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Exasperated, she said, “Well, at least I didn’t lose my soul!” It was all she could do to keep the big red smile pasted on her face. Oh, Lord, help me. I’m dying here! Okay, it was corny, but what was wrong with this guy? Most would have found this entrance amusing. And what was he gaping at? Regardless of her getup, she still had to be the most wholesome-looking woman around this place.
Maybe he was testing her under pressure. There had to be some mighty tough hombres frequenting this...this establishment. That had to be it.
She stepped off the porch and thrust out her hand, forcing all the confidence she could muster. “My name is Nicole. I came about—” she hoped he didn’t see her gulp “—the job.”
He looked at her hand as if measuring the possibility of contamination if he touched it.
“Nicole what?”
“Nicole Bedder.”
“Better than what?” he asked all too seriously.
Another time she might have laughed, but this guy had already proven he didn’t have a sense of humor. Nonetheless, she played his game. With an exaggerated look over her shoulder, she said, “Better than all the other applicants standing behind me.”
Reluctantly he took her hand, gave it a quick shake and said, “Michael Phillips. I own the place.” And what in the hell are you doing on my porch is what she read in his squinting blue eyes.
“Wait a minute. A man owns the—” She’d lost her character a moment, but quickly recovered. Beaming again, her voice sweet enough to cause diabetes, she said, “Hmm. Only fair, I guess. Equal rights and all.”
She let go of his long, callused fingers, stepped back and thrust her arms out to her sides. “I’m ready to start right now,” Please! Please!
He pushed the Stetson higher on his tanned forehead and stared at her in disbelief. She didn’t flinch. But after what seemed to be the most pregnant pause of the decade, she caved and spoke first.
“So...do I get the job?”
Two
When hell freezes over, Michael thought.
“I don’t know what job you’re applying for, but I need a helper, not a—” he stopped short of hooker and let her fill in the blank. He watched the slow batting of her dark lashes and noticed one corner was jutting straight out like a perched insect ready to take flight. He felt a smile tug at one corner of his mouth, but he controlled it. The last thing he wanted to do was encourage this...this spitfire.
“I can help,” she said.
He was afraid to ask how. He shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. You’re not what I’m looking for.” He turned away and started for the door. She was right on his heels.
“How can you tell? You haven’t even asked me any questions.”
He kept moving, hoping she’d give up and go away, knowing she wouldn’t. “For one thing, I need a man.” When she didn’t respond, he couldn’t help but turn. Her brown eyes were round, her mouth open.
“A man? Here?”
“Well... yes.” No way could someone so small and frail looking possibly carry a sheet of drywall or a bunch of two-by-fours up a flight of stairs. But then, he was certain that wasn’t what she came for.
She closed her mouth and looked defeated, then she took a step closer. “Wait a minute. Isn’t that sex discrimination?”
He hiked an eyebrow before giving her his back and walking up the steps to the front door. “Only if you’re willing to hire an attorney and take me to court.” He knew he had her now. If one thing was certain, her kind wouldn’t go looking for a day in court. Not intentionally, anyway.
Michael was halfway through the door when he heard a thud behind him. He turned and found her lying on the brick walk. In two long strides he was beside her and hunkered down.
“Ms. Bedder?” He watched and waited, hoping this was some sort of last-ditch effort to win sympathy. He touched her thin arm. “Ms. Bedder?” He could see her chest moving, though her breathing seemed shallow.
Faking or not, he couldn’t just leave her there. He scooped her up in his arms, her remaining shoe falling to the ground, and he was surprised at how light she was. At closer inspection he could see her pale and sallow cheeks, and for a moment he almost felt sorry for her...until he remembered what kind of woman she clearly was.
He carried her to the door and pushed it open with his shoulder, just as her eyes started to flutter open. A quick flash of surprise was followed by an indignant palm against his chest.
“What do you think you’re doing? Let me down this instant!”
He had a mind to drop her on her cute little backside, but he didn’t. He headed for the sofa and dropped her there instead. The errant eyelash was now pointing straight up and a grin escaped before he could control it.
“What’s so funny?”
He pointed to his own eye and watched her squirm. She removed the lash and tucked it in her skirt pocket, leaving her with one long-lashed round eye and one...one beautiful brown one. He wiped the grin off his face and started for the kitchen.
“Where are you going?”
“To get you a glass of water.” He stopped and glanced over his shoulder. “Or would you rather have something stronger?”
