April of Enchantment

by Jennifer Blake, Holly Fielding (Read by)

Overview

Laura Nichols was always up for a challenge and the job Justin Roman has offered her is the perfect showcase for her talents. Not only was he dubious of her ability to complete the restoration of his Louisiana mansion in time for his wedding, but she was also frustrated by his arrogance tempered only by his good looks. But if he is so doubtful of her then why does he give her full artistic license even when it obviously angers his fiancée?

Laura dives into the job, determined to prove the maddening man wrong. But when the job reaches completion Laura finds herself torn, she would like nothing more than to be rid of this mess, but she can't deny the attraction she feels for Justin. Will she be able to tear herself away from a man who is to be married in her greatest creation?

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781531800062
Publisher:	Brilliance Audio
Publication date:	08/16/2016
Product dimensions:	5.25(w) x 6.75(h) x 0.50(d)

About the Author

Dubbed "the steel magnolia of women’s fiction," Jennifer Blake has written more than seventy books, including Shameless, Royal Seduction, and Garden of Scandal. A charter member of Romance Writers of America, she has been inducted into the RWA Hall of Fame and is the recipient of the RWA Lifetime Achievement Award. Her novels have been translated into twenty three languages and sold more than 35 million copies worldwide.

Read an Excerpt

1

"Who the devil are you?"

The words rang out loud and harsh in the room shadowed with encroaching twilight. Laura Nichols swung around with a gasp, her violet eyes wide with shock. Her hair, like a shimmering honey-gold curtain, swirled around her, glowing with a life of its own in the dimness. A man stood in the doorway of the nineteenth-century bedroom. He seemed to fill the frame, blocking her exit, a dark man with anger stamped on his hard features.

As she faced him, his expression changed, smoothing to stunned surprise. His dark gaze flicked over the cascading waves of her hair that reached well below her waist, moving to the pure oval of her face with its delicate winged brows, straight nose, and finely molded lips, and down over her slender form in jeans and a plaid shirt. His dark eyes snapped upward, clashing with her own blue-violet stare.

"I asked you a question."

Laura lifted her chin. "I might ask the same thing of you."

He stepped over the threshold and came toward her then, a broad, lithe, almost menacing figure in casual pants and a knit shirt. His words as measured as his steps, he said, "I own this old place, and I don't like trespassers, or teenage vandals who think it's great fun to spray the walls with paint or knock out stair balusters."

She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue as he came to a halt in front of her with his hands on his hips. "You--you must be Mr. Roman."

"I am," he said, his voice dropping to a soft tone that carried a hint of danger, "and I'm waiting to hear who you are and what you are doing here."

"I'm Laura Nichols. Russ Masters gave me a key so I could come by and see what kind of damage thekids who got in last night had done."

"I'm touched at your concern, but I don't see what business it can possibly be of yours."

Laura stared at him. "I thought you knew. I'm the historical consultant for the restoration of Crapemyrtle."

He lifted a brow, allowing his gaze to move over her once more. "You must be joking."

"I assure you I'm not. I was hired two weeks ago by the firm of Masters & Masters, the architects you put in charge of the project."

"Impossible. I specifically requested the services of a qualified expert."

Irritation stirred inside Laura. "How do you know I'm not?"

"You don't look old enough to be out of high school, much less have earned a degree in history."

"There was nothing said about a college degree being necessary." With a faint flush rising to her cheekbones, Laura took the ribbon she held in her hand, forgotten until now, and began to tie her hair in a long pony tail.

"Maybe not to you, but I certainly told Russ Masters what I required. Crapemyrtle is an old and historically valuable piece of property. It will require an immense amount of time, research, and dedication to put it back the way it was when it was built a hundred and forty years ago. I don't intend to see the job botched by an amateur."

Her head came up. "An amateur? Mr. Roman, I may not have a degree, but I am no amateur at historical preservation. I have been going in and out of the old houses in this section of Louisiana all my life. Before his death my father was a carpenter who specialized in renovation, and my mother and I still live in the Nichols family home, which is every bit as old as this one."

