He had money in his pocket now, and plans for the future.
The Barlow place was the heart of his plans. He didn't subscribe to ghosts, under most circumstances, but the house had certainly haunted him. Now it belonged to him, every old stone and bramble—and whatever else it held. He was going to rebuild it, as he had rebuilt himself.
One day he would stand at the top window and look down on the town. He would prove to everyone—even to Rafe MacKade—that he was somebody.
He tucked a generous tip under his cup, careful to keep the amount just shy of one that would embarrass Cassie. She was too thin, he thought, and her eyes were too guarded. That weary fragility had been thrown into sharp relief when she sat with Regan.
Now there was a woman, he mused, who knew how to handle herself. Steady eyes, stubborn chin, soft hands. She hadn't so much as blinked when he offered her a shot at furnishing an entire inn. Oh, he imagined her insides had jolted, but she hadn't blinked.
As a man who'd earned his keep on the wheel and deal, he had to admire her for it. Time would tell if she'd hold up to the challenge.
And there was no time like the present.
"That antique place, two doors down?"
"That's right." Cassie kept one eye on her children as she brewed a fresh pot of coffee. "On the left. I don't think she's open, though."
Rafe shrugged into his jacket and grinned. "Oh, I bet she is."
He strolled out, hatless, jacket open, his footsteps muffled by the cushioning snow. As he'd expected, the lights were on inside Past Times. Instead of seeking shelter inside, he studied her window display and found it clever and effective.
A sweep of blue brocade like a pool of shimmering water flowed over varying levels. A bright-eyed porcelain doll sat on a child-size ladder-back rocker, an artful tumble of antique toys at her feet. A snarling jade dragon curled on a pedestal. A glossy mahogany jewelry box stood open, glittery baubles spilling out of its drawers as though a woman's hands had slid through them in search of just the right piece.
Perfume bottles were arranged in pretty sunbursts of color on an enameled shelf.
Put the sparkles up front, he thought with a nod, and rope the customers in.
Sleigh bells hung on the door tinkled musically when he opened it. The air inside was spiced with cinnamon and cloves and apples. And, he realized after a deep breath of it, of Regan Bishop. The subtle and sultry perfume he'd noted in the cafe just teased the air.
He took his time wandering. Furniture was meticulously arranged for traffic patterns. A settee here, an occasional table there. Lamps, bowls, vases, all doing double duty as display and decoration. A dining room table was gracefully set with china and glassware, candles and flowers, as if guests were expected any moment. An old Victrola stood open beside a cabinet filled with 78s.
There were three rooms, each as polished and organized as the last. Nowhere in her inventory did he notice a single speck of dust. He paused by a kitchen hutch filled with white stoneware dishes and blue-tinted mason jars.
"It's a nice piece," Regan said from behind him.
"We have one like this in the kitchen at the farm." He didn't turn. He'd known she was there. "My mother kept the everyday dishes in it. White ones, like these. And glasses. Thick ones that didn't break easy. She threw one at me once when I sassed her."
"Did she hit you?"
"No. Would have if she'd meant to." Now he turned and flashed that killer grin. "She had a hell of an arm. What are you doing in the middle of nowhere, Regan Bishop?"
"Selling my wares, Rafe MacKade."
"Your wares aren't half-bad. How much for the dragon in the window?"
"You have excellent taste. It's five-fifty."
"That's steep, Regan." Reaching out, he slipped open the single gold button of her navy blazer.
She found the little gesture oddly intimate, but refused to comment on it. "You get what you pay for."
"If you're smart, you can get more." He tucked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans and began to wander again. "How long have you been in town?"
"Three years last summer."
"From?" When she didn't answer, he glanced back, lifted one of those sexy black brows. "Just making conversation, darling. I like to get a handle on the people I'm doing business with."
"We haven't done any business, yet." She tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled. "Darling."
His laugh erupted, quick and charming. Little ripples of response skidded up her spine. He was, she was sure, the man every mother had ever warned her daughter about. As tempting as it was, business was business. And it always came first.
"I think I'm going to like you, Regan." He tilted his head. "You sure are a looker."
"Making conversation again?"
"An observation." With a smile hovering around his mouth, he glanced down at her hands. She wore rings, pretty, glittery stones and twists of gold. "Any of those mean anything that's going to get in my way?"
Her stomach fluttered. Her spine stiffened. "I'd say that depends on which way you're heading."
"Nope," he declared. "You're not married. You'd have tossed that in my face. So." Satisfied, he sat on a red velvet love seat, tossed his arm over the curved back. "Want to sit down?"
"No, thanks. Did you come in to do business, or to talk me into bed?"
"I never talk women into bed." He smiled at her.
No, she thought, he'd just have to flash that smile and crook his finger.
"Business, Regan." Relaxed, he crossed his booted feet. "For now, just business."
"All right. Then I'll offer you some hot cider."
"I'll take it."
She moved through a doorway, into the back. Alone, Rafe brooded for a moment. He hadn't meant to be so obvious, hadn't realized he was quite so attracted. There had been something about the way she stood there, in her tailored blazer and tasteful jewelry, her eyes so cool and amused, her scent just short of hot.
If he'd ever seen a woman who announced a thorny road, it was Regan Bishop. Though he rarely chose the smooth path, he had too much on his plate to take the challenge.
Then she came back in on those long, glamorous legs, that pretty swing of hair half curtaining her face.
What the hell, he thought, he could always make room on his plate.
"Thanks." He took the steaming enameled mug she offered. "I figured on hiring a firm out of D.C. or Baltimore, maybe taking some time to hunt through some shops myself."
"I can acquire anything a firm in D.C. or Baltimore can, and offer a better price." She hoped.
"Maybe. The thing is, I like the idea of keeping the business close to home. We'll see what you can do." He sipped the cider, found it hot and pungent. "What do you know about the Barlow place?"
"It's falling apart. I think it's a crime that nothing's been done to preserve it. This part of the country is usually careful with its historic areas and buildings. But the town ignores that place. If I had the means, I'd have bought it myself."
"And you'd have gotten more than you bargained for. The house is solid as rock. If it wasn't so well built, it'd be rubble by now. But, it needs work..." he mused, and began to picture it all in his head. "Floors to be leveled and sanded and sealed, walls to be plastered or taken down, windows replaced. The roof's a mess."
He brought himself back, shrugged. "That's just time and money. When it's ready, I want to put it back the way it looked in 1862, when the Barlows lived there and watched the Battle of Antietam from their parlor window."
"Did they?" Regan asked with a smile. "I'd have thought they'd have been cowering in the root cellar."
"Not the way I imagine it. The rich and privileged watching the show, maybe annoyed when cannon fire cracked a window or the screams of the dead and dying woke the baby from its nap."
"You're a cynical one. Being rich wouldn't mean you wouldn't feel horror if you had to watch men dying on your front lawn.''