She opened her mouth and nothing came out. It took a good five seconds before the words traveled from her near-man-alert brain to her tongue. “I’m inviting you to do no such thing.” Her voice cracked.
He reached up, took one silky strand of her hair, wrapped it around his finger and lifted it to his nose. Ivy thought men only did such things in romance novels. It especially didn’t happen in her life. “I’ve lost count on the times you’ve looked at me and silently asked me to kiss you.”
“You can’t count very high, can you?” She couldn’t believe he had the nerve to accuse her of such ludicrous nonsense. He could make her all hot inside, but she didn’t want him to kiss her. Hell no. “Do you come with a badge of warning–insanely arrogant, converse with at your own risk?”
He dropped the wisp of hair. “In my attempt to prove a point to you the reason behind it is lost between my rapidly beating heart and the bulge behind my zipper.” His eyes were molten. That should have been warning enough to stand clear. “Don’t worry, Ivy. Although physically I am a red-blooded male, fact is, you’re not my type.”
She stiffened. Why had his comment been a direct hit to her ego? Why should she care what his type was and whether she matched the criteria? He was hot, sure, but not her style, either. She liked men who were kind, sweet and worth a damn. “What are you doing in Morgan Sites, Max? Shouldn’t you be off in some other part of the country pointing and clicking your equipment?”
His jaw tensed underneath a five o’clock shadow. “I’m curious, Ivy, is it safe to take time away from your newspaper? Aren’t there a few more leprechauns that are in need of saving from elderly criminals?”
She cringed but kept her back straight. No cowering under his ego. Men like Max thrived on other people’s weaknesses. “It was a gnome. And it was only one story.” Dammit! She knew that story would somehow come around to haunt her. Just why did it have to be from a man like Max Shepard? “I’ll admit, it’ll win no Pulitzer Prize, but it served its purpose.”
“I bet it did.”
She could not argue with him on this subject. There was no defense she could use. He’d been all over the world. He was known for his work. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Divorce can make someone bitter–”
His face went cold. She realized immediately this was a point of contention for him. Wasn’t she trying to douse it and not add flame to the fire? She’d only meant to say that he had a right to be angry, but she’d screwed that up.
“That explains a lot,” he snapped. “You read all this information in a gossip column and that makes it all fact? That is one self-promoting, underhanded writer to another. There’s no reason for me to indulge in your opinions or knowledge any further since you know all you need to know about me.” He turned on his heel and started for the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think we’re finished convincing each other we belong here.”
Ivy watched in perplexed silence as he stomped out of the room. He’d made her angry and she had unleashed on him. She didn’t believe everything she’d read in the tabloids. No one would want something so detrimental to be slammed in his face, especially by a stranger. The media had already torn him apart.
But there was something more important going on here. Why was he in Morgan Sites? And something else…
This wasn’t going to be easy. He was a dangerous man. He could wreak pandemonium on her senses with one look. She wasn’t the type to fall for any man’s macho tactics, especially one with an ego the size of a football field. If he thought he could bully her he was sadly mistaken. She may be younger and less achieved than him, but she was smarter, she’d guarantee that.
Chapter 4
Blowing off her frustration for the useless argument with a pigheaded man, Ivy headed straight for her food rations. She had a tendency to eat when she was upset. Chocolate was always top choice. She fumbled through her supplies and didn’t find one ounce of chocolate. Her choices: a granola bar or an apple. Grabbing the apple and her cell phone, she went to explore her surroundings. She was certain if she looked hard enough she’d find something to satisfy her curiosity. And she’d get a big kick out of finding something before Mr. Ghost Detective.
The kitchen was the first room on her list. It was in dire need of a caring touch and a broom. Besides old-fashioned wooden cabinets, cracked countertops, and an old stainless steel sink, there was a small decrepit table.
Opening each cabinet door, she peeked in, did a brushing of her hand inside and was disappointed to find nothing except mouse droppings and a box of matches.
Next place: upstairs.
She was excited to explore the master bedroom. Passing through the bedroom the first time, Ivy had assumed the door by the bed was a closet. Now, she opened it and was shocked to find a nursery. The antique wooden bassinet and rocking chair looked desolate in the barren room. Lacy curtains yellowed with age hung haphazardly at the window. Ivy’s heart pained. She knew the history.
Records showed that Marcus Thornton’s first child had perished in a fire around the age of five, along with his wife, Sarah, in their home in Boston. Years later he had married his second wife, Elizabeth, and she died during childbirth a mere year and a half into their marriage. There was no written history of a live child being born, so it was believed that the baby had died too. Fifteen months later, Marcus died. Townspeople said it was from a broken heart. The entire heritage had died away.
The story was a wretched and sorrowful history of loss and tragedy.
Ivy opened the door to the closet. A strong whiff of dust came barreling out. Coughing, she started to close it. She almost missed seeing something in the far corner. She stepped into the small space, opening the door as wide as it would go to allow light in. She saw it was a painting. Kneeling down onto her hands and knees, careless of her clothes on the grimy floor, she lifted the frame only to realize there was another behind it. Her heart raced.
“What did you find?”
She jumped. The deep voice behind her had startled her. She turned and eyed Max with fury. She hadn’t heard him come into the room. “Do you have to sneak around?” she snapped.
“A little jumpy, are you?” He cocked an eyebrow. One corner of his mouth lifted as if he were happy to see her unsettled.
The man had the ability to scrape her nerves like fingernails down a chalkboard. She wasn’t sure if it was because of his overinflated ego or the fact that every time he came near she felt an unfamiliar tingling down her spine. “Make yourself useful.”
Ivy fumbled with the paintings until they could easily be pulled through the doorway.
She lifted the first painting to Max. He stared down at it with narrowed eyes. He blew his breath across the dusty frame and a cloud of dirt surrounded them. She coughed again as her lungs filled with the particles.
“Nice,” he said sarcastically.
Then came the second. It was in worse condition.
“I can’t believe these paintings were tossed into a closet.” She swiped her dirty hands across the legs of her pants. They were covered in cobwebs and grime. It was too late to worry about cleanliness.
“It seems they should be hanging up instead of shoved into the darkness.” Max set the paintings against the wall and they stood back to stare at their find.
The first painting was a portrait of a beautiful woman. Her raven hair cascaded like swirling waves over her bare shoulders and along the exquisite green lace gown she wore. The ornate gown was the only sign of wealth. She was bare of expensive jewelry and the kind of trendy hairstyle that most women of riches would have adorned their bodies with, especially for a portrait. The woman’s enchanting green eyes spoke volumes in the finely painted portrait. It was Elizabeth Thornton.
The next painting