"Very interesting, but it doesn't make you an expert."

"That's a matter of opinion. I would be willing to bet that I know more about woodwork and refinishing, period details and embellishments than any stodgy history professor at college who never painted a jib door or polished a piece of brass. I know the best suppliers, the best wrecking barns where they keep aged, recycled wood--windows, doors, and the like--and also the best millworkers, plasterers, and other workmen. More than that, I have taken a number of courses in interior decoration, especially period design."

"Have you ever supervised a complete restoration job from start to finish?"

"No, but--"

"I thought not. This isn't a part-time project. Miss Nichols. When I agreed to let Masters & Masters handle the restoration, it was with the understanding that the modernization--the new kitchen addition and bathrooms--would be finished within six months; no longer. You will have to coordinate your efforts with those of the architect, the contractor, and his carpenter crew, to say nothing of the various cabinetmakers, painters, woodcarvers, and artists. I am engaged to be married, and I want this house ready before the wedding. I don't have time to waste."

"I can promise you, Mr. Roman," Laura said firmly, her violet eyes dark with anger, "that any delays will not be my fault."

"'I prefer not to take that chance."

"Are you saying I'm fired?" she asked slowly.

"That's about the size of it." He stared down at her, his dark gaze firm.

"On the basis of how I look? Because I'm a female and under thirty?"

"There's no need to take it personally. I would feel the same if you were a teenage boy."

"I'm not a teenager, I'm twenty-two!"

"Not a great age, compared to how long this house has been here and how long it will remain."

He could be calm and philosophical because he thought he had the upper hand. It crossed her mind to wonder how old he was. Justin Bienvenu Roman, hardworking, high-powered businessman, scion of an old French-Creole family who had been successful enough to buy back the old family mansion--he did not look to be more than a few years over thirty.

"You couldn't have been much older when you started building your fortune." She pushed her hands into the pockets of her jeans, waiting for his reaction.

He tilted his head to one side. "It seems you have the advantage of knowing more about me than I do about you. How is that, I wonder?"

"I was interested in who had bought Crapemyrtle, and why."

"And who supplied you information?"

"Russ Masters. I believe he's a friend of yours, as well as your architect."

"Also a friend of yours, I suspect."

"That's right," she answered, wariness creeping into her tone.

"A close friend?"

She stiffened. "If you think that's the reason I was hired for this job, you are mistaken."

"The thought had occurred to me."

"It had nothing to do with it. My credentials were more than satisfactory for Russ and his father. They have seen me on the sites of restorations more times than any of us can count. More than that, they recognize the importance of the diary."

"The diary? That is what you said?"

Laura closed her lips tightly together. She wished she had never mentioned it. "I suppose no one told you about that, either."

"As it happens, they didn't, but I haven't spoken to Russ in some time."

"Surely he called you about the break-in?"

"I didn't speak to him. I've been out of the office on business. I found his message, as well as the police report, when I returned this afternoon."

"And you drove straight down? You could have saved yourself a trip. The damage was slight."

"So I see, but though I'm certain your opinion is professionally correct, I preferred to see for myself."

The irony in his tone could not be mistaken. Laura was beginning to dislike this dark, self-assured man intensely. Her nerves still tingled from the scare he had given her, coming upon her so stealthily in the stillness of the old house. She had not heard his car pull up outside, but then she had been so engrossed in the atmosphere of the old mansion, so intent on her fanciful pretense at belonging to it and to another time. She had been thrown off balance at discovering someone else in the house, but that was nothing to her confusion at being caught with her hair flowing around her shoulder in front of the enormous, pedimented cheval glass. She felt foolish, embarrassed, defensive, and not at all up to coping, just this minute, with the sardonic appraisal she saw in the eyes of the man in front of her.

She swung away from him. "Are you certain you're Justin Roman? You don't seem very well informed. How do I know you aren't a trespasser, some kind of tramp planning on spending the night with a roof over his head and a fire in the fireplace?"

"You don't."

