Читать книгу Yesterday's Scandal - Gina Wilkins - Страница 11

MAC FOUND SHARON waiting just inside the front door, which he had left open. In marked contrast to the dull, colorless surroundings of the run-down entryway, she looked fresh and pretty, dressed in clean, bright colors. She was studying the broken, curved staircase, her expression thoughtful. “I’ve never been in here before,” she said when he joined her. “I didn’t know what to expect.”

He found it annoyingly necessary to remind himself that he was only interested in her because of her interior-decorating skills and her friendship with the McBrides—not because she was the first woman he’d been attracted to in months. Dragging his gaze away from her, he glanced around the entryway. “Most of the damage is cosmetic. This place was built to last, and it has, despite the neglect.”

“It’s really worth saving?”

He rested a hand on an intricately turned newel post. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think it was.”

Wearing the same contemplative look he’d just seen on Trent, she glanced slowly around the big entryway and then through an arched doorway into a room that had probably served as a front parlor. “It must have been beautiful once.”

“And it will be again. Let me show you around downstairs. I’d rather save the upstairs until the staircase and upper floors have been reinforced.”

She glanced up the stairs, as if she was reluctant to miss anything in the tour he’d promised. But then she turned away from the staircase to follow him along the lower floor.

He led her through the parlor, the single downstairs bedroom, what might have once been a sitting room or music room, and a long, narrow dining room. Without lights, the rooms looked even more shabby and ramshackle than they actually were. The sunlight that managed to penetrate the dirty windows turned gray and dusty inside. But Mac saw the still-intact crown moldings, the repairable plaster-work, the solid-wood paneling and hardwood flooring, and he knew the house could be spectacular again. He wondered if Sharon shared his vision.

She murmured something he didn’t quite catch. “I beg your pardon?”

Looking at him with an air of distraction, she motioned to the long, fanlight-topped window at the end of the dining room. “Beveled leaded glass,” she said. “And look at the detail of that crown molding. You don’t see work like that anymore.”

Her comments pleased him, as did the expression on her face. Oh, yeah, she was seeing what could be, rather than what was. Just as he did when he looked at this place.

She stepped closer to the window to examine the framing. “The woodwork is in good shape all through the house? No dry rot? Termite damage?”

“Some, but minimal. There are a few places where we’ll have to do some reproduction work, but not many.”

She moved close to a wall to peer at the darkened wallpaper that had once been a bright sunflower design, more indicative of the 1970s than the early 1900s. “I bet there are at least a half-dozen layers of wallpaper on these walls. Homeowners often used to paper right on top of existing patterns. If that’s the case, I should be able to re-create original decor by studying the earliest layers.”

“I counted six layers in the master bedroom. Five in the kitchen.” He’d dug through all that in his initial examination of the house’s condition.

“Were the early patterns distinguishable?”

“In places, yes. You’ll probably want to see it, though I’m not interested in an exact reproduction of the original decor. Just a look that’s appropriate for the period.”

“The townspeople have always referred to this place as a Victorian mansion, but it isn’t strictly Victorian, is it? More a combination of Queen Anne, Italianate, and even a little Early American craftsman influence. Sort of a hodgepodge, but it works. It must have been spectacular.”

Despite her disclaimers that she wasn’t a professional decorator, he was satisfied with the observations she’d made thus far. He had seen examples of her work, having learned that she’d decorated several of the businesses he’d visited in town, and he knew she had a flair for color and proportion. Now he was even more confident that he hadn’t made a mistake approaching her about this project.

Her friendship with the McBrides might be useful to him later, but it was her decorating expertise that interested him at the moment. At least, that was what he told himself, though he was all too keenly aware of how nice she looked in her pale blue spring-weight sweater and fluidly tailored gray slacks that emphasized the slender waist his hands had spanned so easily.

He reminded himself again that he didn’t have time for that sort of distraction now. He might notice her blue-green eyes and sweetly curved mouth, the shallow dimple in her left cheek, the graceful line of her throat or the feminine curve of her breasts beneath the soft knit sweater she wore, but that was as far as he intended to take it. He had a job to do—and the Garrett place was only a part of it.

