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Or so she thought until she came across his name two weeks later in a volunteer packet Shelter’s home office had mailed her. The sponsor material she had seen for the fund-raiser hadn’t listed Callaway Construction among its benefactors. She was almost certain of it. But right on the back of the single-page brochure that listed the basics for each volunteer, listed under project management was Callaway Construction, Matthew J. Callaway, President.
The connection certainly explained his presence at the auction. It did nothing, however, to ease the trepidation she felt about what she had to do.
Preferring to be optimistic, she told herself the disquieting little discovery had no effect one way or the other on her. Her own father had his name on dozens of companies. Some of which he rarely set foot in. He made the decisions, but other people did the actual work. When she arrived in Florida, Matt would be off building major real-estate developments in Newport News, Atlanta or somewhere equally distant.
That logic stayed with her until the second week of August when she stepped off a chartered plane at the landing strip outside the little backwater town of Gray Lake, Florida. She’d barely glanced through the heat waves rising from the tarmac when she saw him standing, arms crossed, beside a big, bull-nosed silver pickup truck.
Converging ahead of him were three reporters and a camera crew.
Chapter Three
“Ms. Kendrick. Paula Littleton. WFAZ out of Sarasota.” A tall brunette in a pale blue blouse and navy skirt stuck out her hand as Ashley reached the bottom rung of the commuter plane’s short flight of retractable steps. The woman had amazingly white teeth and a grip that could rival any man’s. “Will you be staying with the rest of the crew while you’re working here?”
Ashley made herself smile as she glanced at the foam-tipped microphone the woman thrust in front of her face.
“I imagine I am. I’m not being treated differently from any of the other volunteers.”
Pulling her hand from the Amazon’s grip, she tried not to glance toward the man watching her from fifty feet away and popped up the handle on her black travel bag. Her smaller bag hung from her shoulder.
“What is it exactly that you’ll be doing?” the reporter asked as Ashley started forward with her luggage.
“I don’t know yet. I understand that I’ll get my assignment at the site.”
“Are you really going to work on this project until it’s completed?”
Ashley kept her smile in place. “That’s my intention.”
“Miss Kendrick.” Another microphone appeared beside the first, this one in the hand of an attractive gentleman with thick dark hair wearing an open-collared dress shirt. He apparently used the same toothpaste as his female counterpart.
“Tony Shultz. Sun Daily News,” he said, not bothering with a handshake. “It seems Senator Kendrick’s constituents have welcomed his new wife with open arms. They’re calling her marriage to him a triumph for the working girl. How do you feel about having one of your servants as an in-law?”
“I’m perfectly fine with it,” she replied, deciding he wasn’t so attractive after all. He was after dirt.
“But doesn’t her background as your parents’ gardener and the daughter of their housekeeper make it awkward for some of you?”
“Addie Lowe Kendrick is family,” she replied, politely. “And I don’t discuss my family with the press.” She flashed him a smile. “I’d be happy to talk to you about the Shelter Project, though.”
Slanting her male counterpart a look that clearly said he should have known better than to ask a Kendrick about a Kendrick, the brunette edged herself closer—only to be aced out by another reporter half hidden by Tony.
“Susie Ortega. Evening Entertainment. Miss Kendrick,” came the voice attached to a white sleeve and a microphone, how do you feel about Jason Roberts’s engagement to Sarah Bradford-Hill?”
“They’re engaged? I’d heard he was seeing someone, but I didn’t know they’d made it official.” Her smile turned pleased. “I’m delighted for them both.”
Jason was Ashley’s ex-almost-fiancé, a charming, brilliant, socially prominent attorney whose rising success had ultimately made her realize how totally ill suited they were for each other. Over the two years they’d been together, the more well-known he had become, the more he’d craved the publicity and attention she had always sought to avoid. With him, parties and a constant stream of strangers would have been a major part of her life. She might have forced herself to cope with such a lifestyle had he been able to understand her need for occasional downtime. But he hadn’t, and they both eventually admitted that they simply weren’t being fair to each other.
