Heart of Stone Page 12

  Unless she was escorted by Perry, Stephanie didn't attend any social function. Even long-time friends saw little of her. Except to shop or go to the inn to work, she rarely left the farmhouse.

  New Hampshire natives clucked their tongues when she walked down the streets, prophesying that she would surely become an old maid. With Perry seeing more and more of the young schoolteacher, they wondered among themselves what she would do if her brother got married.

  But Stephanie couldn't look ahead any further than the next day. It was the way she had got through January, February and March. It hadn't been easy. She wondered if it ever would, But the worst was over…over.

  Chapter Nine

  PRECARIOUSLY BALANCED on a metal folding chair, Stephanie reached as far as she could, but she still couldn't reach the square of dust taunting her from the rear top of the filing cabinet. Sighing, she straightened to stand on the unsteady chair.

  The door to her office opened and Perry entered. "Hi."

  Affection warmed her eyes, although the curve to her lips was barely discernible. "Hi, yourself. Your timing is excellent." She carefully stepped down from the chair. "I need your long arm to dust the back of the cabinet."

  "What's this? Spring-cleaning time?" Good-naturedly, he took the duster she handed him and stepped onto the chair, easily reaching the rear of the metal top.

  "It's the right time of year," Stephanie pointed out. The calendar on the wall was opened to April. "Besides, I didn't have anything else to do this afternoon."

  "Mud season is always the slow time of year," he joked. "Want me to dust the top of the other cabinet?"

  "As long as you're here, be my guest." Taking a spare duster, she started toward the metal storage cabinet where the extra stationery and forms were kept. The shelves looked as if someone had been finger painting in the dust.

  "Brock's coming," said Perry.

  She had lived in dread of those words. They hit her, spinning her around toward Perry. Accidentally she knocked the wooden cylinder filled with pens and pencils off her desk, scattering them on the floor.

  "Damn!" She choked out the word and bent hurriedly to pick them up, grateful for a reason to hide the tears that sprang into her eyes.

  She had forced the tears all inside by the time she had gathered all the pencils. Her hands were shaking when she returned the cylinder to the desk. Perry was feigning interest in the sharpness of her letter opener, giving her a chance to recover.

  "When…?" She had to swallow the lump in her throat and try again. "When is he coming?"

  "This weekend. On Friday," he tacked on to be more specific.

  "Oh." The duster was twisted into a tight ball in her hands.

  "Are you going to run and hide?" His question was really a challenge.

  It made her feel like a first-class coward, because it was exactly what she wanted to do. "No." But it was a very small sound.

  "Good girl," her brother praised. She lifted her head, letting him see the tortured anguish in her eyes. "Come on," he cajoled, "let's see some of that stiff New England backbone."

  "Sure." She took a deep breath and turned away.

  He clamped a hand on her shoulder in a firm display of affection. "There isn't much happening around here today. We'll leave early this afternoon, around four, okay?"

  "Do you have a date tonight with Joyce?" she asked, trying to follow his change of subject.

  "No, not tonight. See you later." He moved toward the door.

  Stephanie walked back to her desk and sat down. Brock was coming. It twisted her inside until she wanted to cry out, but she didn't. She had been bracing herself for this moment. Now it had come—her first true test. After nearly four months, surely she would survive it.

  FRIDAY. FRIDAY. FRIDAY. Each beat of her pulse seemed to hammer out the word. When she arrived at the inn that morning she was a nervous wreck, despite her well-disciplined outward show of calm.

  It took her twice as long as usual to get the payroll checks ready for Perry's signature. Especially the last few, because that was when Perry stuck his head in the door to tell her Brock had just driven up. After that, she mentally jumped at nearly every sound, expecting him to walk in.

  She skipped lunch to finish payroll, finally getting it done at two o'clock. Gathering them into a folder, she walked down the hall to Perry's office. The door was standing open, but he wasn't there.

