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“No. Would have if she’d meant to.” Now he turned and flashed that killer grin. “She had a hell of an arm. What are you doing in the middle of nowhere, Regan Bishop?”
“Selling my wares, Rafe MacKade.”
“Your wares aren’t half-bad. How much for the dragon in the window?”
“You have excellent taste. It’s five-fifty.”
“That’s steep, Regan.” Reaching out, he slipped open the single gold button of her navy blazer.
She found the little gesture oddly intimate, but refused to comment on it. “You get what you pay for.”
“If you’re smart, you can get more.” He tucked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans and began to wander again. “How long have you been in town?”
“Three years last summer.”
“From?” When she didn’t answer, he glanced back, lifted one of those sexy black brows. “Just making conversation, darling. I like to get a handle on the people I’m doing business with.”
“We haven’t done any business, yet.” She tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled. “Darling.”
His laugh erupted, quick and charming. Little ripples of response skidded up her spine. He was, she was sure, the man every mother had ever warned her daughter about. As tempting as it was, business was business. And it always came first.
“I think I’m going to like you, Regan.” He tilted his head. “You sure are a looker.”
“Making conversation again?”
“An observation.” With a smile hovering around his mouth, he glanced down at her hands. She wore rings, pretty, glittery stones and twists of gold. “Any of those mean anything that’s going to get in my way?”
Her stomach fluttered. Her spine stiffened. “I’d say that depends on which way you’re heading.”
“Nope,” he declared. “You’re not married. You’d have tossed that in my face. So.” Satisfied, he sat on a red velvet love seat, tossed his arm over the curved back. “Want to sit down?”
“No, thanks. Did you come in to do business, or to talk me into bed?”
“I never talk women into bed.” He smiled at her.
No, she thought, he’d just have to flash that smile and crook his finger.
“Business, Regan.” Relaxed, he crossed his booted feet. “For now, just business.”
“All right. Then I’ll offer you some hot cider.”
“I’ll take it.”
She moved through a doorway, into the back. Alone, Rafe brooded for a moment. He hadn’t meant to be so obvious, hadn’t realized he was quite so attracted. There had been something about the way she stood there, in her tailored blazer and tasteful jewelry, her eyes so cool and amused, her scent just short of hot.
If he’d ever seen a woman who announced a thorny road, it was Regan Bishop. Though he rarely chose the smooth path, he had too much on his plate to take the challenge.
Then she came back in on those long, glamorous legs, that pretty swing of hair half curtaining her face.
What the hell, he thought, he could always make room on his plate.
“Thanks.” He took the steaming enameled mug she offered. “I figured on hiring a firm out of D.C. or Baltimore, maybe taking some time to hunt through some shops myself.”
“I can acquire anything a firm in D.C. or Baltimore can, and offer a better price.” She hoped.
“Maybe. The thing is, I like the idea of keeping the business close to home. We’ll see what you can do.” He sipped the cider, found it hot and pungent. “What do you know about the Barlow place?”
“It’s falling apart. I think it’s a crime that nothing’s been done to preserve it. This part of the country is usually careful with its historic areas and buildings. But the town ignores that place. If I had the means, I’d have bought it myself.”
“And you’d have gotten more than you bargained for. The house is solid as rock. If it wasn’t so well built, it’d be rubble by now. But, it needs work…” he mused, and began to picture it all in his head. “Floors to be leveled and sanded and sealed, walls to be plastered or taken down, windows replaced. The roof’s a mess.”
He brought himself back, shrugged. “That’s just time and money. When it’s ready, I want to put it back the way it looked in 1862, when the Barlows lived there and watched the Battle of Antietam from their parlor window.”
“Did they?” Regan asked with a smile. “I’d have thought they’d have been cowering in the root cellar.”
“Not the way I imagine it. The rich and privileged watching the show, maybe annoyed when cannon fire cracked a window or the screams of the dead and dying woke the baby from its nap.”
“You’re a cynical one. Being rich wouldn’t mean you wouldn’t feel horror if you had to watch men dying on your front lawn.”
“The heart of the battle didn’t get quite that close. Anyway, that’s what I want—the right colors, trim, wallpaper, furnishings, doodads. The works.” He had an urge for a cigarette and banked it. “How do you feel about redoing a haunted house?”
“Interested.” She eyed him over the rim of her mug. “Besides, I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“You will before it’s done. I spent the night there once, as a kid, with my brothers.”
“Creaking doors, rattling chains?”
