Ain’t Misbehaving

Mitch’s house was itself another surprise. The outside was intriguing by lamplight, all gray stone and mullioned windows, with a castlelike octagonal turret on the west side. Inside, the foyer was flanked by narrow stained-glass windows.

As Mitch took her coat, he asked, “Do you want some coffee?”

“No, thanks.” Kay kicked off her shoes at the door, and on stockinged feet started exploring. To the left of the foyer was a living room with a beamed cathedral ceiling that took her breath away. Hardwood floors led to French doors at the far end; a stone fireplace climbed one entire wall. There was wood piled on the hearth, and a huge pillow on the bare floor told her that Mitch enjoyed a fire…even if he didn’t have a stick of furniture in the place yet.

“You must want some coffee. Or brandy,” Mitch suggested, trailing behind her.

“No, honestly, Mitch,” she told him absently. The living room, which smelled of fresh paint, was absolutely magnificent and really didn’t need a stick of furniture. Reluctantly, she left it to start roaming again. The dining room must have been an afterthought; its three glass walls protruded into the backyard. On the other side of the house was a sort of family room, with wild cherry wainscoting. Then there was the smell of fresh paint again. Cream-colored paint.

“I should have warned you,” Mitch rumbled wryly from behind her. “I only bought the house a few months ago, and it needed renovating from the bottom up. I’m afraid plumbing took precedence over lamps and chairs.”

She glanced back. He removed his suit jacket, tossed his tie aside and unbuttoned his shirt. In spite of the change to informality, he still exuded an aura of self-possessed control…and her most protective instincts still surged up at the sight of him, which was ridiculous. There wasn’t any reason to think he was either uncomfortable or unsure-beyond the very tiny hint of winsome appeal in his eyes.

“Admit it,” she said gravely. “You’re just petrified at the thought of shopping for furniture.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it abruptly. “I’d rather go to the dentist,” he admitted.

“The bigger the man, the harder he shakes in a department store,” she murmured teasingly. “I think it’s a deficiency in the genes.”

“I’ll deficiency you, woman!”

But Kay darted out of reach, opening the door to a library-or an empty room with the potential of becoming a library. The gleaming teak shelves were all empty. Bay windows were begging for curtains. It took a moment before she noticed another door set into the paneling.

When she opened it, she found an octagonal turret room, its surrounding windows covered with sheets instead of curtains, making her smile again.

“If you don’t wipe that grin off your face, Sanders…”

But for a moment she was too busy looking at the room to tease him back. One long table was covered in white leather. Another held scales and a microscope, an assortment of special lamps and the kind of magnifying glasses she’d seen him use earlier in the evening. “Your workroom?”

He nodded.

She fingered the smooth white leather. “You’ve worked with stones for a long time, haven’t you?”

“When I was five, my grandfather figured I’d want a two-wheeler, but I didn’t. Instead, I wanted the deed to his abandoned gold mine. The family all thought it was pretty funny, but I got my deed. Luckily, the mine had no gold-if it had, I would never have found the opals. As I said before, they’re usually destroyed in the process of mining. Gold dust might be worth a ton, but opal dust is worth zilch. I don’t know why my grandfather even bought the mine-timber’s the family business. No one ever really cared about anything else.”

“How old were you when you got seriously interested?” She wandered out of his special room, down a hall toward the kitchen. That room was complete, delightfully so. A skylight hung over the eating area; oak cabinets blended with an old-fashioned pegged oak floor; a small corner fireplace stood near the eating nook.

“About…sixteen.”

“You started buying and selling opals at sixteen? Or mining them?”

He shook his head. “I started reading about the subject then. My father was the one who explored the old mine for me and revved up my interest. One day he plopped a four-carat star garnet in my lap and told me there was a slim chance I could make a fortune-if I had the guts. He brought people to the house. Miners, prospectors, collectors. To talk to me. And then he dropped it.”

“You mean he tried to discourage you all of a sudden?” Kay wandered back into the hall. Mitch gave her a wry glance as he hit the light switch, illuminating the stairs.

“I take it you’re not going to be content just checking out the ground floor, nosy.”

“Oh, hush. So then what happened?” she demanded, as she mounted the stairs, her palm on the hand-carved banister.

“Then, nothing. I had to learn. A lot. My father gave me an initial stake in garnets… and then watched me make a fool of myself.” He didn’t add that the challenge of making a fortune had affirmed his will to survive just when he’d decided he’d rather be dead than exist as a semi-invalid. His father had simply dropped the challenge in his lap-here was something he could do, something that took more mental than physical prowess, something he could master with endless study and a telephone and the right kind of teachers. And time.

“What are you leaving out, Mitch?” Kay asked softly. She’d turned in the upstairs hallway, mystified by the intensely brooding look on Mitch’s face.

As an answer, he moved toward her, tilted her chin up with his hand and lowered his soft, cool lips to hers. His eyes met hers only for a moment, long enough for Kay to remember that this was a man who could only be pushed so far.

And then he was walking past her, flicking on light switches so she could view the two bedrooms and adjoining baths, none of which interested her any longer. The house told her only so much about him; none of it explained the long, smooth scar on his chest or that streak of white in his dark hair.

“Mitch…”

“As you must have figured out, I had to have someplace to crash beyond the bare floors downstairs. This has served well enough.” Mitch turned with a wry smile as they entered his bedroom. “Though I have to admit, one’s bedroom isn’t the standard place to entertain visitors.”

The room looked like an excellent place to entertain visitors, Kay thought with a rare jealous streak. A couch and easy chair sat in their own private alcove; a luxuriously huge bed in another. The motif was Chinese, austere prints with a perfection of line, a richly lacquered chest, a pair of oriental carpets that felt like sponge beneath her feet. Mitch flipped on two lamps, and their muted glow shone softly on the richness of comfort and privacy he so clearly valued. A frantic thought occurred to her, and she raised startled eyes to his.

“Mitch-”

“You like the house?”

“I love the house. Listen. About that fig tree you gave me…?”

“I knew you’d love it, you know.” His forefinger swept back a strand of hair that had curled around her cheek. In contrast to that most tender gesture, every muscle in his body was totally rigid. He knew he shouldn’t have brought her here. She’d used some kind of perfume that had continually drifted toward him all evening. He’d watched her laughing with Hemerling; he’d watched the way she cupped a fist under her chin when she was listening intently; he’d watched her eyes come alive with humor and the way she tossed her head when she was irritated. And he’d so carefully not touched her.

“I thought it was glass,” she said hesitantly. “Mitch, it never occurred to me…”

The scent of her was such a drug. The more he tried to shake it, the stronger his addiction grew. He bent down, nuzzling his cheek into her hair, pressing his lips just behind the small shell of her ear.

“Are you listening to me?” Kay asked wryly. “Mitch…”

“I haven’t been this hungry for neck since I can remember,” he murmured.

Her stiffness dissolved in instant laughter. She swung her arms around his neck but leaned deliberately back from his marauding lips, trying to fix him with a quelling glance. “I want to talk about fig trees. Five-inch-high fig trees.”

“Okay,” he agreed. He sank down on the couch, taking her with him, swinging her legs over his thighs, leaning her back against the couch cushions. She had a terrible frown on her forehead; he leaned over her to kiss it away.