The quiet sound of his words caught at her attention and she flung him a quick glance over her shoulder. "There are all sorts of weird things that happen in houses like these, this far out of town, deserted, with no neighbors. People move in, set up communes of the drug-high unemployed, or stage beer-drinking parties, even hold séances, devil-cult ceremonies--"

"Orgies," he added helpfully, an easy step bringing him closer to her.

Alarm coursed along her veins, but she could not seem to change the dangerous course the conversation had taken. "You might be anybody."

"So I might. In which case, it was a little unwise of you to come out here to Crapemyrtle alone, wasn't it?"

"I--I've heard about those things, but I've never seen any evidence except for empty beer cans scattered in the rooms of some old house."

He was between her and the inside door. She moved away, edging toward the French windows that led from the bedroom out onto the front gallery. They were bolted from the inside. All she had to do was pull up the iron rod that held the bolt in place.

"You've been lucky, until now."

"No such thing. I'm always careful. I never go into a place if there is any sign of occupation."

"You came in here," he said, his voice quiet, tentative.

"I've been in here dozens of times. The house has been empty for nearly three years."

"Trespassing?"

"If you want to call it that, though the heirs of the last owner certainly didn't mind; they didn't even care enough to see to the grounds or the repairs to keep it from falling down."

"But you did?" There was skepticism in his tone, and something more she could not define.

"I've always l--liked it." She had nearly said "loved." It was true enough. The gracious old Greek Revival mansion, with its rows of white Doric columns along the galleries on three sides and stuccoed, white painted brick walls, had always appealed to her. Sometimes she had come in the fall and early spring, bringing a broom to sweep the leaves from the floors of the galleries to prevent them from rotting through, climbing to the upper floors by way of the outside servants' stairs that rose in the back. In the summer, she had clipped and pruned the roses in the garden, enjoying the delicious perfume of varieties that were, some of them, as old as the house, keeping the verdant grass of the lawn from choking them out.

"Is that why you want to handle the project?"

This was better, a retreat from what had seemed almost like a threat in his manner. "Not entirely. It would be a showcase, something to prove what I can do, given the opportunity."

She was going to make it. Still, even as she pulled the bolt and placed her hand on the knob of the French window, ready to turn it, to dash outside along the gallery and down the servants' stairs, she was not certain such drastic measures were necessary. She hesitated.

"I can't allow you to do that." His hand came down on hers with firm strength, preventing her from turning the knob.

She swung her head to stare up at him, her violet eyes questioning, shadowed with fear. Abruptly, he encircled her slim waist with his right arm, pulling her against him. His lips came down on hers with the touch of fire. Firm, warm, demanding, they possessed hers. She felt as though a white-hot current passed between them, almost like an electric charge. An instant later, she was free.

Dazed, she swayed, and in that moment, he pulled his billfold from his pocket and opened it to his identification, holding it in front of her.

"Justin Roman," he said, "at your service."

She looked from the billfold he held, with its indisputable proof, to his hard, dark-brown gaze. Anger licked along her veins, ousting the perilous weakness of a moment before. "If that's who you really are, then what was the meaning of that--that demonstration?"

For a moment he appeared disconcerted, though not, she thought, so much from what she had said as from some conclusion of his own. "To prove a point," he said slowly, "and because I wanted to."

"What point?" she demanded.

"To the best of my remembrance, I meant to show you that someone who looks as you do will always be at risk on the site of a project like this. You would need a guardian."

"Probably, as long as there are men like you around! I thought you were engaged."

"So I am."

"You don't act like it."

"I seem to have less character than I thought," he said, a suspended look in his eyes.

It was a disarming admission. To counteract it, Laura sent him a cool glance. "That's your problem. I'm only interested in my job. Won't you reconsider?"

"In the light of--recent developments?"

She glared at him. "No! Because I'm the right person for it."

"Because you need a showcase, you mean. I can't allow you to use Crapemyrtle like that. It isn't the kind of place that can be treated as an experiment."

"Experiment!" She took a deep breath. "I told you this wouldn't be the first job I've worked on."

