Hooked On A Feeling

ABC Amber Text Converter Trial version, http://www.processtext.com/abctxt.html

Hooked on a Feeling by Colleen Collins Chapter One

It wasn't that Margaret Landon hadn't wrestled with obstinate foes in her twenty-eight years; it's just that they'd been the living, breathing kind. Not an antiquated, obstinate bathroom sink faucet that refused to cough up more than a squirt of water. "I hate old things," she muttered for the nth time as she stared down the faucet. Hated everything, in fact, in this decrepit old house she'd been forced to move into yesterday, a mere two days before the St. George Finishing School for Girls' etiquette camp started. The school was to have opened in its new downtown Denver building, but due to construction problems, the St. George board of directors moved her to this god-awful building that the owner supposedly rented out for parties. "Halloween parties, maybe," she muttered, looking at the faded wallpaper and cracked floor tiles. Somewhere in the house, a door slammed. Margaret looked at the open bathroom window, barely a breeze disturbing its white curtains. She'd been told of the summer thunderstorms that rolled through this part of Colorado most afternoons, but obviously no rush of stormy air had caused a door to slam shut. Too many other things to worry about. Like this faucet. "If I'd known I'd be wrestling fixtures, I'd have packed T-shirts and jeans instead of blouses and skirts," she muttered, gripping the faucet handle. There was a time she'd always dressed in jeans, back when Margaret had been Maggie, a streetwise gangly kid from one of the roughest 'hoods in Philly. She'd never backed down from a fight, never passed up an opportunity to get what she wanted. Qualities she still had, although she'd whitewashed them so they were socially acceptable. Because Maggie was no fool. By the time she was sixteen, she'd observed how girls from moneyed families didn't need to act tough and cuss to get their way. That a dignified air and a few well-chosen words could open doors faster than a swift kick.

ABC Amber Text Converter Trial version, http://www.processtext.com/abctxt.html With the goal of reinventing herself, and her determination to never return to her poor roots (or date blue-collar guys), she took an entry-level job at an executive protocol company, changed her name to Margaret and learned about charm, culture and business etiquette. By twenty-three, she'd worked her way up the ranks to be a business protocol consultant. Now, five years later, she was determined to win the coveted position of executive director at the prestigious St. George Finishing School for Girls in Denver, Colorado, because winning this job would prove she had overcome her past — that she was someone to respect in the world that had once rebuffed her. Taking a deep breath, she gave the faucet one last good crank. Whoosh! With a strangled cry, she threw both hands in front of her, fumbling through an explosion of water to turn…the…faucet…off! Moments later, she stared at her green-eyed reflection in the tarnished sink mirror. Strands of her fine blond hair were plastered to her face. Her favorite, and now ruined, silk blouse made her look like a wet T-shirt contest contestant. Knock knock knock. "Great timing for a delivery." With everything from beds to table settings being delivered for the camp that started in two days, she had no choice but to answer the downstairs front door. She grabbed a towel and dabbed at her face. Lightly shaking her silk blouse, she bounded down the curving staircase. Knock knock knock. "Hold your frickin' horses," she muttered, opening the door. A man dressed in sawdust-covered jeans and a work shirt stood on the sagging porch. Sunlight glinted off his brown hair. As his sky-blue eyes gave her a slow once-over, a smile curled his lips. "Plumbing problems?" "How'd you ever guess?" She smiled tightly. His eyes lingered on her breasts. Heat rushed to her face as she realized that despite tugging the blouse away from her body, the wet silk must be translucent enough to see her lace bra with the tiny pink rose at the clasp. She cleared her throat. He looked back into her eyes. "Uh, I'm Patrick Delaney. The St. George group hired me to be a handyman for the place." "Margaret Landon, executive director of the St. George Girls' Finishing School. Well, I will be if I pass their job interview these next few weeks." They wanted to see how their candidate performed before making the job offer. Which meant she had to view this run-down place as a challenge, not an obstacle.

ABC Amber Text Converter Trial version, http://www.processtext.com/abctxt.html She turned, motioned for him to follow her inside. "Ten teenage girls are arriving in forty-eight hours. Think we can transform this dump into an etiquette camp by then?" Another door slammed somewhere in the house. Margaret jumped. "There it goes again!" Patrick chuckled, put a reassuring hand on her arm. "Where's that pesky water pipe?" A few minutes later, Margaret, who'd excused herself to replace her wet blouse with a clean one, walked up behind Patrick who was turning the faucet on, off. Water flowed appropriately. "You fixed it!" Margaret said. "It wasn't broken." "But…" She frowned. "I think I know the problem," he said, his blue eyes meeting hers. "Same thing is causing the doors to slam, too." She tried not to think how closely they stood. Or how long it'd been since she smelled a guy's clean, masculine scent. A tiny shiver zinged down her spine. "Seriously," she said, finger-combing her hair and slicking the damp curls off her face. "Seriously," he said, his eyes following the movements of her hand through her hair, "it's Lillie Tremont. The madam who once ran a bordello in this very building. Others have heard the slamming doors or heard haunting music, but I believe you're the first to get soaked." "Very funny." "It's true. I believe it, anyway." "Well, I don't believe in ghosts." His blue eyes twinkled. "So, what's next to be fixed?"

* * * Lillie, fanning herself with her black-lace and tulle fan, lay across the love seat in the adjoining bedroom. She watched as Patrick and Margaret walked out of the room on their way to check a loose floorboard downstairs. She rolled her eyes heavenward. "An etiquette camp? I have to contend with ten teenage girls and that uptight schoolmarm?" The living couldn't hear Lillie when she talked, unless she materialized. And she avoided materializing unless it was absolutely necessary. Lillie liked her privacy, and she'd haunted to keep it that way for over a century. Unfortunately, the current owner was beyond rude for renting out her place for parties and disrupting her privacy! But she ensured those events were over quickly. A few door slams or flickering lights usually did the trick. Or her personal favorite — playing a snippet of Brahms on her old Victrola. People

