Into His Private Domain Read online

  His face closed up. “You wouldn’t have heard of it.” Any good humor he’d exhibited had evaporated. “I need to get back to work.”

  “Tell me what else you make,” she coaxed. “And for whom.”

  He let out an exaggerated, aggrieved sigh. “An armoire for a Middle Eastern sheikh. Windsor chairs for a Boston heiress. A desk for a former president…”

  “That’s amazing,” she said simply. “You must be phenomenally talented. Is this what you studied in school?”

  His expression darkened. “I earned a law degree at my father’s urging. But I found out pretty quickly that I wasn’t cut out for litigation. To show my dad what a badass I was, I enlisted in the army and did some time in Afghanistan.”

  “He must have been proud.”

  “He was terrified,” Gareth said flatly. “And I regretted my rebellion almost from the beginning. Thank God nothing happened to me. I think it would have killed him.”

  Gracie saw the moment Gareth left her and went to some dark place. His eyes looked out across the room, unseeing. She struggled to find a new topic, one that didn’t make her host look as if tragedy hovered far too close. A framed eight-by-ten photograph caught her eye. “Who’s that?” she asked, moving closer.

  Gareth’s lips tightened. “Laura Wolff. My mother.”

  Again, a wisp of remembrance teased her. But it was gone before she could process what it meant. Gracie noted the resemblance in coloring between the woman and her son, but Gareth’s strong profile must come from his father. His mother’s features were delicate. She had an upturned nose and laughing eyes. “Does she live in the big house on top of the hill?”

  “She’d dead.”

  He was trying to shock her into shutting up. She realized that. But she was hungry for information, anything to fill up the gray void that was her brain. “I don’t suppose you want to tell me what happened.”

  “No,” he said, his voice and expression harsh. “It’s none of your damned business.”

  “I get that,” she said quietly. “But you have to understand that if I don’t ask questions…if I don’t try to piece together the world around me, I’m scared to death I’ll never remember anything.” Her chin wobbled, and she swallowed the embarrassing tears that ambushed her at odd moments. It was easy enough to distract herself for a few minutes, but the truth was, she was as lacking in self-knowledge as a newborn babe.

  Gareth made a visible effort to pull himself out of whatever funk her volley of questions had put him in. And she saw genuine sympathy in his gaze.

  He returned to his task, his big hands moving over the wood with a lover’s caress. His eyes focused downward. “It’s barely been twenty-four hours, Gracie. Give it time.”

  “How much time?” she asked, feeling frustrated at her impotence. “A day? A week? I should go home to Georgia. Familiar territory may be the only thing that jogs my memory.”

  He paused, looking up at her with reluctant compassion. “You need to stay for now. I can’t in good conscience let you go home, because your father is gone. Until we get more information about you, or until a friend or relative comes forward to care for you, you’re stuck with us.”

  “You could take me to a hotel in Savannah. I could explore the town like a tourist…see if anything pops.”

  “I’m not dumping you in an impersonal hotel all alone. And if you’re honest, I doubt you really want me to.”

  She wrapped her arms around her waist, rocking back and forth on her heels. “My father didn’t sound like a very nice man,” she said slowly. “I’m embarrassed to say that, but it’s true. And when I think about leaving here, it panics me…because I only have twenty-four hours of life in my data bank, and Wolff Mountain is all I know. Does that sound stupid?”

  “Not stupid. But perhaps naive. You don’t really know anything about this place…or at least not much. You’ve seen part of my house and some of Jacob’s. But nothing here is likely to stimulate the return of your memory.”

  “Which is why I should leave,” she said flatly, feeling a sharp ache in the pit of her stomach.

  He abandoned his work and closed the gap between them. “I think you should relax.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  His brief but striking smile returned. He brushed his thumb over her cheekbone, the fleeting caress as shocking as it was tantalizing. “Lucky for you, I’m always right.”

  Gracie’s stomach plunged and her heart went haywire in her chest. She had no defenses against a Gareth who chose to be tender and teasing. Backing away slowly, she tried to smile. Did he notice the flush of color that heated her cheeks?