"Only the first you handled from start to finish."

"That doesn't mean I can't do it."

He looked away, gazing through the window and down the drive of grand old live oaks that led to the front door of Crapemyrtle. "We have already been over this. I think that you mentioned a diary?"

"It isn't important, not if you aren't going to keep me on." She followed the direction of his gaze. The branches of the live oaks were moving arthritically in the winter wind that sent dry leaves scuttling over the rutted white gravel of the narrow drive. The evergreen oaks, the overgrown shrubbery that crowded against the house, and the great, shapeless boxwood hedge that enclosed the grounds made it seem darker than it really was. It had been a sunny, pleasantly warm day for early January, but it was turning cooler as evening drew in, and near freezing temperatures were predicted during the night. She shivered a little, wishing she had brought her coat out of her car. It was down there in her dark-blue compact parked just ahead of the silver-gray car Justin Roman was driving. Looking closer, she saw that his vehicle was an older model, actually what might be called an antique or classic, with an incredibly long body and low-slung lines.

He turned, his eyes narrowing as he stared down at her. "Blackmail?"

"What?"

"Apparently Masters & Masters thought the diary was important when they took you on. Contemporary information on the house, what it looked like--colors, fabrics, locations of rooms--would be valuable to have, but I don't intend to pay through the nose for it, or to hand over a salary to someone who has nothing else to recommend her."

"I never suggested such a thing," Laura said, her eyes flashing violet lights. "As for my recommendation, has it slipped your mind that it is personal--or so you seem sure--from Russ?"

"No," he answered, "it hasn't."

"Speaking of which, to the best of my understanding, Masters & Masters is the firm paying my salary. And that is enough to make me wonder, Mr. Roman, if you are my employer at all. It may be you don't have the power to take me off this project."

"If Russ Masters doesn't want to replace you, I can always find myself another architect."

She regarded him with clear eyes. "I don't think you will do that. You have a contract, plans have been drawn for the additions and have been started on the architectural details that must be replaced; you have an agreement with a contractor who has already started to have materials delivered. If you started over, you would lose money, but more than that, you would forfeit valuable time--and possibly a friend."

"You have it all figured out, don't you?"

"I wouldn't say that."

"Nor would I," he assured her, his voice grim. "Russ isn't an unreasonable man."

"Unlike others," she said softly.

He ignored that. "And even if you stay on, I wonder how you'll like it if you have me breathing down your neck every minute, because that's where I'll be, checking and rechecking everything you do, dogging your every footstep."

"Good," she answered pugnaciously. "Accuracy is important to me, too. And if you are going to be that close, I hope you don't mind holding a tape measure or a ladder now and then. There are times when I could use an assistant."

He stared at her, his dark gaze moving over her face, noting the stubborn tilt of her chin and the square set of her shoulders. The light through the dusty glass slanted across the planes of his face, glinting on his thick dark brows, the high ridge of his cheekbones, and the deep cleft of his chin, leaving his eyes with their long, thick lashes in shadow. His skin held an undertone of bronze, partially the legacy of his French heritage, partially from outdoor pursuits. Whether it was the result of his action only moments before or a trick of the fading evening, there seemed also to be a hint of sensuality in the firmly molded curves of his mouth. Laura looked away, another shiver running over her.

"This is getting us nowhere," Justin Roman said. "Tomorrow I'll talk to Russ. For now, we had better get out of here while we can still see our way."

There was no electricity on in the house at present, though it had been installed in the early forties. The great upstairs hall was a tunnel of gloom echoing to the sound of their footsteps. Descending the curving staircase to the lower floor where the windows were covered with rags of draperies and the smothering greenery outside was like sinking into a dark well. Only the sunrise fanlight and the sidelights around the great front door provided faint illumination. The scent of dust, disturbed by their passage, hung in the air along with a dry smell of crumbling plaster and mice.

