* * *
The motorcycle skimmed across the ruts in the road and veered sharply at the opening in the gate. Here the pavement of the long winding driveway was freshly resurfaced, as smooth as the water on the duck pond that was visible from the entrance to the wooded estate.
Ivy Murdock smiled at the sight of a pair of ducks making lazy circles in the glassy surface of the water. Their annual return was a ritual that signaled the arrival of springtime. Once again, they had made it home.
Home. Was it possible for her to return, too? Even though this fabulous estate of Gertrude St. Martin had never really belonged to Ivy, it was the only place that had ever felt like home. She glanced at the magnificent house on the hill.
Thoughts and images tumbled over one another in her mind. The first time Ivy had seen this beautiful setting, she’d felt as if she had found heaven. Despite her mother’s resentment at what she considered a menial position, Ivy and her father were happier here than they’d ever been. She’d missed this place, these people, with an ache that was almost physical. Those first years away at college had been the hardest of her life. But the pain had been softened by frequent visits home. After her father was gone and her mother took a small apartment in the city, there had no longer been a home. Alone, drifting, her art became her anchor. She’d painted constantly, day and night, to ease the loneliness, until finally she’d made a niche for herself in the impersonal city.
Her heart fluttered as she drove nearer. Her hands inside the leather gloves grew moist. Why had she accepted this invitation? She nearly laughed at the word. An invitation from Gertrude St. Martin was really a royal command. And she’d accepted for a very simple reason. She wanted to see Aunt Tru again. She wanted to be surrounded, if only for a few days, by the family and the life of luxury that had always eluded her.
Though her father had only been an employee, she’d felt drawn to the St. Martin past as if it were her own. The lives of the St. Martins had been interwoven into the fabric of hers.
Her throat felt dry. Revving the engine, Ivy took the last curve of the driveway at breakneck speed.
She strode beneath a covered portico and glanced around the long-remembered estate. She felt a sense of joy at the sheer beauty of it. The house, of weathered brick and stone, rose to three stories amid five hundred prime acres of wooded rolling hills in upstate New York. The building didn’t intrude on the beautiful setting, it enhanced it. The house blended into the rolling landscape as naturally as the sunset. The mile-long driveway offered a view of carefully cultivated lawns and gardens. The caretaker’s cottage, just beyond the gate house, appeared vacant now. A lump formed in her throat; the estate had been her home for eight years.
The drive from New York City had been made in just over three hours. She shivered as the sun passed beneath the clouds. Although the spring air still held the chill of winter, the bright sunshine had made the ride tolerable.
Caine hurriedly rounded the corner of the house and stood watching as the helmeted figure walked briskly toward the door. The driver was tall and slender and wore a gray leather jacket. Faded jeans were stuffed into tall gray leather boots. The stride was purposeful, as if the stranger knew exactly where to go. Was this the sort of intruder who had been frightening his aunt?
Without warning, a rough hand caught at Ivy’s shoulder, spinning her around. She was hauled against a solid wall of chest and nearly lifted off her feet. Looking up, she found herself staring into dark, stormy eyes beneath slanted black brows. The scowling face masked a carefully contained fury.
“I hope you’re here by accident. The county road is a mile back that way.” He nodded toward the road. “You’re on private property.”
“Take your hands off me.” The voice, muffled behind the helmet, was deep, sultry.
His eyes widened in surprise and his grip tightened. The flesh beneath the leather was surprisingly soft. The figure struggled, twisting against his broad chest.
One hand broke free and raised to the helmet, ripping it off. A mass of dark hair, the color of the night sky, tumbled over her shoulders and down her back in a riot of waves. Caine was thunderstruck at the sight of her.
She was stunning. In her anger, green eyes flashed. The lashes were thick and dark, casting little shadows on high cheekbones. The face was oval, delicate, with flawless skin, and lips pursed in a little pout. He tried to ignore the hypnotic floral scent of her perfume which mingled with the spring breeze. Staring down into her face, he felt a strong, instantaneous attraction that startled him with its intensity.
“Who the hell are you? And what are you doing here?”