  Probably with Brock, Stephanie surmised and walked in to leave the folder on his desk. Out of habit, she paused to straighten the leather desk set that had belonged to their father.

  "Excuse me, miss." Brock's voice ran through her like a lightning bolt. "Could you tell me where I could find Mr. Hall?"

  It gradually dawned on her that the question was being addressed to her. She turned, slowly to see him framed by the doorway. Tall, dressed in a gray suit, he was every bit as compelling as she remembered him, if not more so. She watched the disbelief of recognition flash across his expression.

  "Stephanie," he murmured her name and took a step into the office. "You've changed. I didn't recognize you."

  His gray eyes seemed to examine every detail from her willowy figure to the new, sophisticated way she wore her hair. His inspection left the sensation that he had physically touched her. Inside, she was a quaking mass of nerves.

  "Yes, I've changed," she admitted, but not where he was concerned. The love she felt was just as strong, if not tempered by the separation. She turned away, pretending to straighten some papers to keep from giving in to the impulse to throw herself into his arms. "I'm afraid I don't know where my brother is. Perhaps you should check at the desk."

  "How are you?" Brock inquired, his voice coming from only a few feet behind.

  "I'm fine" That was a lie. She was dying inside. But she turned to face him and lend strength to her assertion.

  At closer quarters she could see the changes times had made on him. Still vital, still vigorously masculine, he looked leaner in the face. The hollows of his cheeks were almost gaunt. More lines were carved into his skin or else previous ones had grown deeper, especially around his eyes, where they fanned out. And he seemed harder.

  "From all the reports I received, the inn did exceptionally good winter business," he remarked.

  "Yes. It seems quite empty now, but spring is generally slow." Why was she letting this conversation continue? Why didn't she leave? Stephanie was angry with herself for not possessing the willpower to walk out the door. With a defiant tilt of her chin, she flashed him a cold look. "But I'm sure that won't bother you, since you bring your entertainment with you." Then she was angry for referring even indirectly to his female companions. "Excuse me, I have work to do."

  She brushed past him, hurrying from the room before she made a complete fool of herself. She met Perry in the hall.

  "Brock's looking for you. He's in your office." Her voice was brittle with the force of her control.

  Concern flashed quickly. "Are you okay?"

  Her answer was a silent, affirmative nod. He touched her arm as he walked by her to his office. Stephanie slipped quickly into her own and leaned against the door, shaking in reaction. It was several minutes before her legs felt strong enough to carry her to the desk.

  At five o'clock Perry came to take her home. As they drove away from the inn, he said, "You don't have to worry about getting dinner tonight."

  "I suppose you're eating out tonight." With Brock, she added silently.

  "You're half-right," he replied cheerfully, and she realized he had been in a good mood when he picked her up. "We are eating out tonight."

  "Perry, I—" Stephanie started to refuse. "It's in the way of a celebration," he inserted, and glanced at her. When he saw the look in her eyes, he smiled. "Brock isn't going to be there. At least, he isn't invited." Her brother actually laughed. "Just you, me and Joyce. She's meeting us at the inn."

  Celebration. Joyce, the schoolteacher. "Are…?" There was a quick rush of gladness at the implication. Stephanie
turned in her seat, her eyes wide and shining. "Perry, are you and Joyce getting married? Are we celebrating your engagement?"

  "That isn't exactly what we're celebrating, at least not yet," he hedged. "I haven't even asked her yet. Do you like her, Stephanie?"

  "Yes, and I rather fancy the idea of having her for a sister-in-law," she admitted. "But let's get back to this dinner. What are we celebrating tonight if it isn't your engagement?"

  "That's a surprise. I'm saving it for dinner," Perry declared with a secretive complacency. "And you haven't got all night to dress. I promised Joyce we'd meet her a little after six, so you have to hustle."

  One other change her weight loss had made besides slenderizing her appearance was that her closet was filled with a whole new wardrobe. It wasn't nearly as difficult to chose what to wear since Stephanie liked them all. In view of Perry's insistence that tonight's dinner was a celebration, she picked an aquamarine dress of whipped silk.