Though his voice was casual, he was watching Sharon closely when he led her into the next room. “This,” he said, “is the kitchen.”

The smile that lit her face when she saw who was waiting there was full, warm and beautiful. Mac couldn’t help wondering how it would feel to be on the receiving end of a smile like that from her. “Trent,” she said, and even her voice was warmer now. “What a nice surprise.”

Though Mac had summed Trent up as a somber, even brooding, type, the smile he gave Sharon held a natural charm with a hint of mischief. Having heard through the local rumor mills that Trent had been involved in a near-fatal plane crash that had left him with both physical and emotional scars, Mac suspected he was seeing an echo of the cocky young ladies’ man Trent was reported to have been before the crash.

“Hi, Sharon. It’s good to see you again.” Trent kissed her cheek with the ease of long acquaintance.

Mac found himself frowning as he watched Trent’s casual touch against Sharon’s smooth cheek. He cleared his expression immediately, forcing himself to study the pair objectively.

“It’s good to see you, too,” Sharon said. “You look great.”

“So do you. I was glad to hear you weren’t seriously injured Friday night.”

“Only a few bruises. I was lucky. So how are the wedding plans coming along?”

A glow of satisfaction warmed Trent’s usually cool blue eyes. “Everything’s on schedule. Annie and I will be married the last Saturday in August.”

“I know your mother is looking forward to having another wedding in the family.”

Trent grimaced. “Oh, yeah. She loves a big fuss—any excuse to get the family all together.”

Mac stuck his hands in his pockets.

Sharon and Trent exchanged a few more pleasantries and then the conversation turned to the project at hand. “What do you think of the house?” Trent asked.

“I have to confess, I’ve always wanted to come inside and look around this place.” Sharon made a slow circle to study the kitchen, her attention lingering on the huge fireplace. “It’s something, isn’t it?”

“It definitely has potential. You’re doing the decorating?”

“Mr. Cordero and I are discussing that possibility.”

It was beginning to irk Mac that she continued to call him Mr. Cordero in that prim, rather prissy way. It couldn’t be more opposite to the warm and informal manner in which she spoke to Trent. “Mac,” he reminded her, deciding it was time for him to do a little fishing. “I take it you two know each other?”

Trent chuckled. “You might say that. Sharon and I went to the prom together.”

Sharon’s smile turned a few watts brighter. “Trent was a senior, I was a junior. He had already been accepted into the Air Force Academy. I was so impressed, I spent the whole evening looking at him and giggling like an idiot.”

“I don’t remember it quite that way,” Trent said gallantly.

Mac told himself he should be pleased to hear this. After all, her connection to the McBrides was one of the reasons he was interested in her. Right? And yet he still found himself changing the subject rather more abruptly than he had intended. “Yes, well, perhaps we should talk about the renovation project now.”

He stepped smoothly between them and opened the briefcase he’d left on a rough-surfaced counter. “I have some blueprints and sketches here…”

Sharon and Trent moved closer on either side of him to study the paperwork in the yellow light of the battery-powered lanterns. It annoyed Mac that he had to make such an effort to concentrate on the job instead of Sharon’s spicy-floral scent.

This wasn’t working out exactly as he had planned.

FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, Trent left, explaining that he had an appointment with his fiancée. Sharon was touched by the eagerness that glinted in his eyes as he left. For almost a year after his accident, Trent had barricaded himself in his solitary rural home, brooding and alone. He’d held his friends at a distance, seeing no one but family—and Annie Stewart, the housekeeper his mother had hired for him against his will. Now he and Annie were planning their wedding, and Trent was learning how to smile again.

Sharon was delighted for him.

Mac cleared his throat, drawing her gaze away from the back door through which Trent had disappeared. “Prom, hmm?”

She smiled. “Yes. I wore a flame-red satin slip dress and Trent wore a black tux with a red cummerbund and bow tie. I thought we looked sophisticated and glamorous—like movie stars. My mother still keeps our prom picture on the piano with all her other family pictures.”

When Mac didn’t seem particularly amused by her reminiscing, she cleared her throat and turned the conversation back to business. “At what point would you want me to become involved with the renovation?”