“I’d rather—” She started to stand, then fell back down.
Michael watched and waited. This woman was definitely not okay. In more ways than one.
She lifted her head off the back of the sofa, removed the remaining eyelash and stared at him for the longest time. It was as though he were seeing a different woman. This one had far less bravado and looked far more vulnerable. Damn. He hoped she wouldn’t cry. He hated it when a woman cried.
She lowered her gaze, and again he noticed how frail she looked. Without thinking he asked, “When’s the last time you ate?”
Her head popped up, and the original woman reappeared. “Oh, I’m on this fad diet. That’s all.”
If he’d learned only one thing over the past couple of years, it was to know when a woman was lying. In a flash, images of another woman, another place tugged him back in time. And just as quickly he stuffed them away. Instead, he looked through the front window at the old rattletrap parked in his driveway, then back to this woman’s pale face. “Look, I haven’t had lunch yet. Would you like to join me?”
Her face brightened and she found the strength to stand.
Great! Now why in the hell had he done that?
The phone rang in the kitchen and he left Ms. Bedder to fend for herself.
Nicole took a deep breath and padded barefoot into the kitchen, where she found Michael leaning on the open refrigerator door, staring blankly inside, a phone propped between his ear and shoulder.
“That’s right,” he said into the receiver. “The job’s still open.”
She nudged him aside and proceeded to retrieve lettuce, mayo, lunch meat and pickles from the fridge. Taking it all to a center chopping block, she looked around and found a pantry closet. Inside were bread and potato chips, which she added to her cache on the cutting board.
She pretended not to notice his gaze as he followed her around with his curious blue eyes and carried on his phone call at the same time.
“Do you have your own tools?”
Tools? She almost laughed. Like what? Handcuffs? Leather pants? What kind of tools would a man need for this job? She slapped mayo on four slices of bread. Then she decided to make Michael what’s-his-name a sandwich, too.
“No, you don’t need tools. I was just wondering.” He leaned a shoulder into the wall and looked out the bay window to the overgrown garden behind. “Any carpentry or remodeling experience?”
Nicole’s knife stilled in her hands. Carpentry? Helper?
She stood frozen over the food, an instant replay of their meeting outside running before her eyes, embarrassment warming her neck and cheeks. All around her were signs of remodeling. And nowhere in sight were the ladies, whose colorful stories she’d heard about in Livingston
“Sorry. Guess I should have put the location in the ad,” Michael said behind her. “You’re right. It’s probably a two-hour drive. Uh-huh. Perfectly understandable. Well, good luck.”
Nicole heard him hang up the phone, but she kept her back to him, wondering how she could begin to explain, if she should even try. She cut the sandwiches diagonally and on second thought put three halves on each plate. She added chips and pickles, then carried it all to the cozy table in front of the window.
Before he could join her, one of her sandwich halves had disappeared along with most of her chips. Michael pulled out a chair and sat down, fascinated with the steady rhythm of her hand to mouth to plate and back.
“Some kind of fad diet you got there.”
She continued shoveling it in, not meeting his gaze, too intent on the business at hand. When she’d finished the last of it she sat back and closed her eyes, seeming to relish the moment.
Michael picked at his food, his appetite having left him when he realized he’d fallen prey to this hapless creature. It was obvious she was hungry and had been for some time, which meant she was broke, which meant he couldn’t send her off if he wanted to.
What bothered him most was that he wasn’t sure he wanted to.
There was something more than met the eye here. One moment she was cocky and confident, the next a frightened kitten.
“Aren’t you going to eat that?” She was staring at his untouched half sandwich and pickle.
He pushed his plate over and she helped herself.
“Where else have you tried to find work?”
She held up a finger, finished chewing, then said, “You name it.” She polished off his dill pickle in three efficient bites, then carried both plates to the sink where she rinsed and stacked them. Then she put everything away and cleaned off the counter, looking as though she’d done this all her life, that this was her home instead of his.
Now she stood in front of him, hands on hips. “Well, I can swing a hammer as well as the next. Paint, wallpaper. Whatever.”
“Have you considered getting a job as a cook instead of... instead.”
She crossed her arms and glared at him, looking insulted that he might suggest she came for anything other than a carpenter’s helper, when he knew full well she hadn’t
“I need a job with room and board.” It was more a statement of fact than a request, a certain sound of assurance in her voice telegraphing this was a done deal.