  Joyce Henderson was waiting for them when they returned to the inn. A petite and pert brunette, she was naturally outgoing and intelligent. Stephanie thought she was a perfect choice for her brother, who tended to be too serious at times.

  "What's this all about, Perry?" Joyce questioned immediately. "You were so mysterious about it on the phone this afternoon."

  "Just wait," he insisted, taking her arm and guiding her to the restaurant entrance.

  "Has he told you, Stephanie?" She looked around Perry's bulk at Stephanie.

  "He hasn't given me as much as a hint," she replied.

  "You'll both find out soon," he promised. After they were seated at a table, he waved aside the dinner menus. "We'll order later. Bring us a bottle of champagne."

  "Champagne?" Stephanie frowned. "You really meant it when you said this was going to be a celebration! How much longer are you going to keep us in suspense?"

  "Wait for the champagne." Her brother was enjoying the secrecy.

  The champagne arrived. Because the waiter was serving his boss, there was a little extra pomp and ceremony attached to popping the cork and pouring a sample for his approval. Finally the three glasses were filled with the sparkling wine.

  "All right, the champagne is here. Now out with it," Joyce demanded.

  Perry lifted his glass and started to speak, but his gaze focused on a point to the left of Stephanie, then ran swiftly to her. It was the only warning she received before Brock spoke.

  "I find myself dining alone this evening. Do you mind if I join you?" he asked.

  They were seated at a table for four, and the chair that was vacant was next to Stephanie. She wanted to cry out to Perry to refuse permission, but her voice failed her. Or perhaps she knew Perry wouldn't listen to her, anyway.

  "Of course, Brock. Sit down," her brother invited with subdued enthusiasm and motioned to the waiter to bring another place setting.

  Stephanie sat silently through Perry's introduction of Joyce to Brock, aware of the dark-suited shoulder and arm next to her. But she wouldn't look at him. She couldn't look at him.

  It didn't seem to matter. Her senses were filled with his presence—the vigorously male smell of his cologne, the warm, rich sound of his voice and the sensation that she only had to reach out to touch him.

  Another glass of champagne was poured for Brock. "Have you told them the news?" he asked Perry.

  "Not yet," he admitted.

  "You know what it is?" Stephanie sent Brock a surprised look and her gaze was caught by the enigmatical grayness of his.

  He held it for an enchanted instant, then his gaze slid to Perry. "I know about it."

  "Will one of you tell us?" Joyce suggested with faint exasperation.

  Perry hesitated, bouncing a glance at Stephanie. "Brock is selling the inn."

  "That doesn't come as a surprise." Although it was possibly a cause for celebration even if she didn't feel it at the moment. She fingered the stem of her wineglass, darting a look in Brock's direction. "The inn was really a nuisance to you, anyway. I'm sure you'll be glad to get it off your hands."

  "I will, but not for your reason," Brock replied, but didn't explain what his reason was.

  "Is this what we're celebrating?" Joyce was confused.

  Perry glanced at her and smiled. "He's selling it to me. You're sitting with the future owner of the White Boar Inn."

  "What? I don't believe it!" Joyce was incredulous and ecstatic at the same time. She was laughing while tears glittered in her eyes. "Perry, that's wonderful!"

  "I think so," he agreed.

  "I'm glad for you," Stephanie offered. For herself, she knew how much she would miss the previous owner.

  But her brother didn't seem to notice her lukewarm congratulations as glasses were raised in a toast. Stephanie barely sipped at her champagne, not needing its heady effects when Brock was sitting beside her, disrupting her composure and destroying her calm.

  "Perry didn't explain the proposal I offered him," said Brock, glancing at Stephanie over the rim of his glass. "Actually I gave him two choices."

  "Yes, well, I made my choice," her brother shrugged. "It's what I really want. There isn't any question in my mind."

  "What was the other choice?" Stephanie glanced from her brother to Brock. She sensed there was something significant here.