“You’re considering taking the job?”

She practically itched to be a part of this project. “Yes.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Something about his expression and the tone of his voice made her wonder why he seemed so pleased that she would be joining the renovation team he was assembling. He didn’t really know her, and he had seen only a few examples of her work. Had the recommendations he’d heard really been so persuasive?

He had said it was his practice to patronize local businesses and workers whenever possible. Granted, there weren’t many professional decorators in Honoria to choose from—none, actually. “You’re sure you don’t want to consult a few other decorators first?” she asked, a sudden attack of nerves making her wonder if she was being wise to get involved with this man. With this job, she corrected herself quickly.

He shook his head. “I want you.”

She really wished he hadn’t worded it quite that way. Something told her those three words would echo in her mind for a disturbingly long time. “I would certainly understand if you want to at least consider—”

“Sharon—do you want the job or not?”

Clasping her hands in front of her, she glanced around the big, old kitchen. “Yes. I want it.”

“And you believe you can do a good job?”

She could already picture the front parlor done in tastefully restrained Victoriana, old Oriental rugs on satiny, refinished hardwood floors, strategically placed mirrors making the small rooms look bigger. “Yes, I do.”

“Then all we have left to discuss is the money,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’ve written the decorating budget here—” he stabbed a finger on one of the sheets of paper scattered across the counter “—which includes your fee, itemized on the next line. Does that look like a fair estimate to you?”

She glanced at the figure, blinked a couple of times, then read it again. “Yes, that looks fair,” she said, her voice a bit strained.

She couldn’t help remembering all those wild rumors about Mac—that he was a rich eccentric, or on consignment for a celebrity millionaire, or working for a big-money crime family. As improbable as those scenarios had sounded, money didn’t seem to be a problem when it came to this project. She would be compensated very generously for the sheer pleasure of helping this sadly deteriorating building become a beautiful home again.

“I’d like you to be closely involved with the project from the start,” he said. “You’ve probably noticed I have my own way of doing things—it’s not necessarily the way most contractors work, but it suits me. I assemble a team at the beginning and then involve everyone in the decision-making, utilizing their expertise in their areas. Final decisions, of course, are mine, but I’m always open to discussion and suggestions.”

“How long have you been doing this? Buying and restoring old houses, I mean.”

“Full time for almost three years now. Before that, I restored a couple of small houses as a sideline to my day job.”

“And what was your day job?”

She’d considered herself making conversation, not trying to pry, but she got the sudden feeling that Mac wasn’t comfortable with her questions. “I’ve worked in several jobs prior to this one.”

“I see.” She looked at her watch. “I really should get back to the shop. I have an appointment with a sales rep this afternoon.”

“I’ll walk you to your car.”

She knew the layout of the house this time, so she led the way with Mac following close behind her. As she walked, she looked around again, making dozens of mental notes. She would like to return soon with a camera and sketch pad. She was so involved with her planning, she forgot to concentrate on her steps and she might have tripped over a broken board had Mac not reached out to take her arm before she reached it, guiding her around the plank.

“The floors are pretty rough,” he said without letting go of her. “It’s even worse upstairs. Once the carpenters get started, I’m going to designate the whole house as a hard-hat zone.”

“I should have been watching where I was going. I’m afraid I was too busy mentally decorating.”

He chuckled. “As much as I appreciate your eagerness to get started, I wouldn’t want you to injure yourself because of it.”

“I’ll be more careful from now on,” she promised, trying to keep her tone light despite the ripples of sensation emanating from his hand on her arm.

“Good.”

When he didn’t immediately move away, her smile wavered. His face was only inches from hers. His dark eyes looked straight into hers. She’d never understood more clearly what it meant to be in danger of melting at someone’s feet. When it came to her hormones, this man was downright dangerous.

She cleared her throat so she could speak without squeaking. “Is there something else?”

He hesitated a moment, then dropped his hand and stepped back. Without further comment, he motioned for her to continue through the house. She took care to watch her step as she walked out.