ABC Amber Text Converter Trial version, http://www.processtext.com/abctxt.html would look for the source of the music, never find it and promptly leave. "Etiquette camp," she muttered, floating across her former bedroom. "Maybe I should try some of the pranks those ghostly hookers are concocting up at Maiden Falls." Maiden Falls, the former mining town in the Rockies, had a luxurious honeymoon hotel — formerly a bordello that was Lillie's main competitor — whose shady ladies died after a disastrous gas leak in 1895. But oh, the stories Lillie had recently heard about their ghostly shenanigans! Like Belle Bulette, the feisty card-shark, who'd gambled her soul on that randy reporter and the debutante. Or golden-curled Sunshine, who stirred up a tempest when she decided a savvy businesswoman was better suited for her ex-flame than her husband-to-be! And the rebellious, free-spirited Rosebud, who fell in love with a real, live man! Floating to a mirror, Lillie checked her makeup, patted her red curls. "Now Arlotta encourages her girls to do good deeds so they can escape to the 'big picnic in the sky' but I'm staying put until my ring is on the hand of a lover." She glanced up at the ceiling, pleased no one had ever discovered the whereabouts of the ring, either. After a final adjustment to a wayward curl, she floated down the staircase, mulling which haunting tricks would work best these next few weeks. Chapter Two

Lillie lounged on a corner settee and pondered her dilemma. Ever since yesterday, when that uptight, rule-lovin' Margaret Landon had moved in, Lillie's every breathing — well, spirited — moment had been focused on haunting her out. Unfortunately, Margaret was a hard nut to crack. Who'd have thought a woman who dressed so femininely, and ran an etiquette camp for God's sake, could be so fearless. Margaret had written off slamming doors to the wind, mysterious water drips to faulty plumbing and squeaky floorboards to rotting wood. Really, it was almost enough to make a ghost give up haunting. Fortunately, Lillie still had plenty of tricks, so to speak, up her sleeve. "Fixed that window in the foyer," Patrick said, wiping his hands on a towel as he walked into the room. "It opens now." Margaret stopped setting one of the tables in what would be her dining etiquette room and looked up. His broad shoulders, loose-limbed stride and the way his jeans hung low on his hips made her heart momentarily trip over itself. The man had a devilish air, the kind she remembered boys having back on the streets in Philly. The kind of boys she'd sworn off long ago when she'd decided having the better life meant ridding herself of the baser elements. "Thank you." She straightened, blew out a breath. "Can't believe the owner didn't install air-conditioning in this old place. Must be eighty degrees outside."

ABC Amber Text Converter Trial version, http://www.processtext.com/abctxt.html "Ninety-two." He shrugged. "Temperatures can be deceiving at this altitude. When you go outside, make sure you wear lots of sunblock." "I don't go outside." "Not even for a walk?" "In this neighborhood?" He gave her a double take. "Afraid a homeless person might invade your personal space by asking for a quarter?" He was talking down to her, something nobody had done in years. "Desperate people do desperate things." He paused, his blue eyes glittering. "And I'm sure you'd know." Jerk. She might look soft and pretty, but he had zero idea what she'd been through to get to this point. This had nothing to do with homeless people. She was referring to the looking-for-trouble types. Back in Philly growing up, she'd talked her way out of a lot of tough situations — a skill she hadn't lost. But she was sharp enough to know that being a five-three blonde wearing designer clothes in a bad neighborhood was like wearing a sign that said "mug me." Speaking of which, she made a mental note to put up a sign reminding the girls of the house rules; number one being no one was to leave the premises without Margaret's permission. "Women must have been miserable a hundred years ago," she said, changing the subject. "I read once they wore heavy skirts and long-sleeved blouses even in summer, which must have felt unbearable in this heat." "The ladies lived in this house one hundred and twenty-four years ago, to be exact." "A hundred and twenty-four years," she murmured, looking at the peeling wallpaper, the cracked molding. "They should have condemned this place long ago." He paused, swiping the back of his hand across his brow. "Sorry you feel stuck in this old building, but you know the saying if you get lemons, make lemonade?" She was drained, stressed and tired of being polite. "Please, spare me a lecture." Patrick looked around the room, imagining how it'd looked in Lillie's day with its rich oak paneling and gold leaf accents. Just the kind of place he'd long dreamed of buying and restoring, but not for profit. No, he'd live here, raise a family, pass it down to his kids. "This isn't some old eyesore that should be razed," he said, walking around the room. "This is a piece of history. Back in the 1890s, it was the most famous gentlemen's club between Kansas City and San Francisco. Lillie even had a crystal chandelier for her bedroom shipped all the way from Paris to this club, where she entertained senators, judges, lawyers. Her girls were not only reputed to be beautiful, but they could discuss everything from politics to art." He stopped next to Margaret at the table. "Your etiquette campers could probably learn a thing or two from Lillie's girls."

ABC Amber Text Converter Trial version, http://www.processtext.com/abctxt.html

The last was a jab, but the word "etiquette" grated on Patrick. Always had. Reminded him of all the rules and expectations his family imposed on him for most of his thirty-two years until, fed up with the charades and games, he dropped out of law school and made an old hobby, carpentry, his profession. His parents were sorely disappointed, but that didn't stop them from trying to matchmake him with available high-society types. He glanced at the neatly laid out table setting with its silver, crystal and china. Screw all this pomp. He'd take a woman with tomboy genes who could wield a mean fishing rod any day over one who knew where to place a dessert fork.

* * * Margaret stared at Patrick, trying to hold on to her sense of injustice. After all, she was busting herself to set up an etiquette school under trying circumstances and she didn't need his attitude. He infuriated…and fascinated her. He saw more to this old place than met the eye, which made her wonder what was more to meet the eye with him. He came across as rough and tumble — a man who worked with his hands — and yet he had a deep appreciation, even a sensitivity, for history. Rough, yet sensitive. Just as beneath the coarse fabric of his shirt, she sensed a powerful, but elegant physique. Or his mouth. Firm, full — yet sensual in shape and promise. Really, quite a specimen of a man… The kind a woman fantasized about tumbling into bed with after barely a hello. She fanned the open collar of her blouse; a futile attempt to temper the fires skittering across her skin. He looked at her, his eyes shadowing with concern. "You all right?" "Yes." No. "You should sit down, rest a minute." She sank into a chair. Protective, too. He looked around the table. "Got any water here?" She shook her head. He started to move away, but she reached out and touched his arm. The warmth of his skin triggered a rippling of sensual awareness she felt all the way down to her toes. "What?" he asked. She withdrew her hand. "So, what happened to that chandelier?" He paused, as though surprised she asked. Or that she cared? "It disappeared sometime after Lillie's death in 1907." For the briefest of moments, Margaret swore she heard music. The sweet trill of a violin. She looked up, swearing it came from somewhere upstairs. As suddenly as the music had started, it stopped. The silence filled only with the hum of traffic from the street. "I think the heat's getting to me," she whispered.

