“Phoebe.” He stood next to her and took her hands, kissed her lightly on the lips. “Come on. I’ll show you the rest of the upstairs.”
He explained that the house was new. He’d only moved in six months ago. It wasn’t massive, certainly not as massive as he could afford. He’d hired a decorator because he hadn’t had the time or the inclination to figure out what to do with each room, never mind what furnishings to use. He’d been satisfied with the results, but Phoebe realized that he didn’t care that much about the specifics—things like whether a refrigerator was stainless-steel or avocado-green. He’d wanted comfort, soothing colors, space where he could move, relax, think and entertain.
“Not that I entertain that much,” he said as they came to the master bedroom. “You’re the first person I’ve had in here except for the decorators. I gave Olivia the grand tour when she was here with Dylan but we skipped this room.”
“It’s beautiful,” Phoebe said, trying to ignore the catch in her throat. The room was all grayed neutrals and sleek lines. She walked to the windows that looked out at the bay. “The view is breathtaking.”
“That’s San Diego for you.”
He sat on the king-size bed. It was simply made up, the sheets pulled back, white-cased pillows piled at the headboard. Phoebe felt a tingle of awareness as she looked at him. He leaned back on one arm, his eyes a deeper blue than the sky and ocean outside the windows. A nighttime blue. A blue as intense and enigmatic as he was.
There were several guestrooms. She had only to pick one. He’d told her so in that steady manner he had. But as he watched her from his bed, she knew what his preference was.
She walked over to him and sat next to him, not quite touching. “Noah, there’s something you need to know about me.”
“I want to know everything about you.”
She turned to him, placing one knee on the bed. “Everyone thinks I’ve given up on love and romance. I thought I had, too.” She realized she felt comfortable talking to him, and the tension went out of her. She smiled. “Then I found Daphne Stewart’s sewing room in the library attic, and I started to see that I hadn’t given up. I argued with myself.”
“You didn’t want to expose yourself to being hurt again,” he said. “Or expose your family to your pain.”
“And I didn’t want things to change. I liked my life.” She put her hand on his upper arm. “I’ve been torn ever since I saw those dresses, felt the presence—the dreams and hopes—of the woman who created them. They connected with me on the deepest level. I didn’t see that at first.”
“Sneaking into the ball in your Edwardian gown was part of the war with yourself,” he said, brushing a curl off her face. “I think I saw that. It’s part of why I noticed you.” He smiled, letting his hand drift along the line of her jaw. “Also because you were so damn beautiful.”
She laughed. “It was the black wig.”
His eyes sparked with amusement, and something else. Awareness, she thought. Desire. He leaned closer to her. “It wasn’t the black wig,” he said softly. “Trust me.”
“I do trust you. The moment you swept me onto that ballroom dance floor, I knew I could trust you.”
“Sure that’s not just jet lag talking?”
She smiled. “Very sure.”
“I love you, Phoebe. I don’t know if I’ve ever known what love could be until I spotted you in your princess dress. It got even better when I ran into you hunting slugs, making pesto, warding off a chilly morning in an old sweater at the library.”
“I’m not what you’re used to—”
“I love you, Phoebe. Not some idea of you.”
His hand eased over her shoulder. She had on a sleeveless top, could feel the warmth of his skin on hers.
“Daphne has invited us to lunch at her home in Hollywood Hills,” Noah said. “Julius Hartley and Loretta will join us. That’s on Thursday. Then I thought we could drive up the coast to my winery. When do you have to be back at work?”
“Whenever I want.” She placed her hand on his, on her shoulder. “If I want to go back. My future’s wide open, too.”
They were lost then. She could see it in his eyes, feel it as he withdrew his hand from hers and skimmed it down her bare arm. He was so close to her. So impossibly sexy. She reeled with a desire that was scarily intense and unrelenting. It made her feel vulnerable and open, as if she couldn’t hide anything from Noah even if she wanted to—even if she tried.
He was deliberate, as smooth and centered as he had been when he’d taken her into his arms in Boston, when he’d helped her pick basil and mint and she’d watched him chase after Buster.
When he’d pushed his way through the debris from the storm and found her and her nephews in the library attic.