voice had Marti blushing anew. Genevieve wasn’t immune herself. Not in the least. If it wasn’t for her constant consciousness of Cynthia, she would be well on her way toward having a crush herself—and that was saying a great deal for her.
Thanking Marti for the check that the older woman handed her, which represented her commission as agent and broker, Genevieve escorted Marshall out of the building.
They weren’t halfway down the sidewalk when Marshall’s BlackBerry buzzed. A half-step ahead of him, Genevieve glanced over and their gazes collided. Clearly, he hadn’t been expecting a call—or maybe he had and anticipated the worst?
Taking a step back, she touched his arm. “You have to answer it,” she said gently.
Grim-faced, he drew out the device, took one look at the screen and flexed his strong jaw.
That expression told her all that she needed to know. “Give me those and I’ll get the Escalade’s doors unlocked.” She took his folder of closing papers from him and left him the modicum of privacy that was available.
Lowering his head, Marshall connected and said, “Roark.” After a moment, he said, “Tell me.”
Genevieve triggered her key and opened the passenger door to the SUV, which had less to do with saving him from the vehicle’s interior heat and everything to do with the prospect of more privacy if he realized he needed it. Then she circled toward the back, stealing glimpses of him around corners and through glass on her way to the driver’s side. Regardless of her undeniable attraction to the man, she owed him her protection and support. Her intuition told her to get as far away from him as possible, away from what this phone call might set into motion. Her sense of responsibility made that impossible.
Marshall suddenly turned his back to her. She drew in a sharp breath and began preparing herself for the worst in that strange way the mind functioned, even when you consciously were rejecting what was happening. He set his left hand on his hip and tilted his head back to look up at the cloudless sky. A 747 was descending on its approach into DFW airport, some hundred miles west. Genevieve could have bet what was left of her heart that he didn’t see it. As tension in his squared shoulders tested the silk of his tailored jacket, she wished there was something she could do, but she knew from experience that if this was as bad as she feared, for the moment any presence whatsoever was unwelcome.
She got into the driver’s seat of the Escalade and, after keying the engine to cool down the vehicle, stared at the steering wheel, then out the driver’s window, anywhere to give him some semblance of privacy. Just as she gave up and let her gaze return to him, he disconnected. Gripping the BlackBerry as though trying to decide whether to crush it or fling it to heaven—or hell—he came to the SUV and climbed in. That was all. He didn’t try to close the door or fasten his seat belt, he just sat there.
Genevieve turned down the blowers two notches so he could hear her. “Marshall, close the door,” she coaxed. “I’ll get you back there.”
He turned to her, his dark blue eyes an unforgettable combination of shock and pain.
“It’s too late,” he said. “She’s already gone.”
Chapter One
Cynthia Kittredge Roark’s death put any thought of a moving day onto the back burner of Marshall’s life. Instead, he escorted his wife’s body back to Northern California, where it was reported she was to be laid to rest in the Kittredge family mausoleum.
It was another two weeks before Genevieve heard from Marshall again. Upon his return, he called from the bed-and-breakfast Oaklea Mansion and Manor House in the nearby piney woods town of Winnsboro where he’d been staying whenever he and Cynthia had driven in from Dallas. He asked Genevieve if her offer still stood to help him get situated. Genevieve didn’t hesitate; she assured him that he only had to give her a day and time and she would arrange to be at the Lake Starling house.
The movers finally appeared four days later. Concerned by the extra time the place had sat empty, Genevieve arranged for—with Marshall’s blessing—a thorough cleaning using the reliable service she employed herself, as did her mother. By the time the massive eighteen-wheeler backed onto the cement driveway on the third Friday in August bearing the Roarks’ furniture and personal belongings, she was able to direct them through a house that sparkled in welcome.
Thank goodness another early morning delivery had been possible. By eight o’clock, the temperatures had already climbed beyond the overnight eighty-three degrees despite the supposed cooling lake breeze. At least the new double-door stainless-steel refrigerator was in place and the electricity was on. The ice machine was up to speed, and Genevieve—using a key that Marshall had left with her—had one shelf stocked since the previous afternoon with bottled water and soft drinks for the crew, which she pointed out to them before they started unloading.
She had dressed partly for a day of labor, determined to make things as easy as possible for Marshall, but wasn’t quite able to give up on her need to be prepared for an office emergency. Her jeans were the ones she saved for attic filter changes and the serious refrigerator cleaning, her sneakers the same ones she used at the gym. But her gauzy caramel-colored top was dressier. She’d brushed her shoulder-length blond hair into a no-nonsense ponytail, yet her gold hoop earrings were unmistakably the real thing. In the Escalade were stylish heels and a white cotton blazer that could get her ready for a sudden business meeting within minutes if the need arrived.
With her clipboard in hand, her BlackBerry clipped to it, and her own bottle of water on the black-speckled quartz breakfast bar, Genevieve was ready for whatever the day would throw at her. What she hoped was that her staff would be able to handle anything that surfaced back at the office, so that she could get Marshall somewhat set up with the bare essentials before too late in the afternoon. That would mean having to work more overtime at the office in order not to fall behind with her other clients, but it was something she wanted as much as felt a need to do.
From the beginning, well before the Carsons had listed this house, it had been a favorite of hers among the luxury lake houses. The design was a mix of modern and contemporary, a gray-speckled brick, the focal point being the family/great room that was enhanced by a partial second story of lead-glass windows and a giant fireplace to provide both light under almost any weather conditions and warmth throughout the house. More lead-glass windows looked out to a wrap-around porch, an open-tiled courtyard in back, and beyond that a covered peninsula that faced the lake, pier and boathouse. The country kitchen was state-of-the-art, the elegant counters echoing the shimmering outside brick, and a copper stove hood added dramatic contrast. The split-bedrooms design featured a huge master suite, and on the other side of the house were three other bedrooms. A formal dining room and sizable office with many built-ins rounded out the main floor plan.
It was a house for professional or active people and perfect for entertaining; nevertheless, it was still a thousand square feet smaller than her mother’s residence located two properties to the right. What concerned Genevieve was that Marshall’s house was undeniably large for one person, particularly someone newly grieving with no one close to help him through the first rough weeks and months.
Although he was on the premises, Marshall had made it clear that he would be grateful to hold to their previous agreement that she handle most of the decisions and issue the directives as to what was put where. His trust was the highest form of flattery; however, Genevieve worried that he’d bestowed her that authority simply because he no longer cared. Was that reflective of the house itself, himself or both?
As the master bedroom furnishings began to be unloaded, Genevieve saw him sitting on the back patio wall, his BlackBerry in hand.