ABC Amber Text Converter Trial version, http://www.processtext.com/abctxt.html

Chapter Three

Patrick looked down at Margaret where she sat slump-shouldered and pale in the chair. She'd said the heat was getting to her, but he guessed it was something else. After all, she'd seemed fine until she suddenly started, looked at the ceiling, after which he could literally see the blood drain from her face. He looked up at the ceiling. Nothing odd about it, except it needed a good plaster and paint job. "What is it?" he asked, meeting Margaret's green-eyed gaze. She ran a tongue along her bottom lip before releasing a deep breath. "Right after you told me Lillie's chandelier disappeared after her death —" she peeked skyward "— I, uh, heard…" "Music?" She gasped. "You heard it, too?" "No. But others have." "Others?" She stopped, shook her head. "Oh no, here we go again. Ghost stories." "They've surrounded this place for generations." "No." She gave her head a deliberate shake. "I don't believe in ghosts. What frightened me was the shock of hearing music in the house, wondering if someone had sneaked inside." "Sneaked inside so they could play music upstairs?" She stared at him for a long moment. It didn't make sense, she knew, but still… "Let me get that water," he said, breaking the silence. "Mind if I borrow two glasses?" Not waiting for her response, he picked a few crystal glasses off the table and exited the room. Margaret watched him leave, feeling, for the first time since she'd arrived here a bit, well, spooked. She meant it when she'd said she didn't believe in ghosts, but it was unnerving to hear music so clearly. It played from somewhere directly overhead. "Where my bedroom is," she whispered. For a moment, she swore the light in the room shifted, coalescing in a corner by the settee. And for the briefest of moments, she swore she saw a hazy form — a woman in a blue satin evening gown, fanning herself with a black lace fan. The woman looked at her, then faded into thin air. A chill skittered down Margaret's back. Patrick walked back into the room with the filled glasses. "Thank you," she said, accepting a glass. She took a long drink, then scanned the room. Sunlight, buttery and hot, sifted through the tall windows. In the

ABC Amber Text Converter Trial version, http://www.processtext.com/abctxt.html corner sat the same old red couch with its sagging cushion. No shifting of lights. No hazy forms. Everything in its place, looking as it had ever since she arrived. Maybe that's all she needed upstairs, too. A reality check. "Let's go to the second floor and look around." He quirked an eyebrow. "Let me guess. For the source of the music?" She nodded. Under pain of death, she'd never, ever mention she saw that misty image of a woman. "Margaret," he said slowly, "others have heard it, too." "What did they hear?" He shrugged. "Some said a symphony. Others, a string instrument. Violin, I think." "The violin —" she swallowed, hard "— is what I heard." Before now, Patrick had felt irked with her black-and-white worldview that left little room for gray. Rules for this, rules for that — exactly the mentality that had driven him away from his family. But looking at Margaret now, the way light washed into her eyes, the forest green dissolving into the color of a churning sea, something within his chest constricted. He stood, held out his hand. She placed her hand in his, her fingertips like ice. He almost told her that despite all the ghost stories in this house, no one had ever been hurt or ghoulishly frightened. The hauntings had been benign, really, more a Do Not Trespass sign than out to do harm. He had thought the mysterious strains of a violin rather cool — wished he had just heard it himself. But he had to keep in mind that until the girls arrived tomorrow, Margaret would be here alone. Far better to make light of unusual occurrences so she wouldn't be overly frightened. One of the first things he'd done yesterday, after checking the questionable faucet, was to ensure all the locks on the doors and windows were solid, so he knew she'd be physically safe. But he wanted to ensure she felt psychologically safe, too. He rubbed her cold fingers with his to try and warm them up. Maybe he'd try to distract her, coax a laugh, anything to get her to relax a little. He glanced down at the table. "Hey, I think you've got your dessert spoons in the wrong place." She looked at the settings, frowned. "No, it's correct." With his free hand, he moved one of the spoons. "It should go here." "That's where the soup spoon goes." "Next to that funky knife?" "That's a fish knife." "What's that one next to it?"

ABC Amber Text Converter Trial version, http://www.processtext.com/abctxt.html "Service knife." "That's the problem with table settings. Too many knives and spoons. One fork should suffice for everything, don't you think?" She looked at him as though he'd just landed from another planet. Well, so much for making etiquette jokes with an etiquette camp counselor. He gave her warming hand a squeeze. "Let's go check upstairs, shall we?"

* * * As they walked out of the room, Lillie watched them. She'd been toying with rearranging all the silverware out of spite for that "miserable" reference Margaret had made about the lovely women's clothes of Lillie's era, or Margaret's comment that her home should be condemned. "Condemned," Lillie sniffed, adjusting the lace sleeve of her gown. "If someone cared to look below the surface of the walls in this very room, they'd find my original Lincrusta Walton wall covering, its silver and gold relief needing only a bit of polishing to come to life again." What had stopped Lillie from messing up Margaret's table setting had been that gentleman Patrick's reverential words about the beauty of Lillie's home, as well as his noting her impressive clientele and the class of her girls. Lillie had also been intrigued with something else. "That schoolmarm and the gentleman like each other," she murmured. If she was skilled at anything, it was recognizing when sparks flew between a man and a woman. If Lillie played her cards right, she could fan those sparks into flames. Which changed her goal from haunting them out of the house to keeping them in the house — together. Maybe it was time to take a cue from those ghostly gals up at Maiden Falls and play matchmaker. Snapping her fan closed, she levitated and glided after Patrick and Margaret. Who knew, maybe they were worthy of the ring.

