A Love Untamed

‘You’re giving me the evil eye,’ he said with a sardonic twist of his lips.

‘It’s my gypsy blood,’ she said lightly, and took a drink from her coffee.

‘Ah,’ he said slowly. ‘Gypsy blood. Very intriguing. Is that what gives you the fire in your eyes?’ He flicked a finger at her ponytail. ‘And that gorgeous dark hair?’

Instinctively, she took a step back. It had been a casual gesture, the way he had touched her hair, yet it had set off instant sparks of fire inside her. ‘Watch it,’ she said. ‘I do spells, too.’ She walked out the back door into the bright spring morning, taking her cup with her. His presence was dark and disturbing and made her long for light and cheer. He made her uneasy with those black, mysterious eyes and that big, muscled body, all male virility and power. She didn’t want him in her house.

Yet it was not fear for her physical well-being that made her uncomfortable. She saw power, strength and energy, but no violence. There was something else that disturbed her, that made her heart beat faster, her senses sharpen. Something that set off strange vibrations and tremors.

The back porch was big and had a view of the grounds with its many blooming white and pink dogwoods, and numerous azaleas in a luxuriant riot of colour. It was a fairy-tale garden. She leaned on the wooden railing and watched the squirrels racing up and down the large oak trees just starting to bud into leaf. Everywhere birds chirped in exuberant harmony. Spring was springing and all was light and cheer.

She loved this place. She’d remodel it as a big family home, but it would be perfect as a bed-and-breakfast, a hideaway where stressed-out yuppie couples could come for rest, relaxation and romance.

She sighed. Romance. She wouldn’t mind a little romance herself. Actually, she wanted a lot more than a little romance. She was twenty-eight and she wanted a man for the long haul, meaning that she wanted a lot of romance for a long time, preferably for the rest of her life, another fifty years or so. A half-century. Finding a man good enough to last you for a half-century wasn’t an easy proposition.

The kitchen screen door squeaked and Clint appeared next to her, leaning brown muscled arms on the railing.

He was awfully close, or maybe it just seemed that way. Her body reacted instantly, tensing, as if her every cell was aware of his presence. She smelled soap. She stared straight ahead at the oak tree, fighting the impulse to move away. She didn’t want him to know he disturbed her.

‘We need to talk,’ he said. ‘My mind was not exactly crystal-clear last night, and it unfortunately did not retain the information about the reason for your presence in my house.’

Her hands clamped hard around her coffee-cup. ‘It’s my house. I bought it, I paid for it, I own it, it’s mine. Is that clear enough?’

He shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, it’s not clear at all. If I didn’t sell it, you couldn’t have bought it.’

‘I’ve never met a man who owned a house furnished like this one unless he was an eighty-year-old widower.’ Doilies on the backs of chairs. A collection of porcelain figurines, needlepoint cushions, ruffled curtains, cabbage-rose wallpaper. Good Housekeeping magazines twenty years old.

He observed her calmly. ’then you’ve learned something today and it’s only seven in the morning. Congratulations.’

She wanted to throw her coffee at him, but only barely controlled herself. ’the house belonged to an old lady. She died. I bought the house.’

’the old lady was my grandmother and she left the house to me. I have a will to prove it.’

For a moment she felt panic. Had she been the victim of some crooked scheme? It was true that she’d got the house for a good price, but not such a good price as to make it suspiciously low. In her mind’s eye she saw the round, friendly face of the estate agent who had sold her the house. The lady who had told her that there was no crime in these parts, the lady who had shown her the picture of her baby granddaughter—a beautiful baby, not at all the sort of baby that would have a criminal for a grandmother.

She was not the victim of a crooked deal. She could not afford to believe it. If the sale had been a fraudulent one, she might lose everything. There’d be nothing left—no money, no trip to the Amazon jungle. In fact, she’d be in debt. It was enough to make you panic and break out in a sopping sweat. Only, she refused. She simply refused to panic.

All the papers had been in order. The whole process had been completely ordinary and routine and she was no dummy. This wasn’t the first time she’d bought a house. In the past five years she’d bought, fixed up and sold five residences in all. This was the sixth. She knew what she was doing. She crossed her arms in front of her chest and gave him a stony stare.

