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He’d never hit such a slump in his writing career. It was driving him crazy. He felt a compulsion to write a different kind of book, but the effort was going nowhere and frustrating the hell out of him.
He turned his attention back to Joyce, who was droning away about some party she’d attended. Some party where he should have been, to meet people.
He cut her off. “How long will I be gone?” He really needed to fire her, then he wouldn’t have to do tours and book signings.
He probably would have let her go by now if they hadn’t had a history. The affair was over, but he felt guilty about firing her. He didn’t want her to think that because he was no longer having sex with her he had no further need of her.
“Ian?”
Obviously, he hadn’t been paying attention. “What?”
“I did schedule in a stop at the farm.” He could hear the disdain in her voice. Joyce thought the farm was a bad idea and had been very vocal about it.
That almost made the trip sound good. He rubbed at the tension headache building up between his eyes.
“Okay. I’ll be ready at seven.”
He hung up and stared out his penthouse window at the streets. The trees had all lost their leaves, and he could see people, hundreds of them, bundled against the cold, walking their dogs, their children and each other.
Ian had no use for other people. He’d discovered early on that a fair number of his fellow city dwellers bordered on crazy.
A month ago he’d been followed home from a lunch with his editor by two middle-aged women who had barged into his building behind him, sidestepped the doorman and insisted they wanted to see his apartment.
Just last week he’d found a young woman sitting on the hood of his car in the secured underground parking garage in his building, holding a copy of his latest book. Wearing a very short skirt and top that showed her navel, complete with a diamond stud, she’d made it very clear she was interested in more than an autograph.
Ian cursed the day Joyce had talked him into letting his publisher put his picture on the dust jacket of his book. They’d just started their affair and she’d been very persuasive. Now he supposed removing the picture from future covers would be like closing the barn door after the horse had escaped, but he craved anonymity.
He wanted so badly to be out of the city where he’d grown up. Aside from insane fans, he was tired of the social whirl and the constant interruptions. He wanted to be alone, at the farm he’d just bought. He was sure that in the solitude of the Pennsylvania country-side he would rediscover his creativity.
He’d spent a total of an hour there, inspecting the property. It had felt so right to him, he’d bought it on the spot. He loved everything about it. The quiet, the isolation, the fact that aside from an old stone farmhouse where the caretakers lived, you couldn’t even see another house.
The main house, a restored plank house, was plenty big, with its warm, inviting and comfortable interior.
The whole place was obviously well cared for. He hadn’t met the people who worked there, but if they stayed out of Ian’s way and did their jobs, Ian didn’t care if he ever met them.
He’d always needed complete quiet and solitude to write. Philadelphia was becoming impossible. Not only did fans hound him, but his parents demanded he be a part of their busy society circle, as if he were some kind of trophy they’d acquired.
He’d considered moving to New York to be closer to his publisher and editor, but that was as bad as Philadelphia. He was tired of being pressured to show up at the important parties, invited because of his fame. No one wanted to know him, they just wanted to be seen with him.
The more he declined what Joyce described as the “significant invitations,” the more popular he became.
The business end of his life was no better. He’d hired an army of people to take care of things. Joyce, his agent, a property manager, an accountant, and they just seemed to complicate his life instead of freeing him up.
He wanted to be able to write in peace and quiet, live an uncomplicated life with no interruptions. He wanted what Thoreau had sought, his own Walden Pond.
No entanglements.
Maybe then he could get his old spark back and write a decent book to give to his publisher. He had a deadline looming, and nothing he was willing to show anyone, especially his editor.
He closed the program on his laptop and went to pack, his spirits lifting at the thought he would at least get to stop at the farm.
When he returned home he’d have the rest of the things he wanted to take with him packed and shipped. If the place turned out to be as conducive to work as he hoped, he’d think about putting his apartment up for sale.
Chapter Two
Trish was working in the barn when she heard the car coming up the driveway that led only to the farm.
It couldn’t be him, not yet, she thought frantically, looking down at her filthy clothes.
He wasn’t scheduled to arrive for three hours. Thank goodness she’d finished getting the house ready this morning.
She dumped her shovelful of manure into the wheelbarrow and yanked off her gloves. Wiping her hands on the rag stuffed in her pocket, she walked over to glance into the basket on the workbench where Emma had just fallen asleep. She tucked the warm blanket securely around her daughter and kissed her forehead with a brush of her lips.