*** Twenty minutes later, Margaret stood in her bedroom and looked around. "This is where we started," she said, "and no clue as to where the music came from." She and Patrick had walked in every room on the second floor, and found nothing. "Maybe it was from outside. A car radio." She didn't believe it, but the idea sounded as plausible as anything. "Sure, car radio." She glanced around the room, suddenly aware of the bed and a camisole she'd tossed over the back of a chair. She toyed with tossing the piece of lingerie into a drawer before Patrick saw it, but judging from the ruddy glow underneath his tan he'd already gotten an eyeful. "You didn't mention that," Patrick suddenly said. He crossed to one of the vertical windows whose shade was ripped. "It's not important." She walked up behind Patrick, who'd pulled out his

ABC Amber Text Converter Trial version, http://www.processtext.com/abctxt.html ever-present tape measure and was taking dimensions. "I mean, I'm on the second floor. Who could see in?" He put the tape measure back into his shirt pocket. "Your privacy is important. This is your bedroom." She wasn't sure exactly what happened next. He turned, caught her by surprise, and suddenly their bodies were touching. Chapter Four

Patrick had been measuring the ripped blind in her bedroom when Margaret walked up behind him to explain that he really didn't need to waste his time fixing it. After all, they had plenty of other things — sagging floor joints, stuck windows, a sticky doorknob — to repair before the girls arrived for etiquette camp tomorrow morning. But she'd barely uttered a few words when suddenly he'd turned and their bodies had accidentally touched… And at that moment, whatever she'd been saying dissolved into a sensual awareness of the warmth of his arm on hers, the length of his leg pressing against hers and the warm, summer breezes wafting through the window and mingling with his salty, masculine scent. A jagged strip of light seeped through the rip in the shade, streaking the side of his face, revealing a look of heated surprise in his eyes. Neither of them moved, their silence broken only by the twittering of a bird outside the window, the hum of passing traffic on the street below. "Should I apologize?" he finally asked. "For —?" A sensual smile curved his lips. "For liking this." She could hardly breathe for the way he was looking at her. "No," she whispered. "No?" "No, you don't need to apologize." Their eyes locked and she felt heat rise to her cheeks. "And to think we came up here to find ghosts," he murmured. "To find the source of the music," she corrected, her voice barely audible. "What I'm getting at is…" For a breathless "It appears what moved closer and the crown of her

moment, she thought he was going to pull her into his arms. we found is each other." With a subtle shift of his body, he gave her a long, heated look that she felt all the way from head to the tips of her toes.

She'd been comfortably celibate for months; a result of long work hours and lack of dating prospects rather than some premeditated state of self-denial. But now, looking into those blue eyes darkened with need, long-suppressed desires flooded every cell of her being. Her mouth dried; her heartbeat accelerated. She ached to be held, to know the taste of Patrick's mouth, the

ABC Amber Text Converter Trial version, http://www.processtext.com/abctxt.html caress of his hands. So when he touched her, ever so gently cupping her cheek, it was like a jolt of electricity. Her breath caught; her gaze dropped to his mouth. He's going to kiss me.

* * * Patrick watched Margaret, mesmerized by the passion he saw on her face. Her perfume, fragrant and sweet like wild roses, wove through the air like an invisible lasso, reeling him in. He could fall into those eyes and be happily lost forever in their green — bright and full of promise like the verdant hills in spring. When her lips parted, inviting him, the need to possess her swept hot through his belly. He toyed with the possibility of a lost afternoon where two people could ease their loneliness, escape into each other. He indulged a fantasy of her sweat-slickened skin sliding against his — the heady tang of her scent, the breathless sound of her moaning his name. The light in the room suddenly dimmed. He glanced at a far window, its shade darkened. Distant thunder announced another afternoon thunderstorm rolling in, ready to tear apart the genteel Colorado afternoon. Inside the room, the air grew thick and heavy, sparked with electricity. He glanced back at Margaret, watching the questions swirling in her eyes. He was tempted, so damn tempted. But one taste wouldn't be enough, and more than that would be disastrous. She represented exactly what he'd turned his back on, swore he'd never return to. "Another afternoon storm," he murmured, dropping his hand. "I should check the windows downstairs, make sure they're closed." And for a moment he hated himself as he watched the light of anticipation fade from her sparkling green eyes. She'd wanted to be kissed — hell, he'd wanted it, too, and he hadn't done it. For a painful moment, he questioned which of them had been the loser. The first drops spit against the window as she lowered her lashes, turned and left the room.

*** "Welcome to St. George Girls' Finishing School," Margaret repeated to the man and woman as they headed up the porch steps with a teenage girl who had the same lanky walk and dark brown hair as the man. "This is our daughter, Leslie McCutcheon," said the father. Margaret exchanged pleasantries as she'd done with all the new arrivals. After checking off the girl's name on her registration sheet, Margaret would walk them inside to the dormitory room; the spacious room that had once been Lillie's ballroom on the ground floor. Parents were invited to help their daughters unpack, select a bunk bed, or to peruse the historical house before the welcome luncheon commenced in an hour.

ABC Amber Text Converter Trial version, http://www.processtext.com/abctxt.html And every damn time Margaret walked to the ballroom, she had to pass Patrick who was fixing a buckled floorboard in the foyer. Not that Margaret wasn't a pro at putting on a "best face" under difficult circumstances, it's just she'd never had to test those skills with a man whom she'd been ready to make hot love with just yesterday afternoon. And who, after teasing her and leading her on, had flat-out rejected her. Bastard. She was certain that under these particular circumstances, that word was not only appropriate, but procedurally correct. And if it wasn't, she'd write up the damn communications protocol herself. As she passed Patrick for what felt like the hundredth time that morning, she thought again how the man was downright evil to be wearing those tight jeans and that blue chambray shirt that matched his sinfully blue eyes. Minutes later, she again took her station on the porch, reminding herself that despite her inner turmoil, she needed to stay focused on her goal to perform well these next two weeks. Because, bottom line, all that mattered was nailing the position of executive director. A few minutes later, a woman and a teenage girl approached. As they got closer, Margaret was taken with the seeming role reversals. The woman looked hesitant, a little meek, while the daughter had a world-weary, edgy demeanor. After they reached the porch, and Margaret introduced herself, the woman gestured to the girl. "This is my daughter, Antoinette Washington. She won the 'Sisters under the Skin' literary contest." Antoinette rolled an I-don't-want-to-be-here look at Margaret, who pretended not to see it. Antoinette, fourteen, was an at-risk teenager from a suburb of L.A. who'd written an award-winning essay whose prize was this etiquette camp. And from the look on Antoinette's face, this was no prize. A few minutes later, after showing a sullen Antoinette and her smiling mother the girls' dormitory, Margaret headed back to the front door to close it. As she stepped into the foyer, Patrick motioned her over. "All fixed," he said, testing the floorboard with his foot. "Thank you. That about covers it, correct?" When he nodded, she continued, "I'll give a good recommendation to the board of directors about your work." Patrick looked as though he wanted to say something, but didn't. "Thanks," he said, leaning over to pick up his toolbox. "Good luck with the camp. I'll be leaving now." Her insides felt as though they were caving in, but she held her head high and walked him to the door. "Thank you again." Crash. "Good Lord!" Margaret jumped, looked around. The swinging door that led into the dining room, where she'd set the tables yesterday, hung at an angle.