Heaven help him. She was moving in. His gut told him it was true before the words took shape in his head.
He went to the cupboard and started rummaging.
“What are you doing?” she asked, standing close enough that he caught a whiff of her perfume, her words sending a soft puff of warm air skittering over his free arm.
“Looking for the antacid.”
“Have you ever tried laughter instead?”
He found the bottle, uncapped it and downed a healthy swig. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She cocked her head in a too-adorable way and said, “You ought to loosen up a little, Michael. Look at that frown on your forehead.”
When had they gotten on a first-name basis? And when had her voice changed? It seemed different somehow. Whatever was going on, he knew he’d better take charge of this situation right here and now.
“Look, Nic—Ms. Bedder. You can stay here for a few days and cook...in exchange for room and board.” She eyed him for a moment, looking as though she were taking his measure and had suddenly become wary of his intentions, which seemed strange, since she was a woman willing to sell her body to a perfect stranger.
Something just wasn’t adding up. But for now it didn’t matter. All he wanted to do was make one thing perfectly clear.
“Just a few days, while you look for a job elsewhere. Agreed?”
A slow smile reappeared on her full lips, exposing small, white, perfect teeth. “Agreed.”
Nicole raced over the brick walk toward her trusted Chevy until she came to the path’s end. There she turned and surveyed the sprawling Victorian, its turrets and furbelows adding grace and beauty to the valley it inhabited. It was a grand old lady, she thought, before turning and tiptoeing over the gravel and popping open her trunk. She could do a lot worse than stay here.
Yet stay she would. And not for a few days, either. Somehow she would convince that——that macho cowboy—that she was the right person for the job. A salaried one, at that. She’d never been afraid of hard work, and after a few good meals her strength would surely return.
Inside her duffel she found comfortable sandals and breathed a sigh of relief as she slipped them onto her hot feet. Throwing the bag over her shoulder, she indulged in a moment of optimism. What if this turned out to be more than a means to an end? Maybe she wouldn’t have to take the money and run. It could be the perfect place for—
She was getting ahead of herself. First things first.
When she started back for the house, she saw Michael standing in the doorway, his face lost in shadow. He was waiting for her and watching, not moving a muscle. She tried to recapture her earlier persona as she strode toward him, but she knew some of the cockiness had abandoned her. There was something about fainting that made that role no longer plausible. Something about him carrying her inside that made her feel...
She closed the distance between them and concentrated on the present. He held the door open and she squeezed through the narrow space between him and the door frame. The scent of aftershave floated on a breeze, and she moved quickly, suddenly uneasy.
He took her duffel and said, “Follow me.”
They crossed through French doors that led to the west wing, stopping when they reached the first room to the right. He stepped back and with a wave of his arm motioned her in.
“This will be your room.”
There was a hint of amusement in his eyes, which confused her. Until she stood m the doorway and looked in. Then she froze, dill pickles revisiting the back of her throat.
“The previous owner had a son. All the other bedrooms are in various degrees of disrepair, so I guess this will have to be it.”
In front of her was a young boy’s room, decorated in red, white and blue, a twin bed the shape of a race car with an appropriate spread. She took an involuntary step backward, a sharp intake of air sounding loud to her own ears. Her back hit Michael’s chest, but he didn’t move. Instead he gripped her shoulders and held her firm.
“You’re not going to pass out on me again, are you?”
She closed her eyes to what was in front of her and took a cleansing breath. It was only then she realized his hands were still on her. Warm and gentle.
She turned quickly, breaking contact. “N-no, of course not.”
He slanted her a disbelieving frown, then turned. “Come on. I’ll show you the rest.”
She vaguely remembered Michael showing her the sitting room next to hers and beyond that his own room, but whatever else she’d seen, Nicole would have to explore another time, the image of this room having occupied her thoughts.
She sat gingerly on the race car bed, buried her face in her hands and wondered for what cruel deed she was being punished to be sentenced to this room. Tenaciously, behind the darkness of her fingers, burned bright a dirt-smudged, freckled face.
No! She leaped from the bed and paced to the long, narrow window. She couldn’t afford the luxury of self-pity. There was a job to be done, money to earn. People in need.
Compartmentalize, she lectured herself. As often was the case, she imagined her heart as a large warehouse with many private chambers, each storing its own joys and pain, some atrophied with neglect, others—such as the one she accessed now—ripe with worry and longing.