Laura stood to one side on the lower front gallery as Justin Roman closed and locked the doors, fastening the padlock that was all that held the tall heavy panels against intruders. She thought he hesitated, as if considering the possibility of asking her for her key. She deliberately kept her face turned from him. After a moment, he swung toward the stone steps, indicating with a brief gesture that she should precede him down them. With her head high, she moved to where her car sat, reaching for the door handle.

"Good-bye, Miss Nichols," he said, his face expressionless.

"I'll see you later," she contradicted him with a grim smile before she slid into her car.

He did not reply, only moving past her to get into the sleek silver automobile parked behind her own vehicle. He reversed down the drive and into the road where he sat waiting for her to turn out in front of him. It was only a courtesy, she knew, a means of seeing her safely on her way, a remnant of Southern chivalry, and yet she had the distinct feeling that she was being escorted under guard from the premises.

"Calm down, Laura. The man can't be that bad."

"He is the most arrogant, pompous, infuriating person I have ever met. The more I think about him, and about his attitude when he found me at Crapemyrtle, the madder I get."

Laura's mother sent her a warm smile as she poured lacquer thinner onto the crazed surface of the old secretary-desk she was refinishing. "Don't think about him, then."

"I can't help it. Everything was just fine until Justin Roman came into the picture. I was finally going to be able to contribute something to the expenses around here."

"You mustn't worry about it."

"But I would have been doing the work I've trained for, have been a part of the restoration of Crapemyrtle. Now it may all come to nothing."

"I meant don't worry about contributing, as you call it. We're doing fine with the shop."

"I know, Mom, but I would like to do my share."

Mrs. Nichols had started a small antique business in the front parlor of their old family home two years before, when her husband died. She had gradually built up a nice clientele, people in the town and surrounding area who loved antiques and depended on Mary Nichols to help them utilize them with expertise and taste. Buying old pieces, refinishing, then reselling had brought in a reasonable living, though speculation in good pieces of fine furniture as a hedge against inflation these last few years had also added to the profits. Bit by bit, the concern had taken over the entire lower floor of the Georgian mansion. Laura and her mother had retreated to the second story, installing a small kitchen, turning one of the bedrooms into a comfortable sitting room, trying to get away from the ever-present smells of ancient mustiness, lemon oil polish, and the wood alcohol, lacquer thinner, and varnish used in the refinishing process.

Laura's mother tilted her head, surveying the desk top against the light overhead to be certain the lacquer thinner had dissolved the finish evenly as she smoothed away the cracks and fine lines that marred it. "You do enough. You'll have to admit, however, that Mr. Roman has no reason to think you are as capable as you know yourself to be. You don't look like a historical consultant."

"So he pointed out. What I look like doesn't matter."

"Oh? I don't think he would have felt it necessary to warn a man of the dangers of being caught alone at Crapemyrtle--or even a middle-aged female like me."

"You aren't middle-aged," Laura said positively.

They were in the room that had once been the kitchen of the old house, but was now the combination refinishing room and display area for American primitive pieces and kitchenware. While her mother worked on the small desk, eager to complete the job before dinner, Laura lounged in a handmade rocker drawn up near a butcher block made of a solid cypress tree round. Sitting on the block was a hand-carved wooden biscuit bowl now being used to hold fruit. Laura reached for an apple, avoiding the other woman's too penetrating gaze. She had told her of the warning, but not of the kiss that had accompanied it.

"Don't change the subject. You know very well I've told you any number of times that you shouldn't go to Crapemyrtle by yourself while it's empty."

"It's such a peaceful place."

"Not for long, it seems."

"No." Laura sighed and bit into the golden delicious apple in her hand. She leaned back in the rocker, her hair bright against the age-darkened wood.

"I'm sure everything will work out all right. The Romans are a fine old family."

Laura looked up with a shake of her head. "Mom, you are hopelessly old-fashioned. As if his family made any difference these days!"

"I know it shouldn't, but there's no getting around the fact that certain family traits--spite, stinginess, or generosity--appear again and again, just as surely as generic diseases."

"Justin Roman's family moved from here before he was born. What can you know about him?"