“No.” He didn’t smile now. “Except the ones Jared arranged to scare the guts out of the rest of us. There’s a spot on the stairway that’ll turn your skin to ice. You can smell smoke near the living room hearth. And you can feel something looking over your shoulder when you walk down the hallways. If it’s quiet enough, and you’re listening, you can hear sabers clash.”
Despite herself, she couldn’t quite suppress a shudder. “If you’re trying to scare me off the commission, you won’t.”
“Just laying out the blueprint. I’ll want you to take a look at the place, go through the rooms with me. We’ll see what kind of ideas you have. Tomorrow afternoon suit you? About two?”
“That’ll be fine. I’ll need to take measurements.”
“Good.” He set his mug aside, rose. “Nice doing business with you.”
Again she accepted his hand. “Welcome home.”
“You’re the first one who’s said it.” Enjoying the irony, he lifted her hand to his lips, watching her. “Then again, you don’t know any better. See you tomorrow. And, Regan,” he added on his way to the door, “take the dragon out of the window. I want it.”
On the way out of town, he pulled his car to the side of the road and stopped. Ignoring the snow and the icy fingers of the wind, he studied the house on the rise of the hill.
Its broken windows and sagging porches revealed nothing, just as Rafe’s shadowed eyes revealed nothing. Ghosts, he mused, while snow drifted silently around him. Maybe. But he was beginning to realize that the only ghosts he was trying to put to rest were inside him.
Chapter 2
The beauty of owning your own shop, as far as Regan was concerned, was that you could buy and sell what you chose, your hours were your own to make, and the atmosphere was your own to create.
Still, being the sole proprietor and sole employee of Past Times didn’t mean Regan Bishop tolerated any slack. As her own boss, she was tough, often intolerant, and expected the best from her staff. As that staff, she worked hard and rarely complained.
She had exactly what she’d always wanted—a home and business in a small rural town, away from the pressures and headaches of the city where she’d lived the first twenty-five years of her life.
Moving to Antietam and starting her own business had been part of her five-year plan after she graduated from American University. She had degrees in history and business management tucked under her belt, and by the time she donned cap and gown she’d already earned five years experience in antiques.
Working for someone else.
Now she was the boss. Every inch of the shop and the cozy apartment atop it was hers—and the bank’s. The MacKade commission was going to go a long way toward making her share a great deal larger.
The minute Rafe left the afternoon before, Regan had locked up and dashed to the library. She’d checked out an armload of books to supplement her own research volumes.
By midnight, when her eyes had threatened to cross, she had read and taken notes on every detail of life as it applied to the Civil War era in Maryland.
She knew every aspect of the Battle of Antietam, from Lee’s march to his retreat across the river, from McClellan’s waffling to President Lincoln’s visit to a farm outside Sharpsburg. She knew the number of dead and wounded, the bloody progress over hill and through cornfield.
It was sad and standard information, and she’d studied it before. Indeed, her fascination with the battle and the quiet area into which it had exploded had influenced her choice of a home.
But this time she’d been able to find bits and pieces on the Barlows—both fact and speculation. The family had lived in the house on the hill for almost a hundred years before that horrible day in September of 1862. Prosperous landowners and businessmen, they had lived like lords. Their balls and dinners had enticed guests from as far as Washington and Virginia.
She knew how they had dressed—the frock coats and lace and the hooped skirts. Silk hats and satin slippers. She knew how they had lived, with servants pouring wine into crystal goblets, their home decorated with hothouse flowers, their furniture glowing with bee’s wax polish.
Now, negotiating snowy, windy roads under sparkling sunlight, she could see exactly the colors and fabrics, the furnishings and knickknacks that would have surrounded them.
Chiffoniers of rosewood, she mused. Wedgwood china and horsehair settees. The fine Chippendale chest-on-chest for the master, the graceful cherrywood-and-beveled-glass secretaire for his lady. Brocade portieres and rich Colonial blue for the walls in the parlor.
Rafe MacKade was going to get his money’s worth. And, oh, she hoped his pockets were deep.
The narrow, broken lane leading up to the house was deep in snow. No tire tracks or handy plow had marred its pretty, pristine—and very inconvenient—white blanket.
Annoyed that Rafe hadn’t taken care of that detail, Regan eased her car onto the shoulder.
Armed with her briefcase, she began the long trudge up.
At least she’d thought to wear boots, she told herself as the snow crept past her ankles. She’d very nearly worn a suit and heels—before she remembered that impressing Rafe MacKade wasn’t on her agenda. The gray trousers, tailored blazer and black turtleneck were acceptable business wear for an assignment such as this. And, as she doubted the place was heated, the red wool coat would come in handy, inside, as well as out.
