combined with your first-rate professionalism.”
Marshall looked away and rubbed his nape. “Bless you. At least now you know how wrong you are.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
When he looked back at her, he shook his head and smiled. Although it was a sad smile, it was the first time she saw something close to a natural reaction from him—other than one of pain—and the tenderness of it almost took her breath away. He had a face that made her think of brooding Irish poets and brave Greek gods, nothing like today’s air-brushed cover-model perfect images, but a face full of character and intelligence earned by some life-altering bumps and blows along the way. Suddenly she saw a new layer of the charisma that he was capable of, and Genevieve was grateful to have the counter to hold on to. Combined with his penetrating eyes, she felt almost as weak-kneed as one of her mother’s fictional heroines.
“Oh, hell,” he muttered and tore his gaze away only to gesture to the refrigerator. “I saw that generous gift of champagne you sneakily tucked in the back of everything. At least stay long enough to join me in a glass?”
“You weren’t supposed to notice it until I left,” Genevieve replied, trying to figure out all that was going on beneath the surface of the man as fast as he hid it. “As a matter of fact, I debated not putting it there at all. It’s a given that you don’t feel like celebrating—”
“Well, if you leave without sharing a glass with me, it’s apt to still be in there when you next put the house on the market.”
He didn’t seem to say that as a threat, just a fact of life, but the fact that it was a possibility triggered a sinking feeling inside her. Against her better judgment, she found herself reaching for her BlackBerry. “Let me take this outside and check my messages and see how things are at the office. One glass,” she added as she backed toward the French doors leading to the patio. “I haven’t eaten enough today to risk more and can’t afford to be seen driving off the culvert at the end of your driveway. Juice glasses in the upper cabinet to the right of the sink.” She pointed. “That and the ice tea size are all that’s unpacked so far.”
Genevieve always enjoyed the view of the lake and this early-afternoon image was of smooth-glass perfection. It helped to soothe the nerves playing havoc with her body and psyche. She should have left as soon as Marshall had thanked her. The fact that he hadn’t needed to try hard to make her linger told her that she was behaving way out of her norm and needed a reality check. Fast.
Unless she was beyond clueless, Marshall Roark was attracted to her. But he was apparently as troubled by that as she was startled by her own attraction to him. She reminded herself that sexual awareness so soon following such a loss was common. She’d experienced it herself, only the men who’d made passes hadn’t been anyone she could be remotely attracted to. She’d yearned only for Adam. However, that didn’t stop the sleepless nights, and days of compromised focus due to her libido, so how could she be offended or judge Marshall, even though Cynthia wasn’t gone a full month yet?
On the other hand, she’d been alone four years now and thought she’d perfected keeping an invisible barrier between herself and unwanted male attention. That just proved how good Marshall was at undermining her resolve. She would have to be extracareful—not only when she got back inside, but in the future.
Inwardly shaking her head at this potential emotional maelstrom, Genevieve called the office. Her senior agent Avery Pageant answered. “How are things going?” she asked.
“Ina and I are holding the fort,” the forty-two-year-old divorcée replied. “She’s in the kitchen getting our lunches ready. We’re both eating late today to avoid dinner. Raenne is off showing the Cook farm.”
“Did she have her boots and gun with her when she left?”
“Yes, Mommy.”
The friendly taunt didn’t offend Genevieve. They were a close group and although she was the youngest in the office—with Raenne thirty-five, and Ina thirty-three—they all understood that, as the broker, Genevieve was key to the reputation and soundness of the business. They also knew there was a huge difference between showing lakefront property and a good-size farm with creeks and wildlife. Often that wildlife was of the deadly variety. Then there was the matter of who was asking to see such property. Raenne was married, but you couldn’t tell it by her redneck husband, who would travel three or five states for a bass tournament yet wouldn’t act as backup to his wife when she showed large tracts of land. It was left to Genevieve to remind her staff to be cautious; only last year a female agent a few towns away had been murdered showing property—and that had occurred in a development!
“What about your afternoon appointment?” she asked Avery. “Is that still on?”
“No, the couple found out they won’t get the financing for that much house. At least they didn’t waste my time. I’ll hunt them something more in their price range and get back to them.”
“Good for you. All right, I’m planning on being back there within the hour.”
Genevieve had just disconnected when she heard the French doors open behind her. Listening to Marshall’s footsteps as he approached, she pointed across the cove at the cedar two-story partially hidden by seventy-year-old pines. “It looks like one of your on-the-road-again neighbors is back in town.”
“Beau Stanton the singer, right?” Marshall stopped beside her and handed her one of the glasses. “Based out of Nashville, I believe you said.”
As the small caravan consisting of a sparkling top-of-the-line pickup truck, a cargo van and two SUVs of equal quality parked on the driveway, Genevieve nodded. “That’s the one. Those pricey black vehicles almost resemble a presidential entourage, don’t they?”
“They don’t look quite as bulletproof.”
“Of course. There’s that.” And Marshall would know better than she would given his background of hobnobbing with the rich and famous. Worried that she might have sounded as if she was showing off, Genevieve grew silent.
“Didn’t you tell me that he had the walls of his house built with extra insulation and the windows specially designed so that he won’t irritate neighbors during rehearsals and jam sessions? Considerate of him,” Marshall said, “although I wouldn’t mind hearing a tune or two now and again.”
“Not at three or four in the morning you wouldn’t. When musicians jam, they’re not aware of the time. He loves it here,” Genevieve said, finally turning. She knew what Marshall had done to make her feel comfortable, and thought him all the more a gentleman for it. “The lake has become a creative inspiration to him, so, like you, he’s determined not to create any bad blood with his neighbors.” She nodded with simple admiration. “You’re kind to overlook my ignorance and you paid excellent attention when I first showed you the place.”
He touched his glass to hers. “In the end, it’s all in the details, isn’t it?”
“I can’t argue with that,” she murmured, once again wondering what else he was implying. After taking a necessary sip of the delicious vintage, Genevieve dove, perhaps too eagerly, into a reminder of who else he shared the deep cove with—bankers, retired sports stars, a world-renowned surgeon and her mother in the Mediterranean-style those two properties over. On their first tour of this home, with her typical full disclosure style, she’d made him and Cynthia fully aware of the familial connection. Cynthia had suffered a frightening coughing-choking fit at the news.
“You’re
