What the Heart Wants. Cynthia Reese

How do you know so much about Belle Paix?”

      She shrugged her shoulders. “Family stories.”

      “Oh, gossip, then. I thought you had access to some primary sources that I wasn’t familiar with—”

      “Not gossip.” Now the smile retreated, and Allison’s chin lifted. “I guess you historical types would call it oral history. They’re the same tales my grandmother told me, the ones her mother told her—passed down. Plus there’s a set of journals.”

      “Journals?” Kyle’s brain buzzed as the possibility of a new, undiscovered set of turn-of-the-century documents brought up all sorts of ideas. “You have journals?”

      But Allison pushed past him and opened Belle Paix’s wrought-iron gate. “Sure, Davinia had to do something with her time once she married money and became a lady of leisure. She’d grown up dirt poor, with ten brothers and sisters, so she was used to hard work. But Gran’s made it clear that the journals are private, for family only. And as for how I know about the house, I grew up here.”

      The gate clanged shut, and Allison strode up the walk away from them. Halfway up, she paused and turned around.

      “I don’t mean to be standoffish, and it wouldn’t bother me at all, but Gran doesn’t much care for trespassers. You can take all the pictures you want from the street, but she’d be mad if you put so much a pinky toe this side of the fence, okay?”

      Allison didn’t wait for their reply. Instead, she continued up the walkway, bounced up the steps, paused at the dark mahogany double doors with their arched glass inserts, and swung one open. It soon thudded shut behind her, leaving Kyle tantalized and frustrated. He’d not gotten so much as a peek inside the house, and it didn’t seem as if that would change anytime soon.

      * * *

      ALLISON PEEKED OUT the door’s beveled glass pane and saw to her satisfaction that Kyle Mitchell and his historical house fans were staying put on the street side of the fence. Good. She wouldn’t have to confess to Gran that she’d let an interloper in, although he’d seemed respectful enough.

      He’d surprised her when he’d said was a professor. Obviously, professors could come in all shapes and sizes, but Kyle Mitchell landed closer to the more outdoorsy and overtly masculine end of the spectrum than the tweed-jacket stereotype. Dark blond hair cut short, tanned, with a big wide smile...

      She squinted to spy some more. He was tall—a good head taller than her, so that meant he had to be well over six feet, since she was five foot seven. And yeah, he was wearing a jacket, but it was a navy one that fit him well.

      A flying fur bullet zoomed from behind her, probably from the formal front stairs, and landed at her feet, yowling. Allison jumped, still not entirely used to Cleo’s ninja ways. The Siamese wound around Allison’s bare legs, then must have realized those legs didn’t belong to Gran. She backed up, sat down and glared at Allison.

      Allison let her heart settle into a more predictable rhythm before attempting to pet the cat, which skulked backward.

      “Cleo...” She knelt down and crooned, the way Gran always did with the stubborn feline. “It’s been a month and a half. You have to trust me. I’ll get Gran back home as soon as I can.”

      But the cat, from all appearances, remained unconvinced. She turned and stalked off toward the dining room, her seal point tail hiked high with disdain. She would accept food and water from Allison, and sometimes, when she got desperate, would snuggle up at the foot of Allison’s bed. But that was only after she’d kept her awake half the night, yowling piteously for Gran.

      “Hey! I miss her, too!” Allison called after the cat.

       Good grief. I’m getting more and more like Gran every day. This house will send me to the loony bin.

      No point in wasting time wondering when insanity would make its appearance. Allison had planned to rip out the carpet in the dining room this morning, and she still had time to get it done before her afternoon visit with Gran.

      The carpet was the reason Gran was in rehab to begin with. The seam at the dining room and library had raveled, and Gran had caught her shoe in it.

      Allison crossed the length of the long hall, the formal stairs rising above her in a graceful curve. She stood in the dining room doorway, surveying what had to be done.

      Before she could rip out the carpet—a Mamie Eisenhower pink design, which Gran had laid in the dining room and library in the early 1950s, after she’d married Pops—Allison had to move a few things.

      Starting with Cleo, who’d taken a seat on the dining table and was grooming one long, slender hind leg. The feline paused, gave Allison a mild hiss with no bite to it and succumbed to the inevitable—she knew she wasn’t supposed to be on the table. That taken care of, Allison went upstairs to change into jeans and a T-shirt, determined to get the carpet ripped out before she visited Gran.

CHAPTER TWO

      AN HOUR LATER, however, Allison was completely stymied. She’d been able to move the heavy, ornate dining chairs, original to the house, and even the table. She’d managed to move the marble-topped sideboard with no disasters, save for scaring one of Cleo’s remaining lives out of her when the handcart fell over with a bang.

      But the china cabinet, even with all the dishware removed and put on the kitchen table, even with the little Teflon slides she’d bought for the purpose, was not cooperating.

      Allison rubbed her eyes and glowered at the hulking piece of mahogany that remained the last obstacle between her and an empty dining room. Who could she call in the middle of the day to help her move the thing?

      The phone rang in the kitchen. She worked her way around the dining room chairs and sideboard she’d temporarily shoved into the kitchen, then stretched across stacks of her great-grandmother’s 1920s formal china and plucked the phone off its hook on the fourth ring.

      “Thomas residence,” Allison said, as she managed to rescue a wobbling soup bowl. “Oh!”

      “Pardon?” a male voice on the other end asked.

      “Sorry, just a disaster averted. I almost broke a J & G Meakin 1920s bowl. Last time I did that I was ten, and in trouble for a week.”

      A warm, rich chuckle came over the line. “That’s good. That you didn’t break it, I mean. I’m Kyle Mitchell. We met earlier, I think, if you’re Allison.”

      His voice, still brimming with amusement, made her temporarily forget her bone-deep weariness. She pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and collapsed in it. “Yes. I hope I didn’t come across as rude this morning. Some years ago, my grandmother made the mistake of allowing the house to be photographed for a field guide of old homes, and after it came out, she had a flurry of people knocking on her door, thinking the house was open to the public.”

      “Perfectly understandable. Listen, I just wanted to extend an invitation to you. Our historical preservation society meets once a month, and I thought you might be interested in joining us this Thursday evening.”

      That voice... Over the phone, with nothing to distract her from its smooth baritone, Allison soaked in its resonance, its hint of good-natured humor. For a moment, she was tempted—not just by his voice, but her memory of him on the sidewalk. Kyle Mitchell had looked friendly enough earlier, and totally unlike her memories of the typical historical society members who’d visited with Gran during Allison’s teen years. Maybe it would be nice to meet some folks in Lombard who weren’t ten years past retirement age.

      The stacks of china and the glut of furniture in the kitchen reminded her of her priorities. “I don’t know. I’m a little busy now—Gran’s in a rehab facility and I’m trying to get the place in shape for her to come home.”

      “Oh, well, of course.” His voice dimmed with just enough disappointment