  “I’ll let you get back to work,” she said hoarsely.

  He nodded, his gaze hooded.

  For several long heartbeats, they simply looked at each other.

  And when it seemed as if something cataclysmic might shatter the tense silence, she fled.

  Five

  Gareth climbed the side of the mountain behind his workshop, pushing the pace, making his lungs labor. But he was unable to outrun the problem that waited below. And unfortunately, Gracie Darlington was potentially more than a problem. At last he stopped, bent forward with his hands on his knees and cursed.

  Once before in his life, a beautiful, seemingly guile-free woman had used a strong physical attraction to persuade Gareth to trust her. Back then he had not been able to see past his own testosterone fueled hunger to the calculating bitch she really was. The resultant debacle cost Gareth dearly.

  During a dinner party at the family home, his girlfriend had stolen a priceless piece of art, a small-enough-to-hide-in-a-purse Manet worth a quarter of a million dollars. The painting was eventually recovered, but the damage was done. On top of the tragedy in Gareth’s childhood, this betrayal closed him off for good. He became cynical, antisocial and mistrustful of strangers. And he liked it that way.

  His father had chastised him harshly in the aftermath of the unfortunate incident. Gareth’s resultant humiliation led to his reckless run-away-from-home stint in the army. In all fairness, he’d only been twenty-four at the time. And his lack of judgment eight years ago had taught him valuable lessons about human nature. But even now, feeling an undeniable response to sexy Gracie, Gareth was on his guard.

  He wiped his mouth, staring sightlessly at the ground, feeling the soft cushion of moss beneath his feet, listening to the quiet gurgle of the nearby creek.

  His mind wrestled with frustration, both mental and physical. He’d awakened before dawn, his erection rigid and painful. Dreams, dark and hot, tormented his subconscious. And Gracie walked in those dreams. Smiled. Beckoned.

  All around him, the early-spring abundance mocked Gareth’s barren bed. The forest teemed with life. Gareth knew it well…had played in these same woods as a boy. It was a landscape as familiar to him as the small silver scar on the back of his right hand. For eighteen years he had lived and learned and grown, protected by geography and his father’s phalanx of security guards from the dangerous outside world.

  He wondered if Jacob and Kieran had resented the isolation as much as he had. The siblings were close, but in the way of men they seldom articulated feelings.

  Even as adults they catered to their father’s and uncle’s paranoia in many ways, though they had each outgrown the fears the older men had bred in them as boys. And now, bit by bit, the cousins were all coming home.

  Was it integrity or foolishness?

  A bee buzzed gently around Gareth’s ear. He batted gently at the insect then stretched. Losing himself in the forest was no way for a man to deal with the conundrum of a woman he wanted. But Gareth felt at home here, as much as in the elegant but oddly empty house he’d built and furnished in the last eighteen months.

  He’d come home from the army, not a broken man, but a man who understood that it was possible to be lonely in a crowd. No one really understood what his life had been like growing up. His buddies on the front line didn’t really care. Every day there was abo
ut survival. And that was Gareth’s goal now…survival.

  The furniture creation had begun on a whim, an extension of his boyhood love of carving. But in the grip of creative passion, he had gradually begun healing and had found a purpose for his life on the mountain.

  Gracie could so easily destroy his newfound peace.

  He firmed his jaw, took one last look at the budding green of tree and bush and turned his back on the bucolic scene. As he strode back down the mountain, his long legs made quick work of the journey despite the lack of a marked path.

  He paused on the knoll above his house. Below him, framed in the deliberate swath he’d cut in the treetops, lay the valley floor. It seemed almost dreamlike, a fairy-tale place of warm hay, newly minted corn sprouts and the muted, busy hum of tractors. Normal people lived in the valley. Families with mortgages and financial worries and homes filled with noisy offspring.