It was a fabulous and intriguing place, she decided as she crested the hill. All those flecks of mica in the stone, glinting like glass in the sunlight, made up for the boarded windows. The porches sagged, but the building itself rose up tall and proud against the bitter blue sky.
She liked the way the east wing jutted off at a stern angle. The way the trio of chimneys speared from the roof as if waiting to belch smoke. She even liked the way the broken shutters hung drunkenly.
It needed tending, she thought, with an affection that surprised her. Someone to love it, and accept its character for what it was. Someone who would appreciate its strengths and understand its weaknesses.
She shook her head and laughed at herself. It sounded as though she were thinking of a man—one, perhaps, like Rafe MacKade—rather than a house.
She walked closer, through the deep, powdery drifts. Rocks and overgrown brush made uneven lumps in the snow, like children under blankets waiting to do mischief. Brambles were sneaky enough to grab at her trousers with sharp, wiry fingers. But once the lawn had been lush and green and vivid with flowers.
If Rafe had any vision, it would be again.
Reminding herself that the landscaping was his problem, she puffed her way to the broken front porch.
He was, she thought with a scowl, late.
Regan looked around, stomped her feet for warmth and glanced at her watch. The man could hardly expect her to stand out in the cold and the wind and wait. Ten minutes, tops, she told herself. Then she would leave him a note, a very firm note on the value of keeping appointments, and leave.
But it wouldn’t hurt to take a peek in the window.
Maneuvering carefully, she inched her way up the steps, avoided broken planks. There should be wisteria or morning glories climbing up the side arbor, she mused, and for a moment she almost believed she could catch the faint, sweet scent of spring.
She caught herself moving to the door, closing her hand over the knob before she realized that had been her intention all along. Surely it was locked, she thought. Even small towns weren’t immune to vandals. But even as she thought it, the knob turned freely in her hand.
It was only sensible to go in, out of the wind, begin to site the job. Yet she pulled her hand back with a jerk. Her breath was coming in gasps, shockingly loud on the silent air. Inside her neat leather gloves, her hands were icy and trembling.
Out of breath from the climb, she told herself. Shivering from the wind. That was all. But the fear was on her like a cat, hissing through her blood.
Embarrassed, she looked uneasily around. There was no one to see her ridiculous reaction. Only snow and trees.
She took a deep breath, laughed at herself, and opened the door.
It creaked, of course. That was to be expected. The wide main hall gave her such a rush of pleasure, she forgot everything else. Closing the door, she leaned back against it and sighed.
There was dust and mold, damp patches on the walls, baseboards ruined by gnawing mice, spiderwebs draped like filthy gauze. She saw rich, deep green paint, creamy ivory trim, the buff and shine of waxed pine floors under her feet, a runner blooming with cabbage roses.
And there, she thought a hunt table, with a Dresden bowl spilling more roses, flanked by silver candlesticks. A little walnut hall chair with a pierced back, a hammered brass umbrella stand, a gilded mirror.
How it had been, and could be, spun through her mind, and she didn’t feel the cold that sent her breath ahead of her in clouds as she wandered.
In the parlor, she marveled over the Adam fireplace. The marble was filthy, but undamaged. She had twin vases in the shop that would be perfect for the mantel. And a needlepoint footstool that was meant for weary feet in front of this very hearth.
Delighted, she pulled out her notebook and got to work.
Cobwebs dragged through her hair, dirt smudged her cheek, dust covered her boots, as she measured and plotted. She was in heaven. Her mood was so high that when she heard the footsteps, she turned with a smile instead of a complaint.
“It’s wonderful. I can hardly—” She was talking to thin air.
Frowning, she walked out of the parlor and into the hall. She started to call out, then noted that there were no footprints in the dust but her own.
Imagining things, she told herself, and shuddered. Big, empty houses made all sorts of noises. Settling wood, wind against the windows…rodents, she thought with a grimace. She wasn’t afraid of mice or spiders or creaking boards.
But when the floor groaned over her head, she couldn’t muffle the shriek. Her heart flew straight to her throat and beat like a bird’s. Before she’d managed to compose herself again, she heard the unmistakable sound of a door closing.
She was across the hall in a dash, fumbling for the knob when it hit her.
Rafe MacKade.
Oh, he thought he was clever, she thought furiously. Sneaking into the house ahead of her, creeping through the back, she imagined. He was up there right now, doubled over at the idea of her bolting from the house like some idiotic Gothic heroine with a heaving bosom.
Not on your life, she thought determinedly, and straightened her shoulders. She thrust her chin up and marched to the curving stairs.
“You’re not funny, MacKade,” she called out. “Now, if you’ve finished your pathetic little joke, I’d like to get some work done.”
