Page 9 of Courting Catherine
“No, thank you.” He sent her a charming smile. “I wonder if I might have a tour of the house. What I’ve seen so far is fascinating.”
C.C. gave a snort Coco pretended not to hear. “Of course, I’d be delighted to show you through.” She rose and with her back to Trent wiggled her eyebrows at her niece. “C.C., shouldn’t you be getting back?”
“No.” She rose and, with an abrupt change of tactics, smiled. “I’ll show Mr. St. James through, Aunt Coco. It’s nearly time for the children to be home from school.”
Coco glanced at the mantel clock, which had stopped weeks before at ten thirty-five. “Oh, well...”
“Don’t worry about a thing.” C.C. walked to the doorway and with an imperious gesture of her hand waved Trent along. “Mr. St. James?”
She started down the hall in front of him then up a floating staircase. “We’ll start at the top, shall we?” Without glancing back, she continued on and up, certain Trent would start wheezing and panting by the third flight.
She was disappointed.
They climbed the final circular set that led to the highest tower. C.C. put her hand on the knob and her shoulder to the thick oak door. With a grunt and a hard shove, it creaked open.
“The haunted tower,” she said grandly, and stepped inside amid the dust and echoes. The circular room was empty but for a few sturdy and fortunately empty mouse traps.
“Haunted?” Trent repeated, willing to play.
“My great-grandmother had her hideaway up here.” As she spoke, C.C. moved over to the curved window. “It’s said she would sit here, on this window seat, looking out to sea as she pined for her lover.”
“Quite a view,” Trent murmured. It was a dizzying drop down to the cliffs and the water that slapped and retreated. “Very dramatic.”
“Oh, we’re full of drama here. Great-Grandmama apparently couldn’t bear the deceit any longer and threw herself out this very window.” C.C. smiled smugly. “Now, on quiet nights you can hear her pacing this floor and weeping for her lost lover.”
“That should add something to the brochure.”
C.C. jammed her hands into her pockets. “I wouldn’t think ghosts would be good for business.”
“On the contrary.” His lips curved. “Shall we move on?”
Tight-lipped, C.C. strode out of the room. Using both hands, she tugged on the knob, then dug in a bit and prepared to put her back into it. When Trent’s hand closed over hers, she jolted as though she’d been scalded.
It felt as though she had.
“I can do it,” she muttered. Her eyes widened as she felt his body brush hers. He brought his other arm around, caging her, trapping her hands under his. C.C.’s heart bounded straight into her throat, then backflipped.
“It looks like a two-man job.” With this, Trent gave a hard tug that brought the door to and C.C. back smartly against him.
They stood there a moment, like lovers looking out at a sunset. He caught himself drawing in the scent of her hair while his hands remained cupped over hers. It passed through his mind that she was quite an armful—an amazingly sexy armful—then she jumped like a rabbit, slamming back against the wall.
“It’s warped.” She swallowed, hoping to smother the squeak in her voice. “Everything around here is warped or broken or about to disintegrate. I don’t know why you’d even consider buying it.”
Her face was pale as water, Trent noted, making her eyes that much deeper. The panicked distress in them seemed more than a warped tower door warranted. “Doors can be repaired or replaced.” Curious, he took a step toward her and watched her brace as if for a blow. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.” She knew if he touched her again she would go off like a rocket through what was left of the roof. “Nothing,” she repeated. “If you want to see anything else, we’d better go down.”
C.C. let out a long, slow breath as she followed him down the circular stairs. Her body was still throbbing oddly, as if she’d brushed a hand over a live wire. Not enough to get singed, she thought, just enough to let you know there was power.
She decided that gave her two reasons to get rid of Trenton St. James quickly.
She took him through the top floor, through the servants’ wing, the storage rooms, making certain to point out any cracked plaster, dry rot, rodent damage. It pleased her that the air was chill, slightly damp and definitely musty. It was even more gratifying to see that his suit was sprinkled with dust and his shoes were rapidly losing their shine.
Trent peered into one room that was crowded with furniture boxes, broken crockery. “Has anyone gone through all this stuff?”
“Oh, we’ll get around to it eventually.” She watched a fat spider sneak away from the dim light. “Most of these rooms haven’t been opened in fifty years—since my great-grandfather went insane.”
“Fergus.”