They had broken up over a year ago, quite amicably—much to the disappointment of the tabloids.
“Are you still seeing Eric Parks?” asked the Entertainment reporter.
Eric? “I’ve only been out with him once.” And that had been over three months ago, if she remembered correctly. She’d met the young senator at a political dinner with her brother Gabe, and been totally impressed by his seemingly selfless interest in his causes. On a date, all he’d been interested in was himself and getting her influence with her brother.
“Will you see him again?”
Not in this lifetime, she thought. “I’m sure I’ll run into him somewhere.” And others just like him, which was pretty much why her social life was limited to a few highly trusted friends.
Paula closed the gap. Ahead of them two cameramen and three photographers walked backward, cameras rolling. “Why the Shelter Project, Miss Kendrick?” she asked, edging out little Susie and blocking the male reporter as Ashley continued across the apron of the runway. Heat radiated up from the black tarmac, adding twenty degrees to the already sultry air. Matt had been right. It was hot there in August. The humidity was also thick enough to cut with a stick. “There are a hundred different charities you could lend your name to,” the woman continued. “Why this one?”
“Because of what it does.” She did her level best to avoid the pull of Matt’s eyes. He was still watching her. She could feel it as she tried to focus on the question and the woman who’d posed it. When a microphone was in a person’s face, she’d always found it wise to avoid distractions.
“It’s actually one of my mother’s favorite causes,” she explained, terribly distracted anyway. “I’ve become interested through her. Shelter’s goal is to put decent roofs over the heads of the working poor and their families. A large percentage of that group is single women with dependent children. That’s where my passion lies.”
“With disadvantaged women and children?”
“Absolutely,” she said, and would have mentioned how privileged she felt to work with them had Matt and a dozen questions about his presence not eroded her focus anyway.
A fourth reporter and camera crew of two hung back near a van parked six sedans and a couple of SUVs away from Matt’s truck, all of which were lined up on the other side of the chain-link fence that separated the parking lot and tiny one-room terminal from the single runway. The man in charge of the crew appeared to be the short, baby-faced ball of energy in a backward baseball cap who bustled through the eight-foot gap in the fence and headed straight for her.
Refusing to let anyone ahead of him, Tony-the-Tactless jockeyed back into place. In the heat, his aftershave was almost overpowering.
“The Shelter Project is a nonprofit organization,” he began. “Are you or your mother on its board?”
“No,” she replied, not at all certain where the guy was going with that query.
“Are you friends with anyone on the board?”
“I’ve met the board members,” she admitted, couching her words carefully. “They were all at the fund-raiser in Richmond last month. I would say I’m acquainted with them.”
“What about your brother?”
“My brother?”
“Senator Kendrick.”
He was fishing. For what she had no idea.
“My brother has more friends than I can count. He also has a staff that is far better prepared than I to answer questions about him. I’m here to build a house.”
Taking advantage of his momentary silence, Paula popped back in.
“When do you actually start work on the project?”
“Today. I was told to arrive ready for work.”
The short guy stuck out his hand.
“Ron Conway. Network special projects,” he said in that terse way media people had of identifying themselves. “I’m directing the documentary. The guy in the red cap over there is Andy,” he said, nodding to a young man who barely looked old enough to shave. “He’s audio. The guy with the ponytail behind the camera is Steve. Just go about your business and pretend we’re not here. We can pick up most conversations from twenty feet away, so don’t worry about us missing anything. We’ll be with you the whole way.”
She couldn’t begin to tell him how thrilled she was to hear that.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Conway. Just let me know what you need me to do.”
“Nothing other than what you’re supposed to do. We’re not staging anything. Just ignore the camera.”
“Ours, too.” Paula gave a “cut” signal to one of the cameramen in front of them. “We want some footage at the site.”