  "I explained to him this afternoon that I'd decided to sell the inn," Brock began. "If he wanted to buy it, I agreed to personally finance it for him or…" he paused, "I offered to give him a full year's pay plus a bonus—more than enough to pay his tuition through law school."

  "But…" She stared at her brother. "I don't understand…"

  "Neither did I, until Brock offered me the choice." He shook his head, as if a little amazed by it himself. "But when it was there in front of me, I knew that what I really wanted was this place. All my life I thought I wanted to be a lawyer, but when it came right down to it, I couldn't give up this place."

  "I know the feeling," said Brock. "The inn isn't the only thing I'm selling. Quite a few of my other companies are on the market. And I'm consolidating the rest of my holdings." He set his wineglass down, watching the bubbles rise to the surface. "As a matter of fact, I'm looking at some four-bedroom homes."

  Stephanie's heart stopped beating. She was afraid to breathe or move, terrified that she was reading something into that statement that Brock didn't mean. Her wide blue eyes stared at him. Slowly he lifted his gaze to look at her.

  "Would you be interested in helping me pick one out, Stephanie?" he asked huskily. "I don't want there to be any question about my intentions, so I'm asking you in front of your brother—will you marry me?"

  "Yes." Where was her pride? Quickly Stephanie retracted it. "No." Then she wavered, "I don't know."

  "You need a more private place than this to convince her, Brock," Perry suggested.

  "Will you let me convince you?" He studied her.

  "Yes," she whispered.

  "Excuse us." Brock rose from his chair and waited for her to join him.

  She felt like a sleepwalker lost in a marvelous dream as Brock escorted her from the restaurant, his hand lightly resting on the small of her back, faintly possessive. She stiffened in mute resistance when she realized he was guiding her to his suite.

  It was the scene of too many conflicting and painful memories. Anywhere else and she might have melted right into his arms the minute they were alone. But when he closed the door, she put distance between them.

  "Why, Brock? Why, after all this time?" she asked, remembering the days of hell she'd been through.

  "Because I made the same discovery Perry did. I always thought I had the way of life I wanted, until I met you. Even then I didn't recognize what was happening. I didn't see the choice that was in front of me. In these last few months I've had my way of life, but I finally realized that it could all go down the drainpipe and I wouldn't care, if I had you."

  "But—" Stephanie turned, searching his face, wanting desperately to believe him "—here…Helen…
" It was such a painful memory that she couldn't put it into words.

  "I know how much I hurt you." A muscle flexed in his jaw as he clenched it. "I wanted you from the moment I met you. I fooled myself into believing we could have an affair—a long affair—even later I thought our marriage could survive my life-style," he said. "Then that night when I made a jealous idiot of myself over that neighbor of yours, and you pointed out the uncertainties and torment you felt when I was away, I knew that constant separations would ultimately kill what we had. I was being ripped apart by them already. I can only imagine what you were going through."

  "Why didn't you explain that?" she questioned, aware that he was moving toward her.

  "Because, my lovely Yankee, we might have convinced each other we could make it work. So when you called asking to see me, I knew you were coming with the intention of making up. I put you off and called Helen in Boston." His hands began to move in a series of restless caresses over her shoulders. "I wanted you so much I couldn't trust myself alone with you—I couldn't trust myself to resist your possible arguments. So I staged that scene with Helen, arranged for her to walk in within minutes after you arrived."

  "How could you?" It was a tautly whispered accusation, ripe with remembered pain.

  "It was cruelly vicious, I admit it." His eyes glittered with profound regret. "But I never for one minute thought that one of the first things you would say was that you loved me. The hardest thing I've ever done was reject you and your love. I thought it might be easier for you if I made you hate me."

  "You nearly succeeded!"

  "Nearly?" He cupped her chin in his hand and raised it to study her face. "You mean you don't hate me."

  "No. Brock, I love you. I've never stopped loving you," Stephanie admitted.