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“Yeah, well, I’m renovating, not hammering.”
“What about brooding?”
He lifted his shoulders in a careless shrug. “The Irish are entitled.”
“I suppose we are.”
“We?”
She held out her hand. “Sloan—warrior.”
This time he took her hand and shook it. The contact sent a bold shock up her arm. “Aidan—little fire.”
He looked pretty cold to her, but there was heat in there somewhere, behind the ice of his eyes. No man could have been through what he had, come through still standing, and not have a flame burning deep inside.
“And I doubt there’s much you’re afraid of,” he added.
“True.” She reached for her briefcase, and—again—wished he wasn’t so sexy, amazing…dangerous. “The blue-steel Glock nine millimeter I carry in my glove compartment doesn’t hurt.”
SOMEHOW, Aidan found himself sitting opposite her at the beat-up kitchen table. Unwanted desire crawled over his skin, even as part of him craved her brightness.
She was the very last thing he needed.
And the very thing he longed for.
“I’m sorry to call so late,” she said briskly, flipping her long blond hair over her shoulder, then digging into her bulging briefcase. “My day job forces me to keep irregular hours when dealing with the historical society business. And since you have no phone, I had to—”
“Day job?”
She glanced up. “I’m a librarian.”
“No way.” He’d figured pole dancer. Well, her body screamed pole dancer. Maybe, subconsciously he was hoping for a pole dancer. He let his gaze drift over her buxom figure—all that he could see above the table. Beneath, he knew there were miles of firm, tanned legs. “No damn way,” he added.
“I’m beginning to think you’re a man who leans toward stereotypes.” Casually, she pulled a yellow-paper legal pad from her case before setting the bag on the floor. “I’m sorry I can’t oblige you,” she said as she uncapped a pen and met his gaze. “But if it’s important, I can tell you that our town historical society doesn’t have the cachet of nearby Charleston. They have the wealthy past, the port and the bustling tourism industry, after all. We have our own place in history—this house being one of the premier monuments, since it lasted through the War of 1812, the Civil War and countless hurricanes. We have a strong community and a need to preserve our beginnings. To respect our ancestors and all they sacrificed.
“That’s all.” Her bright blue eyes burned with pride. “No hidden agenda. No fund-raiser planned to lure your money into our accounts.”
Maybe he’d misjudged her, and maybe he hadn’t, but he refused to feel shame. There was a time when he would have considered cynicism a flaw. Now it was a vital part of life. That’s what the past had done to him, stolen his openness, turned him wary and hard.
That guarded part of him spoke now, sensing that keeping her at a distance was vital. “It’s good to know I won’t be fleeced by you and a bunch of blue-hairs.”
She wrote on her pad in a neat, looping style. Very feminine. “There’s a committee of five. All volunteers. One blonde, two brunettes, a redhead and one with silver hair. The ages range from Penelope, who’s sixteen, to Sister Mary Katherine, who’s eighty-two. Would you like to know their qualifications?”
“No. But…Penelope?”
“Lovely girl. Brilliant with computers—quite a contrast to her old-fashioned name. She’s digitized all our historical photos and documents. She’s very shy.” Her gaze met his. “And she will not be coming to see you.”
“Why not?”
Wait. Why should he care? Why was he already picturing some tiny girl with big glasses and mousy brown hair?
“I’m sure you can guess,” Sloan said, smirking.
“No, I really can’t.”
“You’re entirely too…intense for a young girl.”
Right. Of course he was. He didn’t want some kid hanging around any more than he wanted an interfering librarian smiling at him, drinking his whiskey, smelling like fruit, flowers and heaven.
She ripped off the paper she’d written on, reached into her briefcase again, then crossed the room and stuck the note to the fridge, apparently with a magnet. “This is my home phone, cell phone and e-mail address. You’re going to need them as we move through the renovation process.”
Who carried magnets in their briefcase? He was distracted enough by the note and the sensual sway of her hips to ask, “What else do you have in that bag?”
She turned and smiled. “All manner of things, Mr. Kendrick. You’ll find I’m thorough and efficient.”
“Part of the librarian code of honor?”
“Naturally.”
Again, he realized she’d effortlessly made him curious about something that, fifteen minutes ago, he would have sworn wouldn’t have interested him in the least.
She returned to her seat. “We really should discuss, in detail, the plans you have for Batherton House.”
“My research shows it’s called Batherton Mansion.”
“It used to be. In its present state, I think that’s a bit premature, don’t you?”
He could hardly argue with that, but he leaned back in his chair and fixed her with an irritated scowl. “And yet I don’t see why I should discuss, in detail, any of my plans with you.”
“Didn’t your lawyer explain that all changes to the property have to be approved by the committee?”
“Yes, but I’m not changing any of the original structure, and he told me I got approval for the paint colors, trim and light fixtures last month. Everything else is simply repairs.”
“That’s true.” She cleared her throat. “Pardon if this sounds rude, but how do I know you’re not changing any of the original structure unless I inspect the property on a regular basis?”
Taking my word, I guess, is too much to ask.