‘I suggest you check with your lawyer about that will,’ she said, as coolly professionally as she could manage in the circumstances, ‘and with Boswell and Armis in Charlottesville. They dealt with the estate.’

His mouth curved fractionally. ‘Oh, I certainly will.’ And you’re not going to get away with anything, his tone implied. He took a swallow of his coffee and surveyed the view with obvious appreciation. He did not say anything, but she could tell from his face. A good face. Strong, determined, yet with a certain undefinable sensuality…Good lord, what was she thinking?

He turned to face her again. ‘You said you bought the house. Anyone else involved in this little scheme? A husband perhaps?’

She glared at him. ‘Nobody is involved in any kind of a scheme. And I don’t have a husband.’ Why had she said that? It was none of his business.

He was too close for comfort. She finished the last of her coffee and pushed herself away from the railing. In the kitchen she opened a carton of orange juice, filled two glasses and put them on the table.

This was not a good situation. What was she going to do with this man in her house? How was she going to get rid of him? Here she was, having breakfast with the intruder. It was completely absurd.

He came in and poured more water into the kettle and put it on the stove.

She fixed her gaze on his broad back. ‘Mrs Coddlemore died two months ago. If she was your grandmother, why didn’t you come here sooner to handle the estate?’

‘I didn’t know she had died until ten days ago.’ He turned and sat down at the table.

‘Why didn’t you know until ten days ago? Didn’t anyone notify you?’

‘Yes, they notified me, but the news didn’t reach me until ten days ago.’

‘Where were you? The moon? Antarctica? The jungle?’ She looked straight at his face.

’the jungle,’ he said. ‘Only these days we call it the rainforest.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard. Which rainforest?’

‘Kalimantan.’

She nodded. ‘Borneo, the Indonesian part.’

His eyes narrowed and she felt a thrill of triumph. She smiled brightly. ‘I have this thing for geography. Maps have always fascinated me, ever since I was little. All those exotic places! All those fascinating countries and mysterious islands!’ She sighed. ‘Well, let’s eat.’

The breakfast burritos were heated through and ready to eat. She placed one on each plate and he picked up his knife and fork and cut into the tortillawrapped bundle. Melted cheese oozed out. Egg and ham came into view. He began to eat without comment.

’so, what do they eat for breakfast in Kalimantan?’ she asked, having trouble with the silence between them. Silence made her nervous. She wanted it filled up with something—conversation.

He shrugged. ‘Rice, wild boar, fish, whatever.’ The water boiled and he pushed himself to his feet and made more coffee. The burrito finished, he ate two more slices of toast. Then he got up and marched to the kitchen door. He turned and met her eyes.

‘I’ll see you tonight.’ It was more than a statement. It was a promise. He opened the door and strode out.

She ran to the phone as soon as she’d heard the car drive away. But the lawyer’s offices weren’t open for business yet, nor the estate agent. Well, she wasn’t going to sit here and be paralysed. She was going to go on with the job.

The skip had been delivered the day before, and she began cheerfully tossing in junk and rubbish. She took down the old dusty window treatments and tossed them out, except the drapery linings which she could use as painting drop cloths. Soon the truck from Rommel’s Auction Barn would come and haul off the first load of stuff she didn’t want to keep—books and knick-knacks and much of the furniture.

Then the phone rang. It was Jack, her brother the architect, and the familiar sound of his voice was instantly comforting. However, not comforting was the news that his car had given up the ghost that very morning.

‘Would it be a terrible tragedy if I didn’t make it today?’ he asked. ‘I’ll have it back by tonight and I’ll come tomorrow.’

Livia felt her heart sink. She considered telling Jack what had transpired, then thought better of it. If she did, all four of her brothers would descend on the house to rescue her within hours. This was very nice, of course; it made her feel loved and cared for, but it might, in actual fact, not be helpful. First she wanted to make sure what the situation really was.

What the situation really was, the lawyer told her a while later when she called again, was that the old lady had made a new will only days before she had passed away. In that will it was stipulated that the house be put up for sale and the revenue deposited in the bank in the name of her grandson who was incommunicado in the Borneo jungle, but who would show up sooner or later. The lawyer himself had been appointed the executor of the estate and she had nothing to worry about. Nothing fishy going on.

