Reluctant Deception - Cambria Smyth Page 0,33

any company records? More importantly, what was it worth? The thought of this important work being wrested from its original setting was just another nail in her coffin of despair.

“I’ll have to do some research on it for you. It’s quite a find. It might even be museum quality.” She could have sworn she saw dollar signs ringing up in his eyes at the very mention of its potential value as he got off the ladder.

Then she caught herself. While she hated the mansion’s fate, she had to stop letting it rule her emotions. She dug into a well of resolve she didn’t know she owned, straightened her shoulders, and looked at him squarely.

“Let’s do the basement and call it a day,” she suggested.

Chris flipped a light switch at the head of the stairs before they descended into the dank cellar.

It took Libby a few seconds to get her bearings in the relative darkness. The gargantuan basement was cluttered with an assortment of cast-off household goods, canning jars, an old-fashioned washing machine, magazines that had been out of print for decades, and other detritus. A monstrous and ancient heating system occupied the center of the room, its octopus-like arms radiating from a boiler that had to date from the 1920s.

They poked through piles of debris, opened cardboard boxes, and sorted through tin cans filled with nuts, bolts, and nails.

“I don’t see much here of architectural value,” she said, gesturing around. “There’s some old wooden storm windows in that pile over there, but I doubt they’ll be of interest.”

In the dim lighting she noticed several doorways along the back wall.

“Let’s see what’s over there,” she said, pointing in their direction. She stopped when she saw the glazed look that had come over Chris. His patience with their afternoon together was finally wearing thin.

“I don’t know, lady,” Chris drawled, switching on another light as they made their way through the debris-filled basement. “I’ve had about as much history as I can take for one day. Hell, make that for one year.” He threw her a rakish look of contriteness.

“Well, you’re the one that bought this place,” she reminded him, reveling somewhat in his discomfort. This had been hard for him, too, but for entirely different reasons! She grinned back at him, unable to help herself.

Chris tugged on the first door they came to and it opened with a creak and a groan. Libby trained her flashlight around the room as glistening piles of coal in the wood enclosed bin reflected the rays a hundredfold. Obviously, the heating system had been originally coal-fired, as it would have been. The second door opened into a windowless room used for storing gardening implements. They found an assortment of clay pots, jardinières, small trellises, and the like, but nothing of great value.

As they approached the third door, Libby noted with dismay it was held shut with a rusted padlock. “Oh dear,” she groaned. “This one may have to wait.”

Chris chuckled. “No it won’t. I’ve got a pair of bolt cutters upstairs.”

She eyed him speculatively. “Don’t tell me you’re a burglar, too?”

“Hardly,” he laughed easily in response. “This isn’t the first time something at Harte’s Desire was locked up. I’ve used it a few times. Wait here.”

She watched his retreating figure, silently admiring his handsome good looks. She inwardly admitted how hard it was to resist him when he dropped his business persona and lightened up. In another life, she could….she could what? Yes, maybe really like him. She mutely canceled the thought as soon as it arose. There was no way on earth they could ever make it work. He hated old buildings and she loved them. He hated her and she hated him. But, she did like the other side of him, the side that made her forget their history and their mutual dislike for each other.

Chris returned, bolt cutters in hand, and deftly removed the lock.

Libby stood back as the door swung open, a pungent smell wafting towards them. Cobwebs filled the doorway and Chris swatted at them before entering the darkness with Libby right behind him.

She gasped as her flashlight revealed row after row of green bottles, carefully shelved with their corked tops slanted down. “Chris,” she whispered in awe. “It’s a wine cellar. No wonder it was locked!”

Chris tugged on a chain dangling from the ceiling and suddenly the room was bathed in the soft golden glow of an old-fashioned, bare light bulb.

Libby walked over to the first rack and gently brought