She unlocked the driver’s door of the rental car her insurance company had provided until she could replace the one she’d lost in Snake Creek. Uncertain what to say, she turned hesitantly to Mac before getting in. “I’ll start gathering some pictures and samples before our next meeting. I’d like to come back soon to take some measurements and photographs.”

“The work crew starts tomorrow, so someone will be here pretty much all the time, Monday through Saturday. Come by anytime, but be careful around the construction.”

“Thank you, I will. So, I guess I’ll see you later.”

“Mac,” he said.

She lifted an eyebrow in confusion, wondering why he’d just said his own name. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’d like to hear you say, ‘I’ll see you later, Mac.”’

“Why?”

“Let’s just say I like my team to be on comfortable terms with each other.”

“I’m quite comfortable with you,” she lied briskly.

Wearing a slightly challenging smile, he leaned against her open car door. “Then why can’t you say my name, Sharon?”

He said hers easily enough. And something about the sound of it on his tongue made a funny little shiver go through her. Which was hardly a professional way to react to a business associate, she chided herself.

“I have no problem saying your name, Mac. But I am running late, so if there’s nothing else, I’d better be on my way.”

There was definite satisfaction in his smile when he straightened away from the door. “No, there’s nothing else—for now. Drive carefully.”

He didn’t stay to watch her drive off, but turned on one heel and walked back to the house. He didn’t even glance over his shoulder before disappearing inside. Sharon was left staring after him. She roused herself with a slight shake of her head and reached for the key.

As she drove away, she vowed to herself that this was the last time she would allow him to turn her into a tongue-tied adolescent.

Any further exchanges between her and Mac Cordero were going to be strictly business—even though she was beginning to wonder if Mac had something else in mind.

BRAD WAS on his very best behavior Thursday evening during dinner, which pleased Sharon almost as much as it worried her. She loved her younger brother dearly, but any time he acted sweet and polite, she couldn’t help wondering what he was up to.

“How are you enjoying your summer vacation, Brad?” Jerry Whitaker, who had joined them for dinner, asked encouragingly.

Looking up from the baked pork chops, rice and steamed vegetables Sharon had prepared, the boy tossed a fringe of shaggy brown bangs out of his face to look across the table. “It’s okay. Better than school, anyway.”

“What are you doing to keep yourself busy?”

“Baseball, mostly. Coach Cooper has practice every afternoon. And I go to the Boys and Girls Club a couple of mornings a week for tennis lessons.”

Jerry smiled at Sharon. “Sounds like you’ve got quite an athlete in the family.”

Absently returning the smile, she glanced at her brother. “Yes, Brad’s very good at sports.”

“What else do you have planned for summer, Brad? Hanging out at the pool with your friends? Flirting with the girls? I seem to have a vague memory of doing a lot of that back in the olden days when I was your age.”

Because he knew it was expected of him, Brad chuckled in response to Jerry’s exaggeration, but then his smile faded as he glanced at his sister. “Sharon doesn’t let me hang out with my friends much. She’s afraid I’ll get into trouble.”

Sharon’s defenses went up when Jerry gave her a reproachful look. “That’s not exactly accurate,” she protested. “I certainly don’t forbid Brad to see his friends. I simply ask him to let me know where he’ll be and what time he’ll be home.”

“And I have to tell her who’s going to be there, and what we’ll be doing, and what we’ll be eating, and—” Brad held up a finger for each point he made.

“That’s enough,” Sharon cut in, knowing her brother was still annoyed with her for keeping him from attending the party Monday evening.

She still felt justified in her decision, especially since she’d heard that Officer Dodson had been dispatched to send everyone home when the festivities had gotten too loud. She’d been surprised that he hadn’t reported seeing signs of drinking among the underage guests. At least the kids had been smart enough not to try to get away with that—probably because they’d guessed that Chief Davenport would have someone keeping a close eye on them.

“Your brother is fifteen years old, Sharon,” Jerry murmured. “You have to loosen the apron strings sometime.”

Brad looked smug.

Sharon was annoyed with Jerry for undercutting her in front of Brad. Surely he knew she was doing the best she could while their flighty mother was off vacationing with a group of congenial widows she’d met over the Internet. It wasn’t the first time Lucy Henderson had left Sharon in charge of the house-hold—she’d been doing it since Sharon was a teenager, herself—but it was getting much more difficult as Brad grew older and more rebellious.

