Reluctant Deception - Cambria Smyth Page 0,31
don’t suppose you’ve got that original deed handy, do you?”
“I can have it for you this afternoon,” she assured him, noting that Chris seemed relieved to have the problem solved.
Libby turned to continue her work when his strong arm shot out to restrain her.
“Could you spare a minute in my office? Now?” he asked, his face emotionless. “I’d like your opinion.”
“Sure.” What else could she say to the boss?
Libby followed him into the dining room and immediately noticed the colorful drawings pinned to the wall.
“My architect stopped by this morning with three different designs for the new conference center and I’d like to know which one you think is the best.” Chris posed the question as innocently as he could, then watched as a riot of warring emotions danced across her face. Excellent, he thought. This part of his plan for revenge was working exactly as desired.
Libby said nothing as she studied the different renderings, wishing anew that the mansion was not to be razed. Each design was sterile, devoid of character, and unimaginative. And the thought of Harte’s Desire being replaced by one of these nondescript steel-and-glass boxes almost made her nauseous.
She looked at him, a frown pulling at the corners of her mouth. “I don’t like any of them,” she stated flatly.
“That answer’s not good enough,” he taunted. “I need you to pick the best one of the bunch.”
“There is no best one, Chris. They’re all dull and ordinary,” she rejoined.
“Explain.”
Libby chewed her bottom lip in contemplation. “Well, their designs are boring. You could place them in any suburban metro setting and they’d blend right in. The first one here focuses on the façade, but totally ignores the beautiful river view in the back. The second one looks more like a cruise ship than a conference center. And the third one is just plain ugly.”
Chris’ face was a blank slate as he digested her comments. “I have to disagree. People want modern, not old-fashioned these days.”
“Well, then, aren’t you asking the wrong person’s opinion, Chris? You know how I feel about your plans for Harte’s Desire.”
“Ah, yes, the demolition,” he said brightly, not bothering to couch it in more palatable terms for her sake.
Libby cleared her throat. “I need to get back to work. Find someone else to weigh in, Chris, because I refuse.” She met his gaze head-on and found his steely blue-green eyes watching her carefully.
“I’ll take your comments into consideration and will see you Saturday Miss Reed.”
Chapter Twelve
At the appointed time on Saturday afternoon, Libby appeared in his doorway and announced her arrival. Since their tangling over the conference center’s new design, she’d taken time away from the mansion to do some research in the archives and at the county court house in Burlington. But today they’d be forced to work side by side.
Standing patiently as Chris finished a phone call, Libby groaned inwardly, knowing that as much as she needed the extra income, the work this afternoon would also be both distasteful and demoralizing. After reveling in the mansion’s beauty the past week, she’d once again have to acknowledge its demise for the next five hours or so.
Chris put the phone down, signed one last document, and glanced over at her as he set his pen aside. “Ready?” he asked brusquely. “Let’s start in the attic and work our way down.”
Libby nodded and followed him as they headed up two flights of stairs, glad that his businesslike manner announced he’d put their disastrous personal confrontations this week behind him. She would do likewise.
The attic was musty but the day’s clouds had kept the heat down. Soft light filtered in through the mansard roof dormers providing an almost ethereal glow. Earlier in the week Libby had photographed the room without paying any attention to what was in it, but the many steamer trunks, stuffed-to-overflowing cardboard boxes, and wooden crates strewn about immediately caught her eye today, as did the antique furniture--dressers, beds, and chairs--taking up the rest of the space.
She opened one trunk and found it filled with photographs, the old-fashioned kind mounted on dark sturdy cardboard. There were street scenes of Borden’s Landing and portraits of folks from babies to aged spinsters. Other images were even older, portraits framed in velvet-covered embossed metal cases.
“Chris,” she started hesitantly. “I know you’re auctioning the contents, but could you possibly let the historical society go through these? These old photographs of the town and its residents would be a welcome addition to our collection.”
“Do you have a