‘What’s the name of the grandson?’ she asked, holding her breath.

‘Let me check,’ said the lawyer. ‘Oh, here it is. Clinton Bracamonte. Why do you want to know?’

‘He just emerged from the jungle and he’s trying to claim the house.’

From the dining-room window Livia noticed the silver-grey Ford come up the drive and instantly felt her heart start racing. The truck from Rommel’s Auction Barn was sitting in the drive, full of a load of chairs and tables and boxes with dishes and plates and glasses, none of them of great value. She’d spent all day sorting through cabinets and drawers, deciding what to keep and what to sell. She was tired and dirty. The dining-room was cleared and she was almost finished taking up the old carpeting.

Clint came out of the car, strode up to the truck, took one look at it, said something to the driver and turned abruptly. He marched up the front porch, opened the door and slammed it.

‘Olivia!’

‘I’m in the dining-room,’ she called out. She went down on her knees and started rolling up the last strip of carpeting. Underneath the padding lay a beautiful oak floor. She’d leave the padding to protect the wood during the painting process.

The next moment Clint loomed in the door and stared. His dark eyes scanned the room and what he saw obviously did not please him. Of course, she had not expected him to be pleased. That was why her heart was hammering against her ribs. The air was electric.

He advanced into the room. ‘What the hell have you been doing?’ he asked, his voice low and furious.

‘I’m clearing the place out,’ she said as calmly as she could. ‘It makes it a lot easier to do the renovation work.’ The room looked bare. All the curtains gone, the walls empty of pictures, the furniture removed.

’these were my grandmother’s things!’

’they are my things now,’ she said, steeling herself. ‘And I can do with them as I please. If you want them, buy them back from Rommel’s Auction Barn. I’m sure Mr Rommel will make you a deal for the lot. He seems like a nice guy.’

There was a loaded silence. She felt a shiver crawl up her spine as she looked at his hard face, his penetrating black eyes.

‘All right,’ he said slowly, ‘let’s talk.’

CHAPTER THREE

LIVIA’S heart was pounding. He was not a man who suffered defiance, but she’d be damned if she’d let him intimidate her. ’there’s nothing to talk about. This is my house and I want you out.’ She went on rolling up the heavy, awkward carpeting. Dust motes floated in the sunlight streaking through the window.

Clint Bracamonte reached out, took her arms and pulled her to her feet. ‘I said, let’s talk,’ he said quietly.

Her reaction was automatic. A couple of swift moves and she was free of his grip. ‘Keep your hands off me,’ she said coldly.

He laughed. ’that was very impressive, I have to admit.’

His reaction infuriated her. How dared he be amused? ‘Next time you won’t laugh. You’ll hurt.’

He nodded solemnly, but a spark of humour glinted in his eyes. ‘I’ll keep that in mind. Karate and gypsy spells. You’re a dangerous woman.’

She gave him a withering look which seemed to have no effect on him at all. Not that she really had any hope of affecting him; he didn’t look like a man who’d feel threatened by anything, and certainly not by a lightweight female.

He pushed his hands into his pockets. ‘Now, I have a proposition to make,’ he said casually.

‘I’m not interested in your propositions.’

‘I made some enquiries,’ he went on, unperturbed. ‘And you’re right, you bought the house, and it’s yours.’

She inclined her head in mockery. ’thank you,’ she said, pseudo-polite. ‘I understand you are the recipient of the money from the sale.’

‘Correct. Unbeknownst to me, my grandmother had made a new will. Apparently she thought I’d rather have the money than be burdened with the house.’

‘Good. Then it’s all cleared up.’

‘No, it’s not. My grandmother thought wrong. I do want the house. So this is what we’ll do. I’ll buy the house back from you and give you a five-per-cent profit.’

She laughed. She simply couldn’t help it. The audacity of the man was amazing. Did he think he could tell her what to do? Did he think that she would let this opportunity be taken from her just like that? She met his eyes unflinchingly. ‘No, sir, this is not what we will do. I bought the house because I wanted it.’