Thanks to the well-documented media coverage of the tragic headlines involving his family, and his own mysterious, misunderstood behavior, he could hardly blame her. But the resentment, which was mostly self-directed, burned.
He shouldn’t be here with her, talking as if the past three months hadn’t happened. He needed to be alone with his ghosts, fury and guilt. He didn’t want her sly smiles and sparkling eyes bringing humor and lightness into the dark where he’d retreated.
Where he belonged.
And he was damned tired of feeling as if she’d taken control of everything since the moment he’d opened the door.
“Not taking the word of a crazy man?” He shifted forward, watching her eyes widen. “Despite what you read in the papers, my parents being murdered didn’t send me over the edge.” He almost smiled. “Not yet, anyway.”
2
SHE LET OUT a gasping breath.
She extended her hand and her fingers brushed across his fist, clenched on the table. “I never intended—”
When he lurched to his feet, she fell silent.
He shouldn’t have brought up the ugly darkness. Why had he?
To be cruel? To dim that bright, clever smile? Had his family’s pain and tragedy really turned him into such an unfeeling ass?
With his back to her, he forced his emotions to the pit of his stomach. “I understand you and your committee have a job to do. So do I. And I need to do it alone.”
“I don’t plan to burden you with my presence on a daily basis. Weekly inspections will be fine.”
He suppressed a wince. “Inspections?”
“Visits,” she amended.
There had to be a way around this historical accuracy nonsense. He only wanted to work and sweat, bring back elegance and beauty to something in this world.
“Suppose I ignore these rules? And your visits?”
“You could, I guess. But Sister Mary Katherine would consider that dishonorable, and you really don’t want to get on her bad side.”
Blue-hairs, teenagers, librarians and nuns were going to rule his life for the foreseeable future. It was completely, jaw-droppingly ridiculous.
“Also,” Sloan added, “My daddy is the sheriff, and my granddaddy is the county judge. You really don’t want to get on their bad side.”
And the law. Great.
He’d seen enough cops in the last year to last a lifetime. If only her cousin was a reporter, his torture would be complete.
Heading toward the whiskey bottle, he said, “The blueprints are in the library. Look at them all you want, make copies, pass them out to your fellow committee members, alert the media.”
“Thank you. That would be helpful.”
He poured his drink, then rested against the counter to sip it. “The carpenter is coming tomorrow. I’m sure you can discuss all my insidious plans with him.”
“I’ll be sure to do that,” she said cheerfully.
“So go.”
She angled her head. “Does drinking improve or sour your mood?”
“Go!”
Shrugging, not looking at all offended by his surliness, she rose from the table, then walked down the hall.
She was right. She didn’t saunter. She strutted.
He poured more whiskey.
Rage and regret were living, breathing things. And both volatile. He longed to remember what his life had been like before, when his family had been happy and secure, when his communications company, which he’d inherited from his father and which had supported them all, had flourished. When he’d been full of himself and the fortunes he’d been surrounded by. When he hadn’t thought being on time to dinner would be the difference between life and death. When he hadn’t realized the power a total stranger had over everything that mattered.
Berating the police for lack of justice hadn’t solved anything. Avoiding the media hadn’t made them any less likely to go away. Selling the company hadn’t soothed his grief. Working himself to exhaustion hadn’t, as yet, tempered his anger.
Give it time, his friends said.
So he was.
As he sipped his drink, he forcefully pushed his thoughts to the work he’d accomplished the last few days and ignored the briefcase sitting on the floor a few feet away. He’d sanded the floor in the dining room, preparing it for staining. He’d accepted delivery of a mattress and box-spring set and assembled it into the antique mahogany bed frame he’d bought a couple of weeks ago at an estate sale. He’d repaired the bookcase in the library.
Where Sexy Sloan was now.
Why didn’t she leave? Why did the sensual, tropical fruit scent of her perfume linger, even when she wasn’t in the room?
He stiffened as he heard her move down the hall toward him.
“These are really good,” she said, holding the rolled-up plans. “You’ve done a lot of work already.”
“I haven’t changed anything,” he said sharply. “Just simple repairs.”
She held up her hand. “I can see that. I saw the pictures of the new stair and balcony railing. Did you have it built?”
“I bought it at an estate sale.”
“I have a hard time seeing you puttering around old houses on weekends.”
He paused in the process of sipping his whiskey. “I don’t putter.”
“No.” Her gaze drifted down his body, leaving heat and need in its wake. “I imagine you don’t.”
“You’ve got what you want,” he said harshly, irritated by her ability to arouse him so effortlessly. Now go.
She seemed to sense his unspoken words and crossed to her briefcase, which she set on the kitchen table. “I’ll get the plans back to you tomorrow.”
“Fine.”
Straightening, she faced him. “I’m not your enemy, Aidan.”
It was the first time she’d called him by his given name, and the moment sent a pulse of excitement through his veins. A moment he didn’t want and shouldn’t feel.
“I’m sorry about your parents,” she added.
He never knew what to say to this. Thanks? They lived a long and full life? Since neither of those were true, he remained silent.
Hitching her briefcase on her shoulder, she started out. “It’s a nice town. You’ll be—”
“Happy?” He shook his head. “I want to be alone.”