"His parents moved up to Baton Rouge, but he still has aunts, uncles, and innumerable cousins here. Even his grandparents were residents until their deaths only a few years ago."

"I wonder why he came back. This is such a small town compared to what he's used to." Laura frowned at the apple she held.

"That may be its appeal, though from what you told me, it sounds as if he may possibly feel the need to reclaim his heritage, especially since he is going to be married."

"I would be willing to bet it's nothing so romantic," Laura said derisively. "No doubt he sees Crapemyrtle as a good investment, which it will be when the restoration is complete and the necessary work is done to have it declared a national landmark."

"You think he is going to apply to have it come under the National Trust?"

"I don't know," Laura said with a shake of her head, "and he certainly didn't bother to tell me."

The National Trust for Historic Preservation was a government program dedicated to saving buildings of historic interest throughout the United States. If a structure was deemed worthy of preservation, there were several programs to help make it possible. Laura was privately of the opinion that Justin Roman would not be willing to put up with the red tape involved, or the guidelines restricting what he could or could not do with his property, for the sake of matching federal funds or low-interest loans, but then he didn't have to worry about financing his project. One great advantage, however, regardless of the need of money or lack of it, was that once a house was on the National Trust list, future owners could not dispose of it without due regard for its preservation. It could not be dismantled or torn down without penalty.

"A woman who works at the motor hotel on the edge of town was in this morning. She said Justin Roman was registered there through the weekend."

Laura sent her mother a wry smile. "This really is a small town, isn't it?"

Mrs. Nichols assumed a look of mock offense as she put the lid on the thinner she was using and began to wipe her hands on a stained rag. "Do you want to hear what else she said, or not?"

"By all means." Laura waved her apple in an expansive gesture.

"She is distantly related to the Romans, and she claims Justin's parents are not too happy with his bride-to-be. They think that they are unsuited as a couple and that the girl will never be satisfied away from the city. Moreover, his fiancée doesn't approve of the contract being given to Masters & Masters for the restoration. She thinks it should have been offered to a bigger, more prestigious firm out of New Orleans."

"It sounds to me as if she and our Mr. Roman deserve each other."

"The woman from the motor hotel was certain Justin's fiancée wouldn't be allowed to influence him."

"I don't doubt that," Laura interrupted.

"The reason is because he is supposed to be a longstanding friend of Russ Masters."

"I don't know how much truth there may be in the rest of the tale, but I understand from Russ that he and Justin have known each other since their university days." There was a dejected note in Laura's voice.

"What is there about that to put you down in the dumps?"

"If they are such good friends, and with the fiancée's opinion weighing in the balance, it's possible Russ may actually let me go, to pacify the man."

Her mother shook her head, a smile curving her mouth. "Not without a fight, I would imagine."

"It's an important contract for him. Justin as good as said he would bring pressure to bear to be rid of me. The threat to take his business elsewhere, combined with everything else, may be too much for Russ to hold out against."

"You have something stronger on your side."

Laura shook her head. "Not really, Mom, and you know it."

"You may treat Russ like a brother, but that isn't the way he feels toward you."

"That isn't why he gave me this job," Laura protested, "and I would almost rather not be kept on if it's going to be for that reason."

"I didn't say that was it, not entirely."

"Russ knows I can do the work."

"So do I, but you still have to prove yourself. I think it was only sensible for Justin Roman to be concerned."

"Mom, are you taking up for him?" Laura stared at her mother incredulously.

"Of course not, but, Laura, as much as I know you care about Crapemyrtle, the place belongs to him. I can't think what the man said or did to make you so angry, but if you are going to work with him, you'll have to remember this one very important point."

Laura gave a slow nod, aware of the frown that creased her mother's brow. "You're right, I know. I'll try to be more accommodating, but we just seem to strike sparks off each other."

"Be careful you don't start a fire that will send the whole Crapemyrtle project up in smoke."

"My darling mother, are you going to start quoting proverbs at me about getting burned?"

"I wouldn't dream of it," Mrs. Nichols returned, but the humor in her voice did not match the concern that remained in her fine blue eyes.