“You’re going to have to be. Let me make this very clear. I haven’t worked in a year. I doubt if I’ll ever work again.”
Never work again?
That would be a crime. She might not care much for his personality. But he was, hands down, the finest architect of his generation. They spoke of him in the same breath with Frank O. Gehry and Robert Venturi. Some even dared to compare him favorably to Frank Lloyd Wright. He blended the Modern with the Classical, Bauhaus with the Prairie style, all with seeming effortlessness.
And he was still young. Not yet forty. Many believed an architect couldn’t possibly hit creative stride until at least the age of fifty. There was just too much to learn and master. Donovan McCrae’s best work should be ahead of him.
“Never work again …” She repeated the impossible words that kept scrolling through her mind.
“That’s right.” He looked … satisfied. In a bleak and strangely determined sort of way.
“But why?” she asked, knowing she was pushing it, but wanting to understand what, exactly, had happened to him to make him turn his back on the kind of career that most would kill for. “I mean, there’s nothing wrong with your brain, is there?”
An actual chuckle escaped him. “You do have a big mouth.”
She refused to back off. “Seriously. Have you suffered some kind of brain damage?”
“No.”
“Then why would you stop working? I just don’t get it.”
Something flashed in those steel-blue eyes of his. She sensed that he actually might give her an answer.
But then he only shook his head. “Enough. I’ll take that memory stick.” He held out his hand.
She kept her lips pressed together over a sarcastic remark and laid the stick in his open palm.
He closed his fingers around it. “Ben will show you to your rooms. Get comfortable—but not too comfortable.” He backed and turned and wheeled away from her, disappearing through a door beyond the looming edifice that served as his desk.
“Abilene?” said a quiet voice behind her. She turned to face Ben Yates, who was slim and tall and self-contained, with black hair and eyes to match. “This way.”
She grabbed her bag off the back of her chair and followed him.
The house was a marvel—like all of Donovan McCrae’s designs. Built into the side of a rocky cliff, it had seemed to Abilene, as she approached it earlier, to materialize out of the desert: a cave, a fortress, a palace made of rock—and a house—all at the same time.
It was built around a central courtyard. The back half nestled into the cliff face. It had large glass doors and floor-to-ceiling windows all along the courtyard walls, giving access to the outside and great views of the pool and the harsh, beautiful landscaping. The facade side had windows and glass doors leading to the courtyard, as well. It also offered wide vistas of the wild, open desert.
Abilene’s rooms were on the cliff side.
Ben ushered her in ahead of him. “Here we are.”
The door was extra wide. The one to the bedroom was wide, as well. She ran her hand down the rough-hewn doorframe.
Ben said, “Donovan had all the rooms made wheelchair-accessible, so it would be possible for him to get around anywhere in the house.”
She set her leather tote on a long table by the door and made a circuit. First of the sitting room, then of the bedroom. She looked into the walk-in closet where her own clothes were already hanging, and also the bathroom with its open shower and giant sunken tub.
The walls of the place seemed hewn of the rock face itself. And the furniture was rustic, made from twisted hunks of hardwood, starkly beautiful, like the desert landscape outside. French doors led out to the pool, and to the paths that wound through the courtyard.
Donovan’s assistant waited for her near the door. “The pool is yours to use as long as you’re here. There’s also a large gym downstairs. Check with me if you want to work out there and I’ll give you a schedule. Donovan uses the gym several hours a day and prefers to do so alone. The desk, computer and drafting table you used today in the studio are yours whenever you need them. Anytime you’re hungry, the kitchen is to your left as you exit your rooms. Just keep going until you reach it. Or you can ring. Press the red button on the phone. The housekeeper will answer and see that you get anything you need.”
“I know I’ll be very comfortable. Thank you.”
“I had your suitcases unpacked for you.”
She gave him a wry smile. “You assumed I would stay?”
“I did, yes.”
“I have to tell you, it was touch and go back there in the studio. Your boss can be rude.”
Apparently, Ben felt no obligation to leap to Donovan’s defense. He spoke in his usual calm, unruffled tone. “Don’t let him run you off.”
“I won’t. It’s a promise.”
“That’s the spirit.” Did he almost smile? She couldn’t be sure. “Drinks at seven, just you and Donovan.”
“That sounds really fun.” She said it deadpan.
Ben took her meaning. “Only if you feel up to it. If you’d prefer, I can have something sent here, to your rooms.”
“I definitely feel up to it.”
“Excellent. If you follow either the courtyard breeze-way or the interior hall in either direction, you’ll eventually reach the front living room off the main entrance. Or you can simply cross the courtyard. It’s chilly out, but not too bad.”
“I’m sure I can find my way.”
“Good, then. If you need anything—”
“I know. Press the red button on the house phone.”
“I’ll see you at dinner.” He turned to go.
“Ben?”
He paused in the doorway, his back to her.
“I had no idea Donovan was in a wheelchair.”
A silence. And then, reluctantly, he turned to her again. “Yes. Well, he’s very protective of his privacy lately.”
“A little communication goes a long way.”
“You should be discussing this with him.”
“Probably. What happened to him?”
Ben frowned. She was sure he would blow her off—or tell her again to ask Donovan. But then he surprised her and gave it up. “You may have heard about the ice-climbing accident.”
“Just that there was one.”
“He fell several hundred feet. Both legs sustained multiple fractures. His right tibia was driven up through the knee joint into the thigh.”
She forced herself not to wince. “So … it’s not his spine? I mean, he’s not paralyzed?”
“No, he’s not paralyzed.”
“Will he walk again?”
“It’s likely. But with … difficulty—and I’ve said more than enough. Seven. Drinks in the front living area.”
And he was gone.
Abilene got out of her tired traveling clothes and jumped in the shower. In twenty minutes, she was freshened up and ready to go again. She considered exploring the house a little but decided to ask Donovan to show her around personally later. It might be a way to break the ice between them.