Microphones were turned off and cameras swung away as everyone headed for the open gate. But not by a single nerve did Ashley relax. Six cars down, she saw Matt straighten his long, muscular frame from where he’d leaned against his vehicle’s front fender.
The uneasy thought that he was apparently her ride competed with the voices behind her. The WFAZ cameraman complained about how hot it was going to get. Someone else wanted to stop for cold drinks.
“Hey, Tony.” Ashley heard the tall female reporter demand as she watched Matt emerge from the rows of cars, “what were you after with those questions?”
“A story,” came the terse reply. “I want something with some meat to it. I can’t think of anything more boring than covering some pampered celebrity whose trauma of the day will be ruining her manicure.”
“She’s a Kendrick. Ratings will be up ten points on any station that has anything on her.”
With their voices low and walking several yards behind her, Ashley didn’t think they knew she could hear them. Not that it mattered. She knew it wasn’t really her people were interested in. It was the mystique created by her mother’s royal blood, her father’s carpetbagger ancestors and his own family’s wealth. Few people truly knew her at all. What they knew was an image, the one she felt honor bound to maintain. There most definitely wasn’t anyone on the planet who knew her the way Matt did. Not even the man she’d once considered marrying had known of her deep-seated craving for freedom, or so completely destroyed her normal reserve.
The fact that she had let her guard down so completely with him now pulled that guard firmly into place. She had never blamed the wine for what had happened that night. She’d never even considered it. She knew she had let the barriers fall because he’d made it easy to do, because something about him had made her not care about propriety or obligation to a family image. She was afraid of what he now knew about her, of how easily she’d allowed herself to be seduced. Afraid of what he thought of her because of it. And seeing him again was truly the last thing on earth she wanted to do.
The knot in her stomach felt the size of a Florida orange when he stopped in front of her.
A white T-shirt stretched over his broad shoulders and chest. Well-worn jeans hugged his powerful thighs. Beneath the windblown hair falling over his forehead, black sunglasses hid his eyes. She could see nothing but her own reflection in those concealing lenses, but she could practically feel his glance work its way from the collar of her casual pink polo shirt and over her designer jeans to her new boots before he reached over and took her bags.
“I hope you brought cooler clothes,” he said, his voice flat as he headed back to his truck. Reaching it, he lifted her luggage into the pickup’s bed. “We’ve been hitting the nineties every day. The humidity is up there, too.”
“My clothes are fine,” she assured him, far more uncomfortable with him than the sticky heat. “I like warm weather.”
With her bags stowed, he walked past her to open the passenger door. “Then, you’re going to love it here.”
The documentary crew’s camera had them in their sights. Aware that they were being filmed, she should have felt relieved to put some distance between the lens and the reporters. Instead, she felt more as if she were stepping from the mouth of the lion into its throat when she climbed into the truck and Matt closed the door with a solid thud.
She barely had a chance to blow out an uneasy breath before he climbed in on the other side.
Not knowing what to make of his impersonal attitude, telling herself she should probably just be grateful for it, she shifted her glance toward the floorboard. His feet looked huge in his heavy work boots. The bottom of his jeans were frayed, the fabric so worn in spots that it was nearly white. A few more washings, or one deep knee bend, and the tiny hole above his knee would become a split.
It didn’t look to her as if he were dressed simply to play chauffeur.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were involved with Shelter?”
“It didn’t seem important.”
Keys rattled as he stuck one into the ignition.
“It seems important now,” she quietly replied.
The engine rumbled to life, hot air blasting from the air-conditioning vents. “All that matters right now is that we both have a job to do, Ashley. You’re here to work and so am I. Let’s just let it go at that.”
Looking as resigned as he sounded, he put the truck into gear to back out of the space. Behind him was the white van. Its driver was clearly waiting for him to go first.
Seeing the vehicle in the rearview mirror, Matt bit back a sigh. Ahead, a blue WFAZ TV van sat waiting for him to go so it could follow them, too.