She picked up a bowl. “Have some more vegetables, Jerry.”

Fully aware of the message she was really sending him, he chuckled, took the bowl and obligingly changed the subject. “What’s this I hear about you working on the Garrett-house renovation?”

It had taken less than forty-eight hours for the news to get to him. Sharon wasn’t sure why she hadn’t already mentioned it, herself. Maybe because Jerry so rarely showed any real interest in her business, which he tended to refer to as “the little wall-paper shop.” “I’ve been hired as the interior-design consultant. I’ll help choose colors, patterns, fixtures and so on. Mac wants the house completely ready for occupancy when the renovation is completed.”

“Mac?” Jerry murmured, lifting an eyebrow.

Funny how easily the name had slipped from her this time, proving that she’d already begun to think of him that way. “He doesn’t care much for formality.”

“I’m not sure I approve of this arrangement.” Jerry seemed to be only half teasing. “Apparently he’s quite the romantic figure around town. Handsome, mysterious, reportedly wealthy. And he’s the guy who saved your life last weekend. I wouldn’t want you to get swept off your feet.”

Sharon forced a smile. “I’m only working for him, Jerry, not dating him.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Why do you think he chose you as his decorator? Do you suppose his budget is more limited than rumors have implied?”

Aware of Brad listening to the conversation while he ate, Sharon tried to keep her tone humorous. “Are you calling me a cut-rate decorator, Jerry? Hardly flattering.”

He didn’t even have the grace to look sheepish. “Now, Sharon, you know I didn’t mean it like that. But you must admit, you aren’t a licensed decorator. Picking out colors and wallpaper patterns has been a hobby for you.”

A hobby? She thought of the hours she’d spent reading, studying, poring over magazines, journals and sample books. She’d had several paid decorating jobs, including the recent remodeling of the First Bank of Honoria and the upcoming McBride Law Firm project. Needlework was a hobby; decorating was a passion she’d had since adolescence. “He said I came highly recommended,” she said simply, knowing it would be a waste of breath to argue semantics.

“I’m sure he won’t be disappointed.”

Had Jerry always had that slightly condescending tone when he talked about her work, or was she simply being oversensitive this evening? Whatever the cause, this conversation was beginning to annoy her as much as his criticism of the way she was watching out for her brother.

“I’ll make sure he isn’t,” she said, and stood. “Who wants dessert? I baked a strawberry cake.”

Brad and Jerry both eagerly accepted the offer.

As Sharon stood alone in the kitchen slicing cake, she found herself thinking that maybe she shouldn’t see so much of Jerry for a while. She’d gotten into the habit of hanging out with him without really thinking about where the relationship was going. She hadn’t liked the note of possession in his voice when he’d quizzed her about working for Mac. Was he under the impression that they had an exclusive relationship?

As far as she was concerned, she and Jerry were friends. They weren’t lovers. Jerry had broached the possibility a time or two, but Sharon had always put him off. She wasn’t ready to take that step, she’d told him. She didn’t think it set a good example for Brad. Both were legitimate excuses, but the truth was, she simply hadn’t wanted to become that intimately involved with Jerry. Something had always held her back.

Maybe it was because he’d never taken her breath away just by looking into her eyes, a small voice whispered inside her head. He had never caused a jolt of electricity to go through her with a simple brush of his hand. She had never actually reacted to any man’s touch that way—until Mac.

The cake server slipped from her hand, clattering against the tile floor. The noise roused her from her disturbing thoughts, clearing away the image of Mac’s gleaming dark eyes.

“Are you okay in there?” Jerry called out from the other room.

“I’m fine,” she answered, her tone sharper than she had intended. She immediately regretted it. It wasn’t Jerry she was angry with, it was herself. She was simply going to have to get herself under control when it came to Mac Cordero. And she was going to have to take charge of this situation with Jerry. It wasn’t fair of her to lead him on.

Maybe it would be better if she simply concentrated on her brother and her business, at least for the next few weeks.