ABC Amber Text Converter Trial version, http://www.processtext.com/abctxt.html

"Hinges must be loose," Patrick muttered, heading to investigate further.

* * * Lillie, hovering nearby, watched Margaret as she marched back toward the girls' dorm room. "Yes," she said sweetly, glancing at Patrick as he opened his toolbox and retrieved a tool. "He's staying." Smiling to herself, she glanced around the place. "And I'm sure I can find many other things to break, too, during the next two weeks…" Chapter Five

"Antoinette," Margaret said, "please don't put your elbows on the table when food is present." Antoinette lifted her elbows and held them midair. The girls, eating their lunch at several tables in the dining room, giggled. It had been one week, four days since the etiquette camp had begun, although with Antoinette's ongoing angry antics it felt like one year, four months to Margaret. It was difficult enough dealing with Antoinette's disrespect, but Margaret's heart broke a little more every time she saw Patrick. It seemed every day something else was malfunctioning and the handyman had to be called again. Since that afternoon last week in her bedroom when they'd almost kissed, she and Patrick hadn't said more than a few business-related words to each other. As though that sizzling moment they shared had never happened. Meanwhile, Antoinette was still holding her elbows over the table, invoking more snickers from the girls. "Antoinette," Margaret said, keeping her voice level, "please put your hands in your lap." Antoinette kept her elbows airborne. "Why?" "Because," Margaret said, addressing the room, "as we've discussed over the past week and a half, all societies have etiquette rules. A society in which people make up their own etiquette rules wouldn't work any better than a society in which people follow only those laws they personally like." A flash of movement. She looked back at her table to see Antoinette popping an unlit cigarette between her teeth. Here we go again. "Antoinette." "Yes, Miss Logan?" she said around the filter. More laughter. Keep your cool. "Smoking," Margaret said calmly, "is a dangerous and highly addictive habit."

ABC Amber Text Converter Trial version, http://www.processtext.com/abctxt.html "What if I choose to?" "Even if you were sitting in the smoking section of a restaurant, only after everyone has finished dessert is lighting up acceptable." "Yeah?" Antoinette looked around the room. "Don't look like no restaurant to me." Someone quietly clapped. Wonderful. Mutiny at the Etiquette Camp. "Antoinette," Margaret said, standing. "You've just lost your movie rights tonight." The girls had looked forward to this outing for days, a night on the town to eat pizza and see a movie that was the hottest teen flick of the summer. A chorus of dismay rippled across the room. Antoinette tugged the cigarette from her mouth, looking momentarily crestfallen, although she quickly put on her too-cool face when her gaze met Margaret's. "Give the girl a break," said a familiar male voice. In the doorway stood Patrick, slouched against the frame. He'd been outside all morning fixing a sagging porch rail. His face was dark with sun; a shock of hair fell over his sweaty brow. The girls erupted in applause and squeals of "Patrick rocks!" Margaret's heart plummeted, as it did every single time she saw him.

*** Patrick leaned against his green Ford pickup, folded his arms across his chest and stared down at Margaret. They'd decided to go to his truck, parked on the street outside Lillie's home, where the girls wouldn't overhear their discussion. "You don't teach people respect by punishing them," he said. "You teach them respect by giving them respect." She folded her arms over her daisy-yellow dress. The afternoon sun dripped down on her like honey, highlighting her shoulder-length blond hair and giving her an overall golden haze that irked him because she looked so damn good. "You give people respect when they've earned that respect," she countered. They glowered at each other for a moment, the only sound a fly buzzing past. "Look," he finally said, "I'm not a bad guy. I just hate seeing a kid punished for not following silly rules." "Silly rules? Even though it's not illegal in Colorado for a teenager to smoke, just illegal to sell them cigarettes, that doesn't mean it's silly to confront the issue and, yes, make an example of it."

ABC Amber Text Converter Trial version, http://www.processtext.com/abctxt.html

He dropped his arms, puffed out a breath. "I'm sorry, Maggie." She started. "Sorry, Margaret." He raked a hand through his hair. "I can't even abbreviate your name without it being an affront to you. Here we go again, back to your rules. If they're not adhered to, the full shebang with no exceptions, then a girl's a failure." "I don't need to defend the value of this camp —" "Value?" He made a derisive noise. "What value are you giving girls like Antoinette? You're so focused on manners that you fail to see the bigger problem. You are clueless what that girl's world is like, what she really needs to get ahead. You're acting as though etiquette can save her." She glanced over her shoulder. Faces were pressed against the living room window. "Wonderful, they're witnessing all this." "For your edification," she said quietly, stepping closer, "the value of etiquette is that it offers advantages, opens doors." "Advantages? Opens doors?" He laughed. Her green eyes were as pure and bright as the waters he'd once seen in the Caribbean. For a moment, he was taken aback, realizing how serious — and sincere — Margaret was on this topic. "Patrick," she whispered, "this isn't about following rules for the sake of following rules. Even studies by Harvard show success in business is fifteen percent technical knowledge, eighty-five percent people skills. These girls will gain a competitive edge in the world by practicing protocol and etiquette. I'm empowering them for the future." He looked at her, his mind going back to last week in her bedroom when they'd stood this close and he'd smelled that enticing rose perfume; lost himself in those sparkling green eyes. Her lips were as full and inviting as then, too, but if he leaned down she'd turn away. He'd had his chance and he'd blown it. Speaking of rules, fool, you rejected her because you decided she's one of "them." Maybe if he explained himself, he could bridge the damn gap he'd torn between Margaret and himself. "Look," he said, "you want to give advantages. I grew up where rules were about gaining the advantage. My father did it. Used his civilized rules and lawyer's skills to win a case against a teenage boy who ended up in jail when counseling could have saved him."