She glowered at him. “I’m not answering any of your questions until you take your hands off me.” He continued to hold her.
“You’re hurting me.”
He withdrew the offending hand.
She stepped back a pace. Her voice had a breathless quality. “My name is Ivy Murdock. And I was invited here for the weekend.”
“Ivy? My God!” Caine studied the slender figure before allowing a small smile to cross his lips.
Though he’d been away at college when her family had moved to the estate, he had seen her a few times during her childhood. She’d always reminded him of a frisky colt, running wild and free, climbing trees or dashing across the hills. Yes, he thought, his eyes narrowing. Although the braces were gone, and the hair was longer and darker now, she was still the free spirit he had glimpsed in years past.
“Hello, Weed. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you. I’m Caine St. Martin. I see you’ve finally quit growing.”
Now it was her turn to be caught off guard. In her surprise and anger, she hadn’t recognized the man in the careless attire as the college student she had studiously avoided in her youth. Thick dark hair spilled over a wide forehead. The face was older now, and if possible, even more handsome, in a rugged, craggy way. His shoulders were wide, the muscles of his forearms bulging beneath the sweater. The hands that had pinned her were strong, work-worn. She could still feel the imprint of his fingers on her skin.
She flushed at the hateful nickname he’d tagged on her years ago, when she had grown taller and faster than any of her classmates. Weed. Even then he’d towered over her. And, she remembered, she’d vowed that one day she would cut him down to size. “So have you.”
His gaze roamed over her slender figure.
She gave him a quick, contemptuous glare, then punched the doorbell. “Thanks for the warm reception. Do you intend to greet all your aunt’s guests like this, or was I the only lucky one?”
A hint of a smile touched Caine’s lips. It was a good thing he’d let go of her. He hadn’t known he was holding a tiger.
The door opened. A ruddy-faced man with a thatch of rusty hair liberally sprinkled with silver stood at attention.
“Chester. Oh, I’m so glad to see you.”
“Oh, my. Our little Miss Ivy.” His smile grew.
Little? She nearly laughed at his words. At five feet eight inches, she was at least four inches taller than this dear sweet man.
His cherubic face was wreathed in smiles. “Come in, lass. Come in.”
Ignoring the scowling man behind her, she gave Chester an impulsive hug, which he accepted awkwardly before glancing at Caine and stepping back a pace.
Chester straightened his jacket and brushed invisible lint from his lapel while his cheeks turned crimson. “Miss St. Martin is upstairs in the sitting room.”
She laughed, a joyful sound in the silence of the huge marbled foyer. “Thanks, Chester.”
As she turned away, he cleared his throat. “Miss Ivy?”
She paused. “Yes?”
“I’ll need your keys. To park that—thing in the garage.”
She grinned. “Okay.” Rummaging through her pockets, she shrugged. “I don’t seem to have them. Maybe I...” She went back outside to check the ignition. With a puzzled frown she muttered, “Now where did...”
Chester pointed to the ground. In the
scuffle, she must have dropped them.
With a grin, she retrieved the keys and handed them to him. “Here, Chester. Think you can handle it?”
Caine bit back the laughter at the look on the butler’s face. For a moment Chester stared at the motorcycle as if it were a space vehicle. Then he squared his shoulders. “I guess if you can drive it all the way from New York City, I can manage to drive it a hundred yards.”
Caine took pity on the old man. “Never mind, Chester. I’ll take care of Miss Murdock’s motorcycle.”
The butler shot him a lot of gratitude. “What will I do with this helmet?” He held it stiffly away from him, unwilling to allow it to contaminate his spotless white shirt.
“Leave it with the bike. That way I can find it when I need it.” She started toward the stairs.
“Miss Ivy.”
She paused.
“Your glove.” He bent and lifted it from the doorway.
She glanced at the single glove in her hand, gave a wry grin, then walked back and took the other from the butler.
“Thanks, Chester.”
“Now, if you’ll just follow me, I’ll announce you.”
Caine chuckled as she took the stairs two at a time. She might be older, and if possible even prettier, but she hadn’t changed a bit. She was still a lovable scatterbrain.