Donovan's Child. Christine Rimmer

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      She didn’t know whether to be flattered—or scared to death. “You make it sound as though I would be doing this all on my own.”

      “Because you will be doing this all on your own.”

      Surely she hadn’t heard him right. Caught by surprise, she fell back a step, until she came up against the hard edge of the drafting table. “But …” Her sentence trailed off, hardly begun.

      It was called a fellowship for a reason. Without his name and reputation, the project would never have gotten the go-ahead in the first place. The San Antonio Help the Children Foundation was all for giving a bright, young hometown architect a chance. But it was Donovan McCrae they were counting on to deliver. He knew that every bit as well as she did.

      The ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of his perfectly symmetrical mouth. “Abilene. You’re speechless. How refreshing.”

      She found her voice. “You’re Donovan McCrae. I’m not. Without you, this won’t fly and you know it.”

      “We need to carry through.”

      “You noticed. Finally.”

      A slow, regal dip of that leonine head. “I’ve put this off for way too long. And as you’ve already pointed out, there’s a need for this center. An urgent need. So I’ll … supervise. At least in the design phase. I’ll put my stamp of approval on it when I’m satisfied with what you’ve done. But don’t kid yourself. If it gets built, the design will be yours, not mine. And you will be following through in construction.”

      Abilene believed in herself—in her talent, her knowledge, and her work ethic. Yes, she’d hoped this fellowship would give her a leg up on snaring a great job with a good firm. That maybe she’d be one of the fortunate few who could skip the years of grunt work that went into becoming a top architect. But to be in charge of a project of this magnitude, at this point in her career?

      It killed her to admit it, but she did anyway. “I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”

      “You’re going to have to be. Let me make this very clear. I haven’t worked in a year. I doubt if I’ll ever work again.”

       Never work again?

      That would be a crime. She might not care much for his personality. But he was, hands down, the finest architect of his generation. They spoke of him in the same breath with Frank O. Gehry and Robert Venturi. Some even dared to compare him favorably to Frank Lloyd Wright. He blended the Modern with the Classical, Bauhaus with the Prairie style, all with seeming effortlessness.

      And he was still young. Not yet forty. Many believed an architect couldn’t possibly hit creative stride until at least the age of fifty. There was just too much to learn and master. Donovan McCrae’s best work should be ahead of him.

      “Never work again …” She repeated the impossible words that kept scrolling through her mind.

      “That’s right.” He looked … satisfied. In a bleak and strangely determined sort of way.

      “But why?” she asked, knowing she was pushing it, but wanting to understand what, exactly, had happened to him to make him turn his back on the kind of career that most would kill for. “I mean, there’s nothing wrong with your brain, is there?”

      An actual chuckle escaped him. “You do have a big mouth.”

      She refused to back off. “Seriously. Have you suffered some kind of brain damage?”

      “No.”

      “Then why would you stop working? I just don’t get it.”

      Something flashed in those steel-blue eyes of his. She sensed that he actually might give her an answer.

      But then he only shook his head. “Enough. I’ll take that memory stick.” He held out his hand.

      She kept her lips pressed together over a sarcastic remark and laid the stick in his open palm.

      He closed his fingers around it. “Ben will show you to your rooms. Get comfortable—but not too comfortable.” He backed and turned and wheeled away from her, disappearing through a door beyond the looming edifice that served as his desk.

      “Abilene?” said a quiet voice behind her. She turned to face Ben Yates, who was slim and tall and self-contained, with black hair and eyes to match. “This way.”

      She grabbed her bag off the back of her chair and followed him.

      The house was a marvel—like all of Donovan McCrae’s designs. Built into the side of a rocky cliff, it had seemed to Abilene, as she approached it earlier, to materialize out of the desert: a cave, a fortress, a palace made of rock—and a house—all at the same time.

      It was built around a central courtyard. The back half nestled into the cliff face. It had large glass doors and floor-to-ceiling windows all along the courtyard walls, giving access to the outside and great views of the pool and the harsh, beautiful landscaping. The facade side had windows and glass doors leading to the courtyard, as well. It also offered wide vistas of the wild, open desert.

      Abilene’s rooms were on the cliff side.

      Ben ushered her in ahead of him. “Here we are.”

      The door was extra wide. The one to the bedroom was wide, as well. She ran her hand down the rough-hewn doorframe.

      Ben said, “Donovan had all the rooms made wheelchair-accessible, so it would be possible for him to get around anywhere in the house.”

      She set her leather tote on a long table by the door and made a circuit. First of the sitting room, then of the bedroom. She looked into the walk-in closet where her own clothes were already hanging, and also the bathroom with its open shower and giant sunken tub.

      The walls of the place seemed hewn of the rock face itself. And the furniture was rustic, made from twisted hunks of hardwood, starkly beautiful, like the desert landscape outside. French doors led out to the pool, and to the paths that wound through the courtyard.

      Donovan’s assistant waited for her near the door. “The pool is yours to use as long as you’re here. There’s also a large gym downstairs. Check with me if you want to work out there and I’ll give you a schedule. Donovan uses the gym several hours a day and prefers to do so alone. The desk, computer and drafting table you used today in the studio are yours whenever you need them. Anytime you’re hungry, the kitchen is to your left as you exit your rooms. Just keep going until you reach it. Or you can ring. Press the red button on the phone. The housekeeper will answer and see that you get anything you need.”

      “I know I’ll be very comfortable. Thank you.”

      “I had your suitcases unpacked for you.”

      She gave him a wry smile. “You assumed I would stay?”

      “I did, yes.”

      “I have to tell you, it was touch and go back there in the studio. Your boss can be rude.”

      Apparently, Ben felt no obligation to leap to Donovan’s СКАЧАТЬ