‘I’ll give you a ten-per-cent profit,’ he said calmly.

‘No.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘What do you want?’

‘I want this house. It’s a beautiful old house and I’m going to fix it up and make it even more wonderful. I’m going to make it a masterpiece of renovation,’ she said loftily. ’then I’ll sell it for every penny it’s worth to someone who’ll recognise the value of it. That’s the business I’m in. That’s what I do for a living.’ And she was very, very good at it. She had an eye for what would work, and what would not, and a brother who was an architect.

House renovation hadn’t exactly been the career she’d dreamed of since she was five. She’d wanted to be a ballerina then. She’d fallen into the remodelling business by coincidence, helping out a friend of her mother’s restore a trashed townhouse in Georgetown, a yuppie Washington DC neighbourhood. I can do this, too, she’d thought, and with a loan from her father she’d done just that. She’d made a huge profit. She’d paid off the loan and bought another house, repeating the process.

Now, six years later, she was making a respectable living, which was very nice because she loved to travel, which she did in between projects. She loved travelling even more than remodelling houses, which was a lot of fun. Having a job you loved doing was a great blessing, and she was well aware of it. She loved counting her blessings, which were many.

Clint was not happy with her reply. His jaw worked. ‘I don’t want it renovated,’ he said tightly.

’that’s too bad, because it’s not for you to decide.’ She couldn’t help feeling a nasty little twinge of triumph. She crossed her arms in front of her chest. ‘Besides, it’s stupid not to fix this house up. Have you seen the electricial wiring? It’s ancient! It’s a fire hazard! And the plumbing is medieval.’ She was beginning to like this man less and less. Which was not promising because she had liked him not at all to start with. He was arrogant and presumptuous and condescending.

He was also dangerously handsome and sexy.

All in all, a toxic mixture and not one that was easily dealt with. There was an innate sexuality about him that was hard to miss. It was nothing he did or said in particular. It was just there, an aura, something radiating from him, something that affected her more than she was willing to admit. It seemed so primal that it frightened her a little. After all, she was not the kind of woman who let herself be swept away just by a good body and a handsome face. She wanted more, a whole lot more.

He was observing her with an infuriating glint in his eyes. ’there’s more to you than meets the eye, is there?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ she said coldly. ‘I’ve never had a first impression of myself.’

His mouth curved in amusement and for a moment, a long, endless moment, their eyes were locked in a wordless sizing up of each other, a recognition of each other, an acknowledgement. Her body grew warm, her pulse throbbed and knees began to tremble. It was hard to breathe. It was terrifying. He hadn’t even touched her. She broke her gaze away. She wanted to run away, out of that room with its dangerous vibrations, but she fought the impulse.

‘If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.’ She heard the nervous quiver in her voice and prayed he wouldn’t notice.

Before she’d gone down on her knees again, he’d bent down and without a word rolled up the last strip of heavy carpeting and slung it over his shoulder as if it were nothing more than a wet towel.

‘In the skip?’ he enquired.

‘Yes.’ She watched him go, thrown completely off balance. She didn’t like the feeling. One moment he was insufferably autocratic, the next he made a helpful gesture like this—helping her do the very thing he was angry at her for doing. Through the window she saw him toss the carpeting effortlessly into the skip. He had dropped the subject of buying the house. He had not insisted, or made threats. However, she was not deluding herself in thinking the issue was dismissed and the discussion over. Clint Bracamonte was not a man who gave up.

He strode up to his car and opened the back, taking out two paper grocery bags. He put them down in the kitchen, then washed his hands before taking out the contents.

Strawberries, asparagus, sirloin steak, French bread, and double cream, butter, mushrooms, onions, the makings for a salad, and a small selection of French cheeses. A bottle of red wine with an impressive label joined the luscious foodstuffs on the counter.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she asked.

He smiled at her, a true blue Boy Scout smile that threw her even more off-balance. ‘I’m inviting you to dinner,’ he said, ’to repay you for your hospitality.’

She was lost for words.

What could she possibly say? Get out of my house and take your steak and strawberries with you? She’d be nuts. She’d worked like a horse all day, surviving on a breakfast burrito, a peanut butter sandwich and a couple of chocolate bars. She was famished. She stared longingly at the food he’d taken out of the bag. Why eat chicken soup and crackers if she could dine on steak, asparagus and strawberries and cream? And wine, too.

