Reluctant Deception - Cambria Smyth Page 0,14

me submit this report as one of several conditions for getting their approval to build near the wetlands by the river."

Libby forced herself not to breathe an audible sigh of relief. She hadn't been found out. Yet. The fundraising plans were intact. For the moment. If her luck would just hold out another few months.

"Why exactly am I here?" she prodded, managing to inject some tranquility into her voice although her heart was still racing and she didn't dare withdraw her hands from under the table, they were shaking so.

"You mentioned yesterday that you have some training in the field of restoration. Do you know enough to complete this report the state wants?"

When she didn't reply immediately, he hastened to add, "I realize this is all very last minute, but I'm facing some extremely tight construction deadlines. I've never seen so many permits and approvals needed for one project. And this is just one complication more than I care to deal with right now."

Libby sat forward, intrigued by his proposal.

"The only person I know who could do the work is Libby Chatham and I'd have to be ice skating in hell before I ever hired her."

"L-Libby Chatham?" Libby replied, her tongue stumbling over the mention of her former name.

"Do you know her? She's an old nemesis of mine. Done a lot of work on historic buildings down in the Philadelphia area."

"I'm familiar with her work." That much was the truth, Libby thought. Dear heaven, don't let him delve any further she silently prayed.

"Strange," Chris continued. "Nobody's heard anything from her in a couple of years. It's almost as if she disappeared. You don't happen to know what's become of her, do you?"

He nonchalantly shuffled some papers on his desk, then peered at Libby intently.

She struggled for control and nervously shifted her eyes from his inquiring ones.

"Maybe she moved out of the area." It was sort of the truth, wasn't it?

"Well, it doesn't really matter now," he said, dismissing the subject with the wave of a hand. "Anyway, can you help me out?"

Could she help? Why, she knew exactly the documentation the state needed. It would be a snap, and it was the kind of research she loved to do. How cruel that she was being asked to do it for Harte's Desire, though, of all buildings. She fought the urge to plead incompetence. How she wished tell him what she really thought about his plans for demolishing her favorite landmark.

But she needed the work, desperately. Being away for two months had taken its toll on her income and she could use any job available to keep her business afloat. If only her mother...Libby caught herself. There was no changing the past. There was only now, and Christopher Darnell was anxiously awaiting her reply.

How ironic that he would be hiring her, of all people, for this job. If he discovered her secret, he would be furious to learn he unintentionally hired his greatest foe. Heaven help her, she hoped she'd never have to face the man again. Yet here she was taking a job from him, no less.

They would have contact almost daily for several weeks while she conducted her study of Harte's Desire. From a professional point of view, it would be thrilling to examine the building more intimately. And, she could more easily coordinate the fundraiser while working there. From a personal point of view, she decided it was pure foolishness on her part to be around him every day, but she needed the money. She silently swore to do her utmost to avoid him while she was there.

She met his gaze squarely. "Yes, I believe I can do the job for you."

“Excellent,” he replied, looking at her steadily. "When can you start? Soon, I hope?" Although spoken as a question, it was delivered as a command.

“I can rearrange my work schedule to accommodate your project,” she lied easily, not feeling the least bit remorseful. “I can start on Monday if you wish.”

“Perfect. The last thing I need is another setback to my demolition schedule. I’m already behind as it is.”

Libby winced inwardly at the reminder, but recovered quickly. “What is my deadline?”

“Is a month reasonable?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"Six weeks would be better."

“Fine,” he replied, thinking again how beautiful she looked sitting there. So poised, collected, professional. The breeze was seductively teasing her hair, lifting it first one way then another. He was fascinated by the expressiveness of her eyes and had to force himself to concentrate