Читать книгу Baby By The Book - Kara Lennox, Kara Lennox - Страница 9

Rand Barclay wrestled with the baby crib, trying unsuccessfully to reduce it to two dimensions. It had been nice and flat when he’d brought it down from the attic two years ago, when his younger sister, Alicia, had come home from the hospital with Dougy. Now it refused to fold up.

He cursed the baby bed just as Clark Best walked into the room. Clark was his employee—estate manager, majordomo, butler, maid and cook rolled into one. The man was the epitome of efficiency, competence and hard work. He also happened to be Rand’s best friend.

“Missing the little tyke already?” Clark asked, his eyes gleaming with mischief. He was up to something, but Rand had no idea what.

“The only thing I miss is my office,” Rand growled. “And I’m taking it back. Now.”

“Then let me do this.” Clark bent down, flicked some invisible lever, and the crib folded right up. He smiled smugly, his blindingly white teeth flashing in stark contrast to his dark skin. “You want it in the attic?”

“Hell, no. Burn it. There will be no more babies in this house. Maybe I’ll be able to get some work done around here.”

Clark snorted. “We’ll see about that.” He left the room, carrying the crib effortlessly under one arm. At six-foot-three and two hundred and forty pounds, Clark made most things look effortless—including a cheese soufflé. An old buddy from high school, Clark was in his last year of cooking school at Savannah’s Culinary Institute. He lived in one of Rand’s many spare rooms and ate prodigious amounts of Rand’s food in return for keeping the house running smoothly. Rand didn’t know what he would do in a few months when Clark graduated, got real a job, and moved out.

Yes, he did know. Rand would be alone, just as he’d wanted to be since he’d bought this house after his first year at a successful medical practice. It had taken him the eight