  Some days Gareth envied them. He was no longer a carefree, barefoot lad with stained, ripped shorts playing amidst blackberry thickets and flopping belly-first to watch salamanders in the creek. That boy had never hesitated to grab the world by the tail.

  Thank God he had his workshop. At least when he was there, he could concentrate on the grain of fine wood, could smooth his hands over sleek curves, searching for any imperfections, forcing the oak or cherry or cedar to his own design.

  As Gareth tromped with noisy footsteps onto the porch of his hideaway, the heavy basset hound dozing peacefully by the door shuffled suddenly into a new position, tucked his big head onto his paws and sighed deeply. His floppy ears were mottled with sawdust. It was enough to make Gareth smile despite his discontent. But only for a moment.

  He was a man. Lonely. Frustrated. Torn between caution and desire. His entire body ached with the need to bury himself between a woman’s soft thighs, to touch her breasts and ride her to oblivion. And not just any woman. Gracie. God, he could feel the moment of climax in his imagination.

  As he picked up his handsaw, a hard-won measure of peace calmed him. The steps of his craft were familiar. Whenever he worked at his lathe with a lover’s concentration, all else faded away. In his head there was always a vision of the finished piece. A beautiful chair, a sleek modern table, a sturdy chest. He’d tramped these hills in weeks past, locating materials, dragging them home. The art came from his Irish roots, the business sense a maternal genetic gift of Yankee drive and intuition.

  But this afternoon, even the familiar routines of cut and turn, sand and polish, were not enough. After an hour and a half, he tossed his tools aside with a growl of displeasure. Nearly butchering a lovely length of chestnut told him it was time to stop. He poured a cup of coffee, and carried his mug outside.

  The dog, Fenton, had scarcely moved. Gareth finished his drink, set the mug on the floor and clenched his hands on the split-log railing, heedless of splinters or rough shards of bark. He worked with such realities every day. His hands were a workingman’s hands, callused, strong, not at all pretty.

  A stinging discomfort pierced his introspection, and he realized his hand was bleeding. He’d gripped the railing so tightly that one thin sliver of wood had pierced his thumb. Absently he removed the piece and sucked at the tiny oozing wound.

  He glanced up at the sky, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face. It had been a long, cold winter. And because of Gracie’s advent into his life, he was, for the first time in a long time, questioning his self-imposed social exile. His father had forgiven him a long time ago. But Gareth had not been able to let go of the past. So many mistakes. So much pain for those he loved.

  Was Gracie an arousing, fascinating gift, or a Trojan horse?

  No divine intervention appeared from the fluffy clouds that resembled frolicking lambs. No jolt of understanding filled him with purpose.

  He dropped his head forward, pressing it against a post, inhaling and exhaling, feeling on the precipice of disaster. He acknowledged what he’d been fighting to ignore all morning. Change was on the way. He could feel it in his bones, the sinews of his flesh.

  Something was in the wind. He felt it brush his skin, smelled it in the air, tasted its unfamiliarity.

  And her name was Gracie…

  Gracie woke from a nap to find Jacob Wolff loitering in the kitchen, drinking a beer and reading email on his BlackBerry. He glanced up with a smile. “You look much better. How do you feel?”

  She poured herself a glass of water. “Pretty good. The headache’s almost gone.”

  “But your memory?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Still blank.”

  He stood and smoothed a hand over the front of his crisp white shirt. With his expensive haircut and knife-pleated black slacks, his appearance couldn’t have been more different than Gareth’s. But Jacob, handsome and sophisticated though he was, didn’t stir Gracie’s pulse in the least.

  “Can I ask you something?” she said abruptly.

  Jacob finished his drink and set the bottle on the counter. “Of course.”

  “This house is immaculate…and the fridge and freezer are stocked with food. But there’s no one here except for Gareth.”

  Jacob chuckled. “We call it the silent army.” At her upraised eyebrow, he explained. “My father and uncle employ a significant number of people at the big house…everything from gardeners to housekeepers, chefs, mechanics. And my cousins and I have access to those services as we choose.”

  “But Gareth isn’t fond of people.”

