Tate looked back at her just in time to see her blink hard. For a moment, he feared he might be facing tears, but no. Just a sad “Sorry. I guess I just want to do it right the first time.”
Man, I’m such a jerk.
Tate’s brain scrambled to rectify the situation. He heard himself say, “I’ll take you around and show you.” Until now, he’d had no intention of doing any such thing.
And the way her eyes lit up made him think what should be a simple thirty-minute walk would turn into hours of her asking questions he didn’t want to answer. “Later,” he added.
He might need to fortify himself with a drink...or two...beforehand.
Willow wasn’t stupid.
She knew her curiosity tended to get on people’s nerves. A lifelong learner—that’s what one of her professors in college had called her. The insatiable curiosity and hunger for knowledge made her annoying to some people and boring to most.
Her sisters loved pretty dresses, nail polish and all things feminine. And while Willow had a good enough eye to help them pick things out, she had no desire for those things herself. Instead she was excited by books, old houses and antiques. If there was a mystery to go along with them, all the better.
She seemed to get on Tate’s nerves more than most. Which was too bad. Because he was a hunk.
All those glorious muscles, that messy hair and brooding intense stare. He matched the mysterious house to perfection... But he wasn’t well matched with her. She could tell he’d enjoyed her much more in his sleep—when she wasn’t talking.
After a morning spent inspecting the kitchen and fixing his lunch, she waited impatiently for him to finish eating. He took his time in the breakfast nook, while she struggled not to eagerly bounce from foot to foot in the kitchen. She’d snuck a peek at some of the adjacent rooms, but she was eager to see the rest of the house...even if it was just a tour for him to show her what she wasn’t allowed to touch.
Finally he brought his plate back into the kitchen.
“Is it time now?” she asked, then pressed her lips together, inwardly chastising herself for her impatience.
He raised one dark brow, but this time seemed rather amused by her enthusiasm instead of annoyed.
He gestured toward the hallway leading to the rotunda. “Shall we?”
As they walked down the hall, she once more glanced into the open rooms. For the most part, they were bare. Some were decorated with boxes and sheet-covered lumps that could have been furniture. Intricately carved doors and elaborate lighting fixtures coated in dust reinforced their lack of use.
As they reached the rotunda, Tate paused. He braced himself in the middle of the round room, staring up the magnificent staircase as if he were challenging it. A multitiered chandelier that Willow hadn’t been able to make out in the dark hung from the very high ceiling. A row of small windows around the top of the rotunda let in light that bounced off the chandelier’s crystals.
“Sabatini House was built by a pirate,” he started, his voice echoing slightly off the walls. “It took over ten years to complete, though he brought his bride here after only three. It’s built to celebrate the spot where the water forges its connection with the land.”
Willow started to open her mouth, started to question whether the stories of the underground caves were true, but then she remembered the cut of his reprimand this morning. She quickly closed it again.
The last thing she needed was to aggravate Tate at the moment. She’d hold all of her questions as long as she possibly could. After all, she wanted him to be able to at least tolerate her. Maybe there would be a time to ask her questions later, after he got used to her being around.
Or maybe she could settle for something benign? Like “How long have you lived here?”
“The house has had a long and varied history,” Tate said. “My family were direct descendants, so I’ve lived here all of my life.”
She thought of how much her own little house meant to her and her family. It wasn’t anything as magnificent as this, but it was a direct link to their people. “Wow,” she said. “That must be an incredible feeling.”
The indistinct noise Tate made drew her gaze away from the impressive rotunda to his face. He stared at nothing with a deep frown. “Both a blessing and a curse,” he said.
She ached for him to explain, but he simply turned away. Where was his family now? she wondered. Why did they leave him all alone? These were definitely questions she should not ask.
And he certainly wasn’t volunteering that information.
Instead he kept to the general. “The house was built to withstand the rough weather of the outer islands. Tropical storms, hurricanes, flooding—they all pose a threat. But not to Sabatini House. After a lifetime living on ships at sea, that pirate knew exactly what he was up against. Even the erosion of the ocean was guarded against when building the foundation.”
Curiosity burned in Willow’s throat. He had to be referring to the flood of the ocean beneath the mansion. Were the rumors true? Murdoch had refused to deny or confirm the existence of caves beneath Sabatini House, stating it wasn’t his place to say.
Tate’s strong legs carried him up the stairs. “Sabatini House doesn’t have an elevator. All the upper floors are reached through this staircase, or the one on the opposite end from the kitchen. If a room is locked, it is off-limits to you. That includes the third floor.”
Panic swallowed up Willow’s reserve. “But what if—”
Tate paused, twisting around to stare down at her from a few steps above. “Off. Limits.”
“Right,” she mumbled as they continued up the stairs. She struggled not to show her unease. Her personal reasons for taking this job included finding the answer to a family mystery...an answer that probably hid in one of the third-floor rooms, if Murdoch’s information was correct.
Resolving to find a way, Willow focused once more on the current tour.
As they traversed several hallways, Tate gave short explanations about architecture, molding and carvings in the plaster. But nothing personal. Nothing meaningful. He could have been a boring docent in a beautiful museum for all the enthusiasm he infused in his words.
Many of the rooms were dusty. Some were completely empty. He hadn’t been kidding when he said there wasn’t another mattress in the place. One of the downstairs living areas had been decorated with “more modern” furniture from the fifties or sixties. Any bedrooms had empty bed frames—beautiful, but achingly empty. While Tate obviously understood the history of the house—the why and how it was built—that didn’t translate into pride of ownership.
Willow’s hands itched to work on some of the antiques that they passed. A large grandfather clock. Leather-bound books. Incredible pieces of furniture covered in dust cloths...or simply dust. Restoring antiques was a passionate hobby of hers, but she doubted Tate would appreciate her efforts.
They came to the wing on the second floor that Willow remembered from this morning. It was closed off from the main hall with heavy wooden doors carved with intricate swirled designs.
Tate paused. “This wing holds my suite of rooms,” he said. “If these doors are open, you may come down the hall. You’ll of course need to clean and gather laundry. But my office is absolutely off-limits.”
He pulled the heavy floor-to-ceiling doors open with a loud creak. Guess there was no sneaking in here... She smothered a giggle. Tate didn’t seem the type to appreciate her subversive brand of humor.
This hallway was darker than