that they were ever far away.
Lucas stopped in front of her door and blew out a pent-up breath. He rapped his knuckles on the heavy wood door. “Kate, are you awake?”
Nothing.
He knocked again. Still no response.
Was it possible she was sick? Walking around in the cold air while soaking wet certainly couldn’t have done her any good. And he wasn’t going downstairs until he knew she was all right.
He grasped the handle and pushed the door open. The drapes were drawn, allowing shadows to dance across the spacious room. When his eyes adjusted, he spotted Kate sprawled over the king-sized bed. Her breathing was deep. The stress lines were erased from her beautiful face. And her pink lips were slightly parted and very desirable.
He squashed his line of thought. Now wasn’t the time to check her out, no matter how appealing he found her. Relationships weren’t in the cards for him. In the end, people just ended up hurting each other. And he wanted no part of that.
“Kate.” His voice was soft so as to not scare her. When she didn’t stir, he stepped closer. “Kate, wake up.”
She rolled over and stretched. The robe fell open, revealing a lace-trimmed pink top that hugged her curves and rode up, exposing her creamy white stomach. The breath caught in his throat. She was so gorgeous. He shouldn’t look—he should turn away. But what fun would that be? He was, after all, a man. A little glimpse of her fine figure wouldn’t hurt anyone. Right?
Her gaze latched on to him and the moment ended. She bolted upright.
“Lucas. What are you doing here?” She glanced down, cinching the robe closed. “I mean I know it’s your house and all...but what are you doing in my room...umm, your guest room.” She pressed a hand to her mouth, halting the babbling.
“I tried calling up the steps and even knocked on the door, but you were out to the world.”
“What do you want?”
The question was a loaded one and set off one inappropriate response after the other. The first of which was for her to move over in bed. The next thought was for her to kiss him.
He cleared his throat, hoping his voice would sound normal. “It’s time to go back to the hospital.” He turned for the door. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”
Drip... Drip... He paused and listened. Drip...
Lucas turned on his heels. “Is the faucet in the bathroom leaking?”
“Umm...no.”
“But that sound. Something’s dripping.” He squinted into the shadows. Frustrated, he moved to the light switch. “Can’t you hear it?”
“Of course I hear it. I’m not deaf.”
He flipped on the overhead light and spotted a wastebasket in the corner. A quick inspection of the ceiling showed water gathering around the bloated section of plaster. Droplets formed and dropped. Bits of fallen plaster littered the floor.
“What the—” He remembered his manners just before cursing. His mother had been the epitome of proper form. Carringtons should never lower themselves with vulgar language, she’d say. Especially not in front of guests.
“It’s been like that since the rain started. You need a new roof.”
His jaw tightened. “Thanks for pointing out the obvious.”
“I told you when we met that I’m an interior designer. I know more about houses than just how to properly hang a painting.”
“So you do roofing, too?”
She smiled. “No, I’m not a roofer, but that doesn’t mean I can’t find someone qualified to do a rush job. Because if you’d look around, you’d realize that isn’t your only leak.”
This time he didn’t care about his manners. “Damn.”
He’d turned a blind eye to the house to the point where he had no idea this place was in such bad condition. This went far beyond the mopping and cleaning he’d envisioned. There was considerable damage to the ceiling that was now bowing, and the crown molding was warped and crumbling.
Kate listed everything she’d noticed that needed repair. Unable to bear the guilt over the devastation he’d let happen to his childhood home...to his daughter’s legacy, he turned his gaze away from the ruined plaster. Kate continued talking as though she was in her element. Who knew that fixing up old houses could excite someone so much?
She got to her feet and straightened the bed. “If you want I can make a few phone calls to get people in here to start fixing things up. Maybe they can change things up a little and give this place a makeover—”
“No. I don’t want people in here, making changes.” He ground out the words.
A frown creased her forehead. “Of course there will have to be changes. Nothing ever stays the same. Life is one long string of changes.”
The only changes he’d experienced lately were bad ones that left him struggling to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Like his last visit with his daughter in California—when she’d turned away from him because he was now a stranger to her.
“Listen to me,” Kate said, moving to stand right in front of him. “You’re going to have to make some decisions about this place. You can already see the neglect is taking its toll. Once it’s fixed up, you can move out of that tiny room in the downstairs—”
“I’m happy there.”
She frowned at him as though she didn’t believe a word he said. “Perhaps then you might consider moving to someplace smaller and selling this house to some lucky family who will appreciate its charms.”
He glanced around at the room. This had been his aunt’s room, back when he was a kid. In this room, he’d always felt safe and accepted just as he was. This house was a scrapbook of memories, some good, some not so good. He couldn’t turn his back on it all.
Ghosts of the past filled his mind. The walls started to close in on him. Each breath grew more difficult. He needed space—air. He headed for the door, ignoring Kate’s plea for him to wait. With his gaze straight ahead, he marched down the hall, his breathing becoming more labored. It felt as though the oxygen had been sucked out of the house.
No matter how much he hated to admit it, Kate had a point. This mansion was in worse shape than he’d ever imagined. His shoulders drooped beneath the weight of guilt. His parents and grandparents would be horrified if they were still around to see the neglect he’d let take place. They’d entrusted him with the care of the Carrington mansion and he’d failed. His chest burned as he rushed down the stairs.
Even if he someday won over his little girl—if she no longer looked at him like a scary stranger—he couldn’t bring her here. He couldn’t show her the numerous portraits of her ancestors that his ex-wife had stashed in the attic. The dust. The peeling and cracking plaster. And most likely mold. It just wasn’t fit for a child—or for that matter, an adult.
In the foyer, he yanked open the front