“Finish your nap, sweetheart,” she whispered. “Mama will be just outside.”
Emma always slept for at least an hour this time of the day, but Trish hated to leave her alone, even though she’d be only a short distance away.
She grabbed Tollie’s collar and shut him in the goat pen. The old blind mutt didn’t have the sense to stay out from under the wheels of the car.
Running her fingers through her short hair, she wished she’d had time to shower and change before she met the famous Ian Miller.
When she stepped out into the thin winter sunshine, the limousine was making a turn in the area between the barn and the main house. The car’s windows were tinted with such dark glass she couldn’t see the occupants of the car.
The car pulled to a stop about twenty feet from her, and a middle-aged driver in a rumpled suit jumped out and opened the rear door.
Ian Miller stepped out, his attention on the house. Her breath caught in her throat. The man was devastatingly handsome, much more than his photograph had shown.
He paid no attention to her. Either he hadn’t seen her or he was as rude as his business manager.
She pushed aside a feeling of disappointment. It didn’t matter, she told herself. The less he noticed her the better if she was going to be able to pull off her plan to keep both jobs.
His inattention gave her a chance to collect herself and study him. He was tall, over six feet, with thick, well-cut black hair.
His clothes were beautiful. He wore a gray-and-navy tweed jacket over broad shoulders, a navy turtleneck sweater and gray wool slacks, perfectly tailored to fit to his slim hips. His leather shoes looked costly and new.
Even from where she stood she could see he had strong square hands with clean, well-tended fingernails and an expensive-looking gold wristwatch.
The man was elegant. She’d never met a man who looked as classy as Ian Miller.
Self-consciously Trish smoothed the front of the flannel shirt that hung to her knees, wishing her boots weren’t caked with manure. She wore Billy’s clothes when she was working, to save wear and tear on what little wardrobe she had.
The limousine driver spotted her and tipped his hat. He cleared his throat, and Mr. Miller turned to him, one eyebrow quirked in question.
Then he looked past the driver and saw her. He went very still, his face etched with a brief flash of surprise, then his expression went blank as he looked her up and down. She noticed he had gorgeous blue eyes. The shade of blue the sky turned at twilight, deep and rich.
Trish sucked in a breath. This was it. She needed to appear competent to keep her job. She was good at bluffing. When you grew up the way she had, it was a necessary survival skill.
She plastered a smile on her face and took a step toward him. She didn’t miss the flash of suspicion that crossed his handsome face.
“Mr. Miller?”
He hesitated, then nodded reluctantly, as if he’d been caught by someone he didn’t care to see. She didn’t have time to wonder at his curious reaction to her.
Nervously she smiled again, wondering if he could see how strained the expression felt on her face. She stopped about ten feet from the car and him. “I’m Trish Ryan.”
“You’re the housekeeper?” His expression relaxed a little but remained guarded as he nodded. “Ms. Ryan, I’m pleased to meet you.” His voice was deep, mellow and had a faint upper-class sound to it.
Trish didn’t think he looked pleased at all, but she had the sense not to mention it. “Welcome to Blacksmith Farm.”
“Thank you,” he replied politely.
His apparent lack of interest in her helped to put her at ease. “Can I show you the house?” she asked, hoping the answer would be no.
She wouldn’t leave Emma alone in the barn, and if he said yes she’d have to go and get her daughter. She’d rather he didn’t know about Emma. Her gut told her Emma was a complication she should avoid explaining on their first meeting.
He looked down at her boots and shook his head. Trish felt a spurt of relief. If she were him she wouldn’t want her boots in the house, either.
Then he looked beyond her with a scowl. She turned and saw he was looking at the paddock beside the barn where two of the three horses were placidly grazing. Max stood with his head hanging over the fence, watching her. He was more like a dog than a horse, following her with his curious three-legged gait whenever she worked around the barn or paddock.
“Didn’t Ms. Sommers tell you to get rid of the animals?” he asked curtly.
Trish nodded. “Yes. The cow has already been sold to the neighbors. The dealer who’s taking the horses is coming tomorrow morning.”
She never could figure out why the former owner had wanted a cow. They never even drank milk the few times they stayed at the farm. Rich people baffled her with their lack of sense.
Mr. Miller nodded and turned his attention back to the house. He had a marvelous profile, very strong and masculine.
Trish stood there, impatiently waiting for him to say something. She needed to get back to Emma. And to work.