ABC Amber Text Converter Trial version, http://www.processtext.com/abctxt.html Patrick didn't add how, after that, he'd dropped out of law school and turned his back on his family and their world of rules. And, fool that he was, turned his back on this woman, too. Suddenly, he realized he had to stop reacting to his past if he wanted his own future. "Margaret, let's —" "My job is on the line here with these girls. I'm concerned Antoinette, maybe others, will act out even more when you're around because they see you as championing their side." "When I'm around?" He frowned. A pained look darkened her face. "Please, stay away." *** Lillie, squeezed between two girls who didn't know she was there, perched her arms over the back of the couch and stared out the living room window at Patrick and Margaret talking next to his truck. "Patrick's telling Miss Logan what's what," said one girl, snapping her gum. "Yeah," said another, "he's on our side." But Lillie knew better because if she knew the look on Patrick's face, he was getting wasn't afraid of scaring the bejeebers out and tell them that thanks to their antics,

anything, she knew men, and from his heart good and broken. If she of these girls, she'd materialize Patrick was being given the boot.

She floated off the couch and looked around the room. There were plenty of things to still break. Only problem was Margaret wouldn't call him unless it was an absolute, can't-go-on-unless-it's-fixed-immediately emergency. Lillie tapped open her fan, thinking she'd simply have to do an extraordinary job breaking things these next few days because no way she was letting that man leave without making Margaret his betrothed. With Lillie's ring. Chapter Six

Two days later, on Friday night, Margaret sat on a chair in the foyer drinking coffee. Her third cup. It was almost midnight and Antoinette was still unaccounted for. Ever since their confrontation at lunch Wednesday, Antoinette had become increasingly more unruly. Maybe Patrick was right. Maybe in Margaret's zeal to do the right thing, to better her own career, she'd been wrong in her handling of Antoinette. Too stringent, too determined to be in control, too ready to impose her rules. As though, in the grander scheme of things, the placement of a fork truly mattered. All that mattered right now was Antoinette's safe return. Margaret glanced at her wristwatch. Midnight, on the dot. Where was she? A floorboard creaked. Margaret started. These last few days, the house seemed to be falling apart more than ever. Plaster cracking — even several pieces of

ABC Amber Text Converter Trial version, http://www.processtext.com/abctxt.html furniture breaking! But she'd worked around the problems, too full of pride to call Patrick. Another creak. And another. From the living room. Relief surged through her. Antoinette. Margaret walked into the darkened living room. Curtains fluttered over an open window, through which lavender-scented breezes wafted inside. In the center of the room a shadowy form wavered, then froze. "Antoinette?" A weighty huff. "Yeah, Miss Logan?" Margaret blinked back a rush of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. She took a moment to ground herself. "Let's go out on the porch," she finally said, "and have us a girls' talk."

*** A few minutes later, they sat on the top step, looking up at the star-splattered sky. "Almost a full moon," murmured Margaret. Somewhere in the night, an owl hooted. "When I was your age, I could sneak into a house and not get caught." Antoinette fired a match, lighted her cigarette. "Where'd a fancy lady like you learn such tricks?" "Philly." "Philadelphia?" "Yes. Grew up in a subsidized housing development. You know what that is?" "Hell, yeah — I mean, yeah." "I grew up with only my mom, too." She could sense the girl was listening — watching. Probably a bit stunned she'd been invited outside for a chat, and doubly stunned she wasn't being chastised. Now wasn't the moment, but soon, Margaret planned to have a heart-to-heart with the girl about her smoking. "What do you want to be when you grow up, Antoinette?" The cigarette flared bright orange as the girl took a drag. She blew out a stream of smoke. "Animal doctor." "I'd like to help you get there." Silence. "How?" Margaret pretended not to hear the girl's cynicism. "Don't know yet. But I want to support you; help you and girls like yourself fulfill their potential." Antoinette flicked her cigarette; shot a look at Margaret. "How you gonna do that and run a finishing school?"

ABC Amber Text Converter Trial version, http://www.processtext.com/abctxt.html

"There's not going to be a finishing school to run. I didn't get the job." Two of the St. George board of directors had made a special visit that evening to inspect the house after hearing stories about "vandalization." Margaret had walked them through, explaining that yes, things had broken or stopped working properly these past few weeks, but the girls weren't at fault. The man and woman had just stared at her. Afterward, they'd discussed their concern over reports of "confrontations" and informed Margaret she'd failed the interview. She'd felt bad. Then Antoinette had turned up missing. In the hours during which Margaret sat and worried about the girl, she'd realized that teaching etiquette was only a small part of the picture. That her past uniquely enabled her to help girls who were labeled "at risk." "I'm sorry," murmured Antoinette, stubbing out her cigarette. Margaret started. "For?" "Screwing things up." Margaret put her arm around Antoinette and hugged her close. "You didn't. As difficult as it might be to believe, everything happens for a reason." Words her own mother used to say, but a younger Maggie had scoffed and refused to listen. The older Maggie was a bit wiser, ready to accept that sometimes being resilient was stronger than fighting for what you wanted. Or thought you wanted. The snap of a twig snagged their attention. In the yard, just beyond the circle of light from the porch lamp, stood a gray form. Her heart stuttered. Patrick. "I'm going to bed," Antoinette said, casting a shy look between them. "See you in the morning, Miss Logan." "Call me Margaret —" she paused "— or Maggie." "Cool." As the front door clicked shut behind Antoinette, Patrick stepped into the light. Light fell hard on him, deepening the lines in his face, making her wonder if he'd been having trouble sleeping, too. He wore a polo shirt, khaki pants and wing-tip shoes. Dressed up, like a gentleman caller. "I came back because tonight's the last night of your camp and I wanted to say goodbye." He paused. "Overheard your conversation with Antoinette." He took several steps toward her. "You're really something, Maggie." She wasn't an emotional woman, never had been, yet she couldn't have stopped the tears from filling her eyes if she tried. Maggie. She'd had to travel far from home to finally realize that the streetwise, gangly girl wasn't a part of her past to hide, but a part to honor. She stood, started to walk down the few steps to the ground, when suddenly Patrick was there. "I need you," he said hoarsely. He stood on the bottom step, meeting her at eye level. Light from the porch

