Noah rested his chin on her shoulder to have a look for himself. “Beautiful,” he agreed.
He was behind her, so she couldn’t read the expression that accompanied the unadorned statement, yet something in his full, rich baritone told Dara he wasn’t referring to the wintry landscape. The shiver that ran through her had nothing to do with the temperature, because there he was again, unsettlingly close.
“I’d better be going,” she said, trying to hide the tremor in her voice, “before it gets any worse.”
“Before what gets worse?”
Swallowing a gasp, she gave a thought to the possibility that he could read her mind. Then, dismissing it, she said, “The weather, of course.”
Noah turned her to face him. “You can’t drive that puddle jumper of yours in this mess.” With his free hand, he closed the door. “First snowplow that comes along will bury you for sure.”
“Well, I can’t stay here. What would people think?”
“They’d think you were smart enough to know better than to risk your life to protect your reputation.”
Reputation. The word reverberated in her ears. Preserving her father’s reputation had been the sole reason she’d come here.
Or had it?
Whatever the reason, it had gotten lost amid the children’s happy banter, a home-cooked meal, a near kiss.…
Now I know why they say you can’t judge a book by its cover. Noah had all but destroyed her original assessment of him with the affection he’d showered on his kids, with the home he’d made for them. If only he had been the brutal businessman she’d thought him to be, Dara wouldn’t be fighting her feelings for him now!
And how do you feel about him?
The answer was easy: she liked him. Liked him a great deal. Which made things hard, very hard, because in order for her plan to work, she would have to keep things “strictly business.”
Wouldn’t she?
Dara had heard of being backed into a corner, but it had never actually happened to her before. Well, you’re cornered now, she told herself, figuratively and literally. She stood, shoulders and backside pressed against the cool wall, blinking into his dark-lashed blue eyes. Instinct told her Noah would never harm her. So what’re you afraid of? she wondered as her heartbeat doubled.
Was fear responsible for her racing pulse? Or had some other emotion made her feel light-headed and jittery, like a girl in the throes of her first crush?
The only light in the foyer spilled in from the living room, soft and dim and puddling on the deep-green slate in buttery pools. The hazy amber rays painted his face in light and shadow, accenting the patrician nose, the square jaw, the fullness of his thickly mustached mouth.
She wasn’t afraid of him, Dara realized. Rather, it was her reaction to him that scared her witless. The pull couldn’t have been stronger, not if he were made of ore and a magnet had been implanted in her heart.
Noah pressed his palms against the wall, one on either side of her head. “If you insist on going home,” he said, “I insist on driving you.”
“But…”
But that would mean bundling the children up and loading them into the car, putting all three Lucases at risk on the slick, snow-covered roads.
“But what?” Noah asked.
Dara closed her eyes. Lord, she prayed, tell me what to do!
“Father,” Angie called from the top of the stairs, “we’re ready.”
“I’ll be right there.”
His mustache grazed her cheek before he pulled away. Without taking his gaze from Dara’s eyes, he grabbed her hand, led her back into the kitchen. “There’s a canister of hot chocolate in the pantry. Why don’t you fix us both a cup while I make my rounds.”
She glanced toward the French doors that led to the deck. Noah hadn’t turned off the spotlights, and they illuminated thousands of fat snowflakes, as big as quarters, that drifted down and landed silently atop the high, silvery drifts. Every twig and branch seemed to reach up and out, welcoming the thick downy blanket of white. Lovely as it was, Dara couldn’t drive in this. Noah had been right: her aging little compact could barely make it over speed bumps; it would never make it through a foot and a half of heavy, wet snow.
One foot on the bottom step, he turned and said, “I think the snow is a blessing in disguise.”
“A blessing?”
He nodded. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about, and now that you’re a captive audience…” He gave her a small, mysterious smile, then climbed the stairs two at a time.
Does he want to talk more about the Pinnacle funds? Dara wondered as he disappeared around the landing. She had the impression that subject was talked through. Shrugging, she walked into the kitchen. After filling the gleaming chrome teapot with tap water and setting it atop the back burner, Dara grabbed two mugs from the cabinet above the dishwasher. He doesn’t seem like the cocoa type to me, she told herself, dropping a tea bag into each cup. And while she waited for the water to boil, Dara wandered into the family room, where she held her hands above the warmth radiating from the big black woodstove.
She’d heard that Noah had lost his wife several years before moving here. So who had decorated this room? The furniture looked brand-new. Twin muted-blue plaid sofas, facing each other, flanked the fireplace. At either end of each stood a bleached-oak table. On one sat a lamp made from a birdhouse; on another, a brass lantern that had the earmarks of an antique. Magazines, arranged in a fan shape, lay on the coffee table. And framed photographs, rather than paintings or prints, decorated the walls.
Dara moved in for a closer look, saw first a five-byseven picture of Angie, bundled in a bunting, snuggled in her mother’s arms. Noah’s wife had been a beauty, just as Dara had suspected. Long, dark hair spilled over one shoulder, and wide, brown eyes gleamed with maternal pride as she smiled at her infant daughter. Another picture, taken a year later, showed her in a similar pose, this time with Bobby on her lap.
Beside that photograph hung an eight-by-ten fullcolor portrait of Noah and Francine on their wedding day. Her shimmering hair had been gathered in a loose topknot and secured by a wreath of tiny red roses and baby’s breath. The off-the-shoulder gown skimmed her trim waist and hips, rippled out behind her like a white satin river. And Noah, outfitted like royalty in a white tuxedo, stood straight backed and beaming beside his beautiful new wife.
Like the stage manager of a one-act play, the photographer had set the scene, positioning the bride and groom face-to-face on the altar’s red-carpeted steps, arranging her gauzy veil to float around her face like a translucent cloud. He’d placed vases of flowers at their feet, linked their hands around the stems of her redrose bouquet. Talent and artistry aside, he could not have fabricated the love that blazed in their eyes.
Dara had dreamed all her life of loving—of being loved—like that. What would it be like to have found and lost it, as Noah so obviously had? Devastating, she thought. And for the first time since their meeting, Dara believed she understood why Noah sometimes seemed so standoffish, indifferent, almost harsh with his children: he was holding life at arm’s length to protect himself from experiencing such pain ever again.
But if that was the case, why had he come so close to kissing her…not once but twice!
Sighing, Dara returned to the kitchen, where the water was at a full boil in the kettle. How would Noah take his tea? she asked herself, stirring half a teaspoon of sugar into her own mug. With honey