Reluctant Deception - Cambria Smyth Page 0,30

a mess of things this time, she decided, as she slowly put her shoes back on, tugging at the laces with unaccustomed strength and gathering anger. She'd been the fool today, melting in his arms like butter.

It wasn't safe to be near him, but until she finished this project she had no choice.

Chapter Eleven

With a slim notebook tucked under one arm, Libby stepped off the patio and headed to the overgrown garden. It had been two days since "the bedroom incident" as she had come to call it, and she and Chris had studiously avoided each other ever since, barely acknowledging the other's presence beyond a polite nod or a stolen glance.

She felt him watching her closely, though, when he didn't think she noticed. And she was always aware of him, as if some hidden intuition leapt forth to announce his proximity.

It was pointless to strike up a conversation with him. They obviously had nothing to say to each other.

Unfortunately, Libby's assignment had kept her busy at Harte's Desire. Today she was documenting Amanda’s rose garden. Having found a fairly comprehensive description and some detailed photographs of it in an 1895 horticultural magazine, Libby wanted to see how much of the original design remained. It was a perfect spring day, sunny and not too hot. She headed for the highest terrace and was so busy comparing the photos with the bedraggled garden that she nearly collided with one of the surveyors who’d set up his gear there.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, moving out of his way.

“Not a problem,” he replied, placing a wooden stake topped with a pink plastic ribbon in the ground near her feet.

“What is that marking?” she asked.

“Oh, we’re mapping out the footprint of the new conference center. This represents the northwest corner of the main block,” he said, gesturing to the stake.

Libby’s heart sank, as it did every time she faced, head-on, the impending demise of Harte’s Desire. “Does it really have to be right here in the middle of the rose garden?” she asked, knowing the answer even though she had to ask it.

“That’s not up to me, lady. Mr. Darnell and his architect worked out the plans. I’m just following what’s on the drawings.”

“Is there a problem, Joe?” Chris Darnell called from the patio as he strode toward them purposely, approaching Libby and the surveyor with a scowl on his face. He glanced at Libby, barely acknowledging her presence, then turned to Joe.

Libby sensed he was in a foul mood and hoped she wasn’t the cause. Secretly, she studied the handsome figure he made, his crisp robin’s egg blue shirt rolled up at the cuffs exposing tanned, muscular forearms and jet-black pinstriped pants that accented his model-like physique.

“Damn it, man,” Chris snapped, “you were supposed to be done with the layout two days ago, but here you are, still plodding along. You can’t blame it on the weather. It’s been gorgeous.” He glared at Libby as he added, “I hope Miss Reed here has not been detaining you.”

Libby wanted to turn and run, but that was not possible. Dear heaven he was in a rage.

“No, Mr. Darnell,” the surveyor responded evenly, obviously not cowed, “she’s not the problem. Your legal description is the problem.”

“My legal description?”

“Yes, I can’t get it to close.”

“What do you mean you can’t get it to close?” Chris eyed him with knitted brows.

“I’ve followed the description of the property’s boundaries down to the last compass heading and inch, and the beginning point doesn’t meet the end point. They’re hundreds of feet apart. I’ve spent two days re-doing my work to no avail. Something’s wrong.”

“That’s the description used in the deed, Joe. What could possibly be wrong with that?” Chris replied, wishing Libby were anywhere but here. She was a distraction he’d been doing his best to avoid, and so far had managed to quite nicely.

“I don’t know. Some of the lines are fine, others are not. It just isn’t working.”

Libby could keep silent no longer. “I suspect you need to look at the first deed, when the Harte’s bought the property in 1878,” she stated authoritatively. “Back then the county clerk transcribed each deed by hand and it is entirely possible that over the years the numbers in the compass headings and the distances were written down incorrectly from one deed to another.”

At first, Joe looked at Libby like she had two heads, took a minute to consider what she said, then grinned with recognition. “You could be right, missy. I