  “So my father has set up an elaborate system whereby the various service employees sneak down here and take care of things either when Gareth is out of town or is working in his shop.”

  “Well, that explains it,” she said smiling. “I was beginning to think he was Superman.”

  “He is, in many ways. Never underestimate him, Gracie. He’s been through a hell of a lot in his lifetime. And yes, he’s a bit of a curmudgeon on the outside. But he feels things deeply. Perhaps too deeply for his own good.”

  “I asked him about his mother…your mother. He wouldn’t speak of her.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.” He motioned toward the den. “Do you mind if I give you a quick exam? For my own piece of mind?”

  “Of course not.”

  They sat side by side on the sofa as Jacob took her pulse, checked her blood pressure and examined her head. “The knot is smaller,” he murmured. He took out a penlight and held her chin steady.

  Gracie blinked as the strong beam hit her pupil. “Will you tell me?” she asked quietly. “About your mother?”

  Jacob used his thumb to hold open her other eyelid. “Why is it so important to you?”

  “I want to understand Gareth. There was some reason I showed up here in the beginning. Something that had to do with him. My father knows, but he doesn’t seem inclined to communicate with me, especially now that he’s left the country. I’m scared that my motives were questionable. And I don’t want Gareth to be angry when the truth comes out. I’ll go home as soon as I can, but in the meantime, surely you see that the more I learn about him, the better chance I have of remembering why I came.”

  Jacob’s expression was skeptical, and suddenly, the resemblance between the two brothers was more pronounced. “We don’t talk about our family to outsiders,” he said bluntly. “We’ve had our fill of sensational news stories and would-be novelists trying to benefit from our misfortune.”

  “I don’t want to hurt Gareth…or anyone.”

  “But you don’t know who you really are. You might be a reporter looking for a story. And as such, that means Gareth may be sharing his home with the enemy.”

  “Ouch,” she said, wincing. “Isn’t that a bit harsh?”

  “You have no idea the things that have been written about the Wolff family over the years.”

  “I wouldn’t do that. Please, Jacob. I’m floundering in this huge sea of nothingness. Toss me a life raft. I won’t do anything with the information, I swear. I just want to know how your mother died.�
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  His face grayed, his eyes dull. “I may as well tell you. It’s nothing you couldn’t find on the internet with a little digging.” He paused and took a ragged breath. “She and my aunt were murdered. In the eighties, when we were all children. Gareth is the only one of us who was really old enough to remember them clearly. They were kidnapped, held for ransom and killed anyway…even when the money was paid. Is that what you wanted, Gracie? Well, now you know.”

  He stormed out of the room and out of the house, leaving her feeling sick. Thank God she hadn’t pressed Gareth for details. Given the way the calm, friendly Jacob reacted in the telling of that horrible tale, Gareth would likely have exploded.

  Her heart bled for him. What an unimaginable tragedy. One that affected two families. And clearly, the pain lingered even after twenty-plus years. No wonder the two old men gathered their young around them like broody mother hens. Their experience would have changed them irrevocably.

  She jerked when Gareth’s voice sounded behind her.

  “Was that Jacob I saw leaving?”

  “He came to check on me.” She stood up, feeling as if guilt was inscribed on her face.

  “And?”

  Had he overheard part of the conversation? “And what?” she said, playing for time.

  “Your head? Your leg?”

  “Oh.” She gave an inward sigh of relief. “He says I’m recovering very well.”

  “Would you like to swim?”

  The odd segue wrinkled her forehead. “Um, yes…I suppose.”

  “I told Annalise to get you a suit. Can you change in ten minutes?”

  “Of course.”

  She made it in eight. Gareth was standing in the kitchen wearing nothing but navy boxer-style swim trunks that clung to his body and left little to the imagination.

  Her throat dried and her tongue felt clumsy in her mouth. She was suddenly stingingly aware that her swimsuit left her mostly naked, though for the moment she was veiled in a terry cover-up.

  “This way,” he said abruptly, leaving her to follow along in his wake.