ABC Amber Text Converter Trial version, http://www.processtext.com/abctxt.html lamp spilled down on them, its silvery edges bleeding into the night. And for the timeless span of a heartbeat, there was nothing in the world but the two of them and the velvet dome of the sky and the knowing in each others' eyes. A secret smile played along his lips. She nodded. Without a word, he took her hand and led her back inside. Chapter Seven

Patrick double-checked Margaret's bedroom door was locked then crossed the room in long strides to where she stood next to her bed. He took a moment to scan her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. Then he tunneled his fingers into her hair and gently urged her forward until their lips almost touched. "Finally," he murmured huskily. It was the first word either had spoken since they'd stood outside on the porch stairs. After silently telegraphing their need for each other, they'd scurried up the stairs like two secretive teenagers and slipped into her bedroom, breathless and eager. And now, their breaths mingling, he finally, finally kissed her. Her lips parted She tasted like slicked the tip reveling in her possessing her.

and he deepened the kiss, his tongue probing the moist warmth. coffee and fruit, hot and sweet. With a guttural moan, he of his tongue along the sensitive underside of her lip, gasp of pleasure, before crushing his mouth to hers,

A jolt of pleasure ricocheted through her and she opened her mouth wider, tangling her tongue with his. A low groan rumbled up from his chest and his arms tightened around her. He pressed his hand against the small of her back, molding her against his arousal. He positioned himself against her aching center just so and thrust once, twice… Two weeks of suppressed desire exploded. Gulping air, she pulled back and tugged off her top, unzipped her skirt and wriggled it off her hips. He yanked off his shirt, damn near ripped off his pants. She kicked off her sandals, he his shoes. When she started to unclasp her bra, he grabbed her hands. "We need to…slow…down," he said between pants. Realizing their near-desperate urgency, they started laughing. "Shhh." Margaret pressed her forefinger to his lips. "The girls." He kissed her finger. "Good thing they're downstairs, at the other end of the house." "We still need to be quiet." He winked. "I can if you can." His cocky grin faded as his gaze grew heated,

ABC Amber Text Converter Trial version, http://www.processtext.com/abctxt.html traveled over her body. "Take off your bra," he murmured. With suddenly trembling fingers, she undid the clasp and removed the lacy, pink item. "Beautiful," he murmured, tracing a fingertip around a pebbled nipple. She gasped, her skin burning where his fingers had touched. He gestured that her panties were next. She slipped them off, nudged them aside with her foot and stood naked in front of him. "You're…so…beautiful," he whispered. He'd seen naked women before, but with Maggie, it was as though no one else had ever existed. With her, he was rediscovering the wonder — and fire — of passion, as though it were the very first time. The first kiss. The first touch. The first time he'd ever been in love. It was now, with Maggie. And intuitively, he knew it would always be Maggie. Rocked with sudden emotion, he slipped off his briefs and gathered her silky warmth into his arms.

* * * Margaret melted into Patrick, wanting to memorize every moment. How he smelled of summer, how it felt to drink in the hot taste of him, how his body was a wonder of strength and tenderness. She wanted to always remember the night they became lovers. Eventually, they eased onto the bed, a tangle of limbs. His hands, rough and skilled, explored and stroked and teased her until, aching for release, she opened herself to him. He positioned himself over her, his smoldering blue eyes meeting hers. "Maggie…" "Yes?" He didn't answer. Instead, he eased his hardened arousal into her, smothering her cries of pleasure with his kisses as they tumbled off the edge of the world.

*** Margaret wasn't sure what awakened her. She blinked open her eyes, gradually aware that a man's arm lay draped across her chest, the two of them naked under a light blanket. Patrick. She smiled sleepily, her body thrilling at the memory of their passionate lovemaking. The man was wickedly sensual; too skilled for his own good, and

ABC Amber Text Converter Trial version, http://www.processtext.com/abctxt.html she couldn't wait to tell him so in great detail. She became vaguely aware of the faint, sweet notes of a violin. The tune familiar, so near… Violin? A cold foreboding rinsed through her. Burrowing under the covers, she nudged Patrick. "Hmm?" "Listen," she croaked. After a moment, he bolted upright. The man was a hell of a lot braver than her. She'd stay here huddled underneath the blankets with her eyes squeezed shut, thank you. "It's her," he whispered. "You have to see." "I'll pass." "Maggie, I thought you could handle anything." "On the earthly plane, yes. High woo-woo stuff, no." "And you, who didn't believe in ghosts." "I didn't. Now I do. Goodnight." He took her hand, gave it a squeeze. "Trust me." "Like I've never heard that line before." He chuckled softly. "It's safe, I promise. Part of the magic of our first night, Maggie. Something we'll always remember." Always remember. The man was a dog to tug at her sentiment like that. But, to be honest with herself, she'd always wonder what she'd missed. Slowly, she inched into a sitting position, clutching the blanket to her chest. Her breath caught. Across the room, a vapory form was taking shape. "D-do you see…?" she whispered. "Yes." The form — forms actually — materialized fully. It was the woman she'd seen lying on the settee in the dining room last week. Porcelain skin, red lips that matched the gleaming curls piled on her head, her curvaceous body encased in a blue gown whose hem was trimmed with fur. She was cranking an old Victrola, nodding in time to the music. Finally, she stopped and turned to face them. "Good evening," she said, picking up a black lace fan. The violin played in

ABC Amber Text Converter Trial version, http://www.processtext.com/abctxt.html the background. "Lillie," Patrick said, "how are you?" Good grief. He's socializing with a ghost. "Not so bad," she said, "considering." Her violet eyes twinkled. "You?" "Never better." Lillie laughed softly, an infectious sound that made Margaret smile despite her semi-frozen state. Lillie motioned to the Victrola. "Brahms violin concerto in D major," she said, "my favorite." Margaret prayed the three of them wouldn't spend the rest of the night playing "Name that Tune." Suddenly Lillie gestured with her fan to the ceiling. "Have you noticed it's lower than the other ceilings in the house?" Margaret and Patrick looked up. After a beat, he murmured, "Drop ceiling." With a secret smile, Lillie faded, the notes of the violin lingering in the air. Chapter Eight

Saturday morning, Margaret stood on the porch of Lillie's old house, waving goodbye to another girl and her parents as they drove down the street. It was the end of etiquette camp, a two-week period that had profoundly changed Margaret's life. It was funny to think back and recall that her sole reason for traveling to Denver had been to land a job, which she'd lost. But, oh, what she'd gained. The trust of a girl — the heart of a man. And, after years of hiding her past as though it were a dirty secret, she'd learned to value her roots. "Goodbye, Maggie." Next to her stood Antoinette and her mother. Mrs. Jackson shook Margaret's hand. "My Antoinette told me she learned so much from you, Miss Logan. Thank you." "I learned even more," she said, hugging the girl. When they pulled away, Margaret reminded her, "I'm going to help you fulfill your dreams. That's a promise." As Antoinette and her mother walked down the sidewalk to their car, Margaret blinked back her tears. "You're really something, Maggie." She turned, wiping a corner of her eye. "Oh, Patrick, that girl so reminds me of myself. When I was her age, I was ready to break any rule, fight any fight because I thought the world was against me."

