for her to enter. She noted that his hands were large, the fingers long, the nails short and square.
Adrianna hesitated a moment before she stepped inside, wondering if she was making a mistake. The house, which had appeared old and romantic in the bright light of midday, now seemed fraught with menace when viewed in the swirling shadows of twilight.
Or perhaps it was the man who intimidated her, with his sober mien and cool gray gaze. Such a deserted stretch of land suddenly seemed an unlikely location for an antique store. Was it merely a front for something else? Had she stumbled on a Mafia hideout?
"Everything on the first two floors is for sale,"Navarre said. "Feel free to wander around. I'll be in the kitchen if you have any questions."
Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked away.
Adrianna stared after him until he was out of sight, the sound of his voice echoing in her mind. Never had she heard such a voice, so soft, so deep, so compelling. And his eyes... She shuddered. Was it her imagination, or was there something otherworldly about those eyes?
One thing was certain, there was something decidedly mysterious about Mr. V. Navarre, and she stood there for a moment, trying to decide what it was. Shaking off her fanciful thoughts, she turned around to close the door behind her, and then left it open.
It was a beautiful old place, obviously well-cared for inside, despite the neglect outside. The woodwork and floors were of dark oak. The walls were covered with Victorian-looking wallpaper. Heavy, dark-green draperies hung at the windows.
But it was the furniture that held her attention. There were a few pieces she was certain dated back to the thirteenth century. She ran her hands lovingly over a fragile Queen Anne sofa, admired the graceful lines of a Sheraton table, stared in awe at an ancient Greek urn.
There were chamber pots and bed warmers, laces and cloths, fireplace screens and grandfather clocks, porcelain dolls dressed in long gowns, oak desks, flat irons, old pictures and wall hangings, dishes and glassware, silverware and cooking utensils made of silver and gold, brass and pewter. A suit of armor stood in one corner.
There were signs from stores long gone, posters advertising operas and ballets, circuses and lynchings.
There were pot-bellied stoves for heating and wood-burning stoves for cooking; there were ice boxes and vegetable bins. One room held a bar reminiscent of the kind seen in old Westerns. There were shelves of all sizes filled with knickknacks and bric-a-brac. Other shelves held canister sets and cookies jars, sugar bowls, cream pitchers, and salt and pepper shakers. A large box held a variety of mismatched silverware.
She was unaware of the passing of time as she wandered from room to room, her fingers caressing the back of a velvet-covered settee, plinking out a tune on an old player piano, gently stroking the head of a china doll.
She saw a Queen Anne chair that dated back to the 1730s, an Empire cane-backed daybed that she knew had been made inChina in the 1840s, and a Federal square-backed sofa that dated back even further than that. She thought it odd that all the mirrors were covered.
The rooms upstairs held bedroom furniture. Here, too, the mirrors on the highboys and chests were covered with cloth.
She saw a number of armoires, some of oak, some of dark red mahogany, but none caught her fancy.
She paused to study a Chippendale canopy bed, then moved on to a nineteenth-century sleigh bed. But it was a turn-of-the-century canopy bed that drew her eye. Made of mahogany and pine, she was certain it was well over a hundred years old.
"Find anything you like?"
His voice went through her like the rumble of distant thunder, and she whirled around, startled to find him standing in the doorway behind her.
"Everything." She made a sweeping gesture with her hand. "I've never seen such a treasure trove."
"I've been collecting for a very long time," he replied with a shrug.
"Really?" She frowned. He didn't look much older than she was, but then, looks could be deceiving.
"Are you looking for anything in particular?"
"Well, I was hoping to find an armoire, but..." She smiled self-consciously. "I really like this bed."
"It's a fine piece," he replied. And indeed it was. Long ago, it had been the bed he slept it. "The mattress is new, of course."
"Of course," she repeated, mesmerized by his gaze, by the sound of his voice, the sheer masculinity of the man.