

He snapped his fingers. “The stage. That’s it. You’re an actress. Theater? TV. A cop show. I can see you arresting the bad guys.”

Phoebe shook her head, feeling the smile that was lighting up her face and the buzz in her body as she decided to play along.

“Medical drama?” He tried again.

“Hate the sight of blood.”

“You’re sure I don’t know you from somewhere?” The guy leaned over her, his eyes looking into hers. Thoughts, none of them coherent, raced around Phoebe’s head and she was aware that it was warm, very warm in the house, where before it had been cool, almost too cool.

“No, I’m nobody,” Phoebe said and managed to take a deep breath, almost willing that to be true.

“I don’t believe that for a second, miss.” He leaned in close to her and his voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “With a face like that, you’re surely someone.”

Phoebe didn’t know what to say to that and she didn’t have to. Her phone beeped and, eager to break the intense connection between herself and this man, she pulled it out of her bag and saw that there was a text from Sandy, the real estate agent.

Have interest from buyer, heavy hitter, wants to see house ASAP

Phoebe cleared the text in frustration. She thought she had been very clear. She wasn’t ready to entertain any offers for Ivy House yet. But some people were rude and didn’t take no for an answer. Phoebe looked up. The guy, this “heavy hitter,” apparently hadn’t gotten the message because he was already looking around the place as if he were measuring how well his flat-screen TV would look above the fireplace in the living room.

Phoebe texted back, “Not interested…send away…”

Fast and furious came the text message back: “Too late, he’s already on his way…”

Phoebe gritted her teeth in frustration. “Fine, I will take care of him.”

She put the phone away just as it started ringing. It was Sandy, but Phoebe decided to ignore her. She wasn’t interested in hearing the woman try to save her own commission.

“Excuse me, sir.” Phoebe found him in the back room, the one she had already imagined would be perfect as the studio study, looking out the full wall of windows.

“Quite a view,” he said with an easy gesture, seemingly unembarrassed at having been caught roaming around the house.

“I’m sorry, I think there’s been a misunderstanding. The house is not for sale,” Phoebe said, drawing herself up to her full height.

The man looked over at her, a lazy smile on his face. “Is that so? It’s a prime piece of property. I’ve had my eye on it for a while. The old owner never would give me the time of day, though, no matter what I offered.”

“Well, guess this isn’t your lucky day either because I have no intention of selling,” Phoebe said. It wasn’t exactly true. Last night, she’d had every intention of glancing the place over, getting a price from the real estate agent, and heading back to the city. But now…she’d already imagined sipping wine on the terrace.

She heard the ping, but before she could reach for her own phone, she saw the man take his out of a pocket. The conversation was brief, but Phoebe was almost certain Sandy, the real estate agent, was on the other end of it.

He hung up, looked at Phoebe, a sharp, appraising look.

“Well, I guess I was mistaken. But you know what they say: the harder you work, the luckier you get.”

Phoebe stiffened. The real estate agent’s meaning had been clear. Waterfront property in Queensbay was a highly sought-after commodity. There would be plenty of people who would be willing to take it off her hands, even in this economy, so there was no reason she needed to be grateful to the guy for being the first.

She drew herself up. “Ivy House is not for sale. I have no intention of being taken advantage of just because I’m not from around here.”

He only smiled again at her huffy tone, unperturbed by it.

“Trust me, I would never try to take advantage of a lady. I will be happy to offer a fair price for a fair bit of property.”

Phoebe looked into his eyes. So he was only interested in the property, not the house. She guessed he couldn’t see the house for what it was—a diamond in the rough. Did he not know? Or was he playing it cool?

He pulled something from his pocket, a white envelope, and held it out to her.

She looked at it, puzzled.

“I know I’m supposed to go through the real estate agent, but sometimes I find it easier to just deal with the other party directly.”

“What is that?” Phoebe said, trying to keep her voice level.

“A very generous and more than fair offer for the property.” He said, still holding it out towards her. She crossed her arms, feeling childish, but refusing to give in even an inch.

“I told you that Ivy House isn’t for sale.”

He cocked his head to one side and put the envelope back in his pocket, a wise move Phoebe thought.

“You keep calling this place Ivy House. I haven’t heard it being called that in years.”

“It’s what my grandmother called it,” Phoebe said. Savannah could only be persuaded to talk about Ivy House and Leland after a glass or two of wine and even then, it was a tricky subject.

His mouth dropped open and a look that Phoebe didn’t understand crossed his face.