ABC Amber Text Converter Trial version, http://www.processtext.com/abctxt.html

Patrick was wiping his hands on a rag, his khaki pants and polo shirt streaked with dirt. "I have a feeling Antoinette is going to face the world differently now. She knows she has an ally. You." He laid the rag on a porch railing. "And I mean to make my promise good." She checked out his dirt-streaked clothes. "Fixing things?" "No." He stepped over to Maggie and kissed the tip of her nose. "I checked out the drop ceiling Lillie showed us last night." A breeze fluttered past, and for a moment Margaret swore she heard the high, sweet notes of a violin. "And?" Patrick cocked a grin. "Remember that chandelier I told you about? It's up there, hidden all these years in that dark, dusty space between the false ceiling and the real one." "Amazing!" She paused. "Wonder why she wanted us to know it's there?" "Because we're special?" Margaret laughed, although a part of her wondered if that wasn't far from the truth. After all, Patrick had told her last night that despite all the documented hauntings in the old house, no one had ever seen Lillie. Or her Victrola — the source of the mysterious music. So, obviously, no one had ever had her point out the drop ceiling with its secret. Patrick took Margaret's hand. "I want to buy this place, Maggie. Restore it. I contacted the gentleman who owns the property and he's interested in selling it." Patrick blew out a nervous breath. "I'm so nervous, I'm shaking." "Nervous to buy it?" "No, to say what I want to say next." He gave her hand a squeeze, emotion shining in his eyes. "I love you, Maggie. Don't go back to Philadelphia. Stay here, with me. Whenever the world feels difficult, you'll have me on your side. I make that promise to you, for the rest of your days." Her heart fluttered in her chest…and sank. "Patrick," she whispered, "I love you, too…" "But?" "But…I need to return to my life in Philadelphia and figure out what I'm doing next. My only business reputation in Denver is as someone who failed. I have no other business contacts here; what kind of work could I get?" "You don't have to work." She laughed, mostly from surprise. "And what would I do?" He gestured to the house. "Help me fix it up, raise a family." "I didn't come this far, work this hard, to give up my dreams," she said

ABC Amber Text Converter Trial version, http://www.processtext.com/abctxt.html softly. The pain in Patrick's eyes devastated her. "What dreams? To run an etiquette camp?" She drew a deep breath. "No. To fulfill my potential. I have ideas I want to work on, plans brewing in my head. That's who I am, Patrick." The sudden silence was so edgy and absolute, she heard the drone of a bee nearby. "You said you wanted to be on my side," she said quietly, "yet you don't seem to accept who I fundamentally am." "That's bull —" They stared at each other, shocked by their anger and how far apart they suddenly were. There was nothing more to say. For a long, long moment, they stared into each other's eyes before they turned and departed in separate directions.

*** Lillie stood in the doorway, fanning herself. She understood a woman pursuing a business career; after all, Lillie was quite the business woman in her day. Stacked up more gold than most of the gents in the city of Denver. And she'd have bet that money, too, on Margaret and Patrick spending the rest of their lives together. Which was why, after one hundred and twenty-four years, Lillie had finally divulged the whereabouts of the ring to them! Patrick would undoubtedly find it embedded in the chandelier, but there'd be no Margaret to give it to. Lillie sighed deeply. "For all my talents at matchmaking, I failed with these two." In all the decades she'd been haunting this place, she'd never felt this miserable. And lonely. She missed the girls who'd been her visitors these past few weeks. All the laughter, pranks and camaraderie reminded her a bit of the old days… A thought hit her. Patrick loved this house, would no doubt still make an offer on it. And while he was around, fixing things, she'd plant a few ideas in his head. Things he could suggest to Margaret over their numerous long-distance calls because Lillie had no doubt these two would stay in touch… Smiling to herself, she floated back into the house.

*** Six months later, Patrick stood on the lawn in front of Lillie Tremont's former home and admired the sign he'd just hung over the porch. The purple lettering complemented the crisp plum, gray and white paint job that had taken Patrick and his buddies a solid month to complete. Ever since buying the house five months ago, Patrick had put his heart and soul into restoring it, and his efforts had paid off. From behind, a pair of slim arms circled his waist. "Guess who," whispered a sultry voice. "Lillie?" "Very funny." He turned and pulled the woman into his arms, letting his hands drift down to

ABC Amber Text Converter Trial version, http://www.processtext.com/abctxt.html a soft, round tushie that knew how to fill a pair of jeans. "Do I get another guess?" "One more, so make it good." "Mmm…" He ran his hands down her sides. "Feels soft, yet stubborn. Smart, too." "How can you tell?" He lifted her hand, on which sparkled an antique diamond ring. "Because she said 'yes' when I asked her to marry me." He pulled back and stared into Maggie's sparkling green eyes. "Like the sign?" She looked over his shoulder and gasped, then read the words out loud. "School for Extraordinary Girls. Oh, Patrick, it's perfect." After returning to Philadelphia, Margaret had worked at her old job while mulling over ideas for how to help girls like Antoinette. Then, a month later, Patrick called and told her he'd purchased Lillie's place. The calls continued. He'd listen to Margaret's emerging ideas for a non-profit organization that would offer courses like leadership skills and career planning to at-risk teenage girls. He'd pitched in additional ideas (which, he claimed, always came to him in dreams). "Won't Antoinette be surprised at how the place has changed," said Patrick, his arm around Maggie. "Wonder if Lillie knows," she murmured, resting her head on his shoulder. A breeze ruffled the air, carrying the faint, sweet notes of a distant violin… The End