He had no one but himself to blame for the fact that they all were there.
Beside him, Ashley finished buckling her seat belt and folded her hands almost primly in her lap. Her pale pink nails were perfectly polished, perfectly shaped. Her shining hair was swept smoothly back from her delicate features and caught at her nape with a wide gold clip. Her flawless skin looked as smooth as satin, her lips lush and moist.
He knew exactly how soft those lips were, and how arousing her hands could be. It was the way she smelled that got him, though. Her light, fresh scent had been instantly familiar, its effects on his subconscious immediate, and definitely unwanted.
“I saw in the volunteer brochure that your company manages these projects,” she said, her voice dripping with caution. “I just didn’t think you would actually be working here yourself.” Especially knowing I would be here, she could have added, but didn’t.
“I wasn’t until yesterday.” He’d felt frustrated even before she’d arrived. He felt even more so having to deal with the effects of her scent on the primitive part of his brain that clearly recalled the pleasure he’d experienced with her. “I donate a foreman and a couple of craftsmen to each job to work with the volunteers,” he explained, forcing himself not to growl the words. “But I had to relieve the foreman on this job.”
“I hope he wasn’t ill.”
Her quick, almost instinctive concern pleated his forehead. “He’s fine. I’m just taking over because you’re here.” And because of my big mouth, he thought, pulling ahead to get their little show on the road. “I couldn’t ask one of my foremen to deal with you.”
Her calm was as impressive as the regal arch of her eyebrow. “Deal with me?”
“And your entourage.” He checked his side-view mirror before he turned onto the road leading from the little municipal airport. Sure enough, the news van had pulled out right behind the one with the documentary crew. Right behind that was a tan sedan that belonged to one of the reporters.
It seemed she didn’t have to look to know they were leading a parade.
“You knew the press would be here,” she quietly reminded him. “You knew about the documentary people, anyway. I have little control over the rest.”
For a moment, he said nothing. Of course, he’d known about them. That was why he’d taken over himself rather than dumping the responsibility for this particular project on one of his men. It could sometimes be difficult enough working with untrained workers, as good-hearted and well-intentioned as they were, without having the distractions of a celebrity in their midst.
He had told himself before she’d stepped off the plane that he would do exactly as he had already asked everyone else at the site to do and treat her as they would anyone else. He would overlook the fact that she had undoubtedly never done a hard day’s work in her life, just as he intended to ignore the events that had brought them both to being where neither wanted to be. If he’d learned anything in thirty-one years, it was that there wasn’t a thing he could do about the past, but he could sure as hell see that it didn’t repeat itself.
When it came to everything but business, he lived purely in the present.
Presently, sticking to business was all he cared to do.
“Then, we’ll concentrate on what you can control,” he finally said. “I didn’t send anyone else to get you because I wanted to make sure you understand that I can’t cut you much slack.”
“I’m not asking for any.”
“I didn’t say you were,” he defended, patiently. “But unless you’ve been moonlighting in maintenance at your country club, my bet is that you don’t have any skills that are going to be immediately useful on a construction site.” He frowned toward her hands. “Have you ever used a hammer? For something other than a doorstop, I mean.”
From the faint pinch of her mouth, he doubted she’d ever even held one. It was entirely possible, he supposed, that she’d never even seen one up close.
“How about a tape measure? A level?
“My point,” he continued, making himself behave when what he really wanted to do was remind her that he knew exactly how protected and indulged she’d been, “is that every volunteer has to be capable of accomplishing her job. If you’re going to be here, you have to work just like the other volunteers. Getting the house up is our first priority. We’re on a schedule and we have to keep to it.
“I’ll show you how to do something that doesn’t require a lot of instruction. If you don’t understand what you’re doing, ask for help.”
“Is this the orientation speech the brochure promised?”
He wondered how long all that cool composure would last once she was on the job. “I suppose it is,” he conceded. “Everyone else got theirs when they started a few weeks ago.”