He studied her face, waiting for an answer. ’so, what do you say? It looks to me as if you could use a good meal.’ His voice was even. ‘You put in quite a day’s work.’

So she had. She straightened. ‘I’d love a good meal.’ It was the truth, and she wasn’t in the habit of lying. Also, it was difficult to resist him. She had to admit it. Besides, there was no harm in a meal together, was there?

‘Excellent.’ He reached in a drawer, found a corkscrew and opened the bottle. ‘How about a glass before dinner? Or are you a purist and want your wine to breathe first?’

‘I’m a purist only when it’s convenient. I’d like a glass now.’

Wine in hand, she left the kitchen, allowing him the freedom to do his cooking all by himself. She wasn’t much of a cook herself. It simply wasn’t one of her talents. However, she did like eating good food. Eating in nice restaurants worked very well, or at her mother’s house. Her mother did like cooking. Only her mother, as well as her father, were not presently in the neighbourhood. The government had sent them to Stockholm, Sweden.

Livia went into the living-room and started emptying drawers and packing more boxes, sipping wine. A vague, uneasy feeling stirred inside her. She pushed it back. Nonsense. No reason to feel this way. No obligation, no duty. The house was hers. Everything in it was hers. She’d bought it fair and square with her own money.

Yet the little fairy inside her was not happy.

When she was little, her mother had explained about that little voice inside her that sometimes bothered her when she’d done something wrong. It belonged to her personal little fairy of virtue that lived in her heart. The fairy loved her very much. The fairy told her what was right and wrong. As a little girl she had imagined the little fairy with small fluttering wings of gossamer silk, and a tiny candle in her delicate little hands, a candle to guide her on the right path.

As she was packing the boxes, the fairy fluttered nervously. Livia told the fairy to go for a nice long walk. The fairy did not oblige. Livia kept on packing. Ashtrays, doilies, chipped vases, a stained tea cosy, a box of buttons, a worn-out Scrabble game, a soft baby toy. She smiled as she looked at the brightly coloured cloth ball. Someone must have left it here. She tossed it into the box.

Her hands were dry from all the dust and all the washing she’d been doing. This wasn’t the sort of job that was compatible with soft hands and lovely, long nails, polished burnished copper or honey rose.

Clint called her less than an hour later. By then she was practically passing out from hunger. The table had been set. He’d even found a white tablecloth and candles. They were baby-blue and sat in crystal candlesticks. She liked the candlesticks. She was going to keep them for herself.

‘My grandmother loved these candlesticks,’ he said. ’she’d brought them with her from Poland when she and my grandfather emigrated. They were a wedding gift.’

Oh, great. Now she was going to have to feel guilty. No, she was already feeling guilty. Inside her the little fairy was practically screaming.

‘You can have them,’ she heard herself say. Guilt was a nasty emotion and not one she intended to cultivate.

‘I’ll buy them from you.’

Their eyes met. ‘I can’t have you buy back your own grandmother’s favourite candlesticks,’ she said. ‘Just take them.’

‘All that businesslike behaviour covers up a soft heart, doesn’t it?’ he said with a crooked smile.

‘Oh, please, spare me,’ she said derisively and concentrated on her food, which was delicious. She wanted to ask him who he was, what he was. But something inside her kept her from asking. The less she knew, the better it was. She already knew about a Polish grandmother and wedding-gift candlesticks. She wanted him out of her way. If he didn’t like her carting out all the old furniture, what was he going to say when the contractor arrived and some of the walls were going to come down?

‘What were you doing in the rainforest?’ she heard herself ask. She couldn’t help herself. She wanted to know. ‘Catching tropical birds and smuggling them out? Cutting down the trees for tooth-pick companies?’

He raised his brows. ’do you always think so well of people, or is it just me?’

She gave him a wide-eyed, innocent look. ‘Just a few wild guesses, that’s all.’ She smiled. ‘May I assume you’re doing something more honourable?’

‘I’m involved in a research project. I study the interaction between the indigenous people and their rainforest environment.’