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Well, when the time
comes, she's welcome to seek him out. Who knows, maybe he'll have changed by
then."
    Nate growled something under his breath. He swung the pickup
truck into the curb in front of Abigail's office, then turned to look at her,
laying one arm on the back of the seat. Abigail's neck tingled, so close were
his fingers to her.
    "So how about dinner?"
    She didn't even hesitate. "I'd like that. When did you
have in mind?"
    "Friday?"
    "Fine," she agreed briskly. "My address is in
the phone book."
    "Six o'clock?"
    She nodded, glancing over her shoulder. A car had pulled in
just behind the pickup. The Petersons were climbing out.
    Nate's gaze in the mirror followed hers. His mouth had a
rueful twist when their eyes met again. "I wanted to kiss you."
    Just like that, the air thickened. The breath Abigail drew
felt shallow, unsatisfying. "I'm sorry," she said, inanely.
    Again that hot light flared in the storm-cloud gray of his
eyes. Before Abigail could move, his big hand settled on the back of her neck.
The touch was electrifying, almost painful. But the next instant, he'd released
her, balling his fingers into a fist. His knuckles grazed the curve of her neck
gently, sending a shiver through her. She was sure he could feel it as his hand
brushed with the delicacy of air against her dark curls.
    Then she was fumbling for the door handle with clumsy
fingers, concentrating on the task of getting out of the high cab without
landing on her face.
    "I'll see you Friday," she said, without quite looking
at Nate again.
    "Friday," he repeated, his low, husky voice
holding a promise as intoxicating as his touch. The next instant, the pickup
had accelerated away from the curb, leaving Abigail to face the Petersons.
     
     

CHAPTER 3
     
    "You could see the roof of the house from here if it
weren't for the rain," Abigail told her passengers, making an effort to
sound cheery and positive.
    The two men peered ahead through the semicircles in the
windshield that the steadily moving wipers kept clear. The gray, slanting rain
obscured even the old orchard, however, and Abigail slowed the car still more
to be sure not to miss the drive.
    She was pleased to be showing the Irving House again so
soon; of course, she was. The ad had appeared in yesterday's newspaper for the
first time, and already this morning there had been a couple of calls. One
hadn't led to anything, but these two men were obviously serious. That would
have made her day but for two things.
    One, of course, was the weather. She hated showing houses
when it was like this, unless the exterior of the building was better
unscrutinized, anyway. But so much of the attraction of the elegant Victorian
mansion they were on their way to see was its exterior, the nooks and balconies
and exquisite gingerbread. Despite the neglect of the landscaping, the yard
didn't hurt, either. The layout of the century-old formal gardens was still
clear, and with summer, so many flowers were in bloom. But today, nobody was
going to pause to take that in. The three of them would doubtless pull up their
collars and dash for the porch.
    Her other problem was with the potential buyers. The two
dynamic young men in three-piece suits weren't interested in the house for
themselves. They represented a California company that had moved into Washington
and wanted to turn the Irving House into condominiums.
    "We ought to be able to break it up into five, maybe
six," one of them had told her confidently. "Depending on the layout,
of course."
    "But...it's out in the country," she'd faltered.
    He waved that off. "Easy commuting distance to Everett.
And the house's historical interest, combined with the gardens and land, ought
to make it a natural. Rising young professionals who couldn't possibly afford
the house—and wouldn't want that much floor space, anyway—can buy a part of it.
They get the charm, the prestige, stabling for a horse or two, for a lot less
than if they were to buy the house itself. It's a