A horse whinnied loudly from the paddock. She recognized Max’s voice. He was a big baby, but she really would miss him.
Trish pushed the sentimental thought away. What did she need with a three-legged horse?
She was exhausted caring for her daughter, the house, the animals and the property. It would make her life easier if she didn’t have to maintain the animals, especially now that cold winter weather had set in.
She wouldn’t miss milking the cow twice a day, but she already regretted not having fresh milk. She’d learned to make butter and had been going to try to make cheese. Having the cow had saved on groceries and reduced the hassle of taking the bus to the supermarket as often.
A cold breeze raised goose bumps on her arms, and she glanced at the barn. Even though Emma was all bundled up and snug in her basket, it was still chilly.
She couldn’t figure out how to speed up his visit without being too obvious, so she decided to get a business detail out of the way.
She cleared her throat, and he turned away from his perusal of the house. “I assume you want the money from the sale of the animals deposited in the household account?”
Mr. Miller shrugged. “I suppose. Do you keep the accounts?”
Trish nodded. She kept painfully detailed records of all the money she deposited and spent out of the Blacksmith Farm account.
She had to buy more fuel oil soon and pay the men who were working in the orchard this week.
“Fine. If you need more operating money, I’ll give you the name of my accountant. He’ll check your records and see you get what you need.”
The horses should bring a great deal of money at auction, so she wouldn’t have to ask for quite a while.
She was glad to hear him say he was turning the financial dealings over to an accountant. That was what someone who didn’t plan to spend much time here would do.
He turned back to the house, staring at the exterior. She suppressed a shiver and wondered what he was doing, just standing out here in the cold, looking. “Are you sure I can’t show you around?”
He seemed to come out of his trance. “No. I’ll go in by myself. Is the house locked?” Absently he fished around in his pocket as if he could come up with a key. She wondered if he had one.
“No. Both the front and back are open.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized her mistake. She braced herself for a rebuke for leaving his property unlocked.
Way out here in the country it seemed perfectly reasonable to her to leave the doors open during the day.
He smiled, as if it amused him. “Unlocked,” he muttered. “Good.”
It was the first halfway pleasant expression she’d seen on his face.
He turned and walked toward the house, his leather shoes crunching over the gravel drive. His long-legged stride ate up the ground.
She watched him walk away then glanced over at the limousine driver, who smiled at her and shrugged. She waited until Mr. Miller disappeared inside the house to speak to the driver.
She felt awkward asking the question, as if she were invading Mr. Miller’s privacy, but she needed to know. “How long is he going to be here?”
The driver looked at his watch. “Not long if he wants to be at his next destination on time.”
Trish heaved a sigh of relief and smiled at the man. She was prepared to fix Mr. Miller dinner if he stayed, but she still had a lot of work to do. He was the new owner and possibly the most handsome man Trish had ever encountered, but for her sake, the less time he spent here the better.
“I need to finish up in the barn. Will you give me a tap on the horn if he wants to see me before you leave?”
“Sure thing.” He gave her a little salute and climbed back in the car.
Smart man. It was really getting cold. She turned and hurried back to the barn. When she was working she didn’t notice the cold, but just standing there she’d felt it cut right through her clothes.
Trish peeked into Emma’s basket at her sleeping baby and felt the surge of love that always took her by surprise. She’d never been in love before, and the warm feelings brought tears to her eyes. She watched her perfect little face, composed in sleep. Emma was the only purely good thing that had ever happened to her.
She kissed the smooth cheek, inhaling the wonderful scent of clean baby and whispered, “This is going to work, darling girl, I just know it is.”
Ian looked out the window of the front room of his new home and watched Trish finish her conversation with his driver, then turn and run into the barn.
When he’d first noticed her he’d thought she was a teenager. Then a breeze had kicked up and plastered her shirt against her body, letting him know there was a woman’s shape under all that ugly flannel.
She couldn’t be much over five feet tall, and she looked as if she was wearing her father’s clothes. He hadn’t missed the fact that her breasts had looked almost too large for her slender frame.
As lovely as her figure appeared to be, it had been her eyes that had caught his attention. Big and blue and too old looking for her young face. Trish had sad eyes. Sad and a little wary.
He found himself wondering about the appealing little waif with tousled blond curls. Why would a woman who looked that young have such old eyes? Why had he even remembered her name?
He was terrible with names. Usually he had to meet people several times before he remembered them. He’d had the same doorman for a year and still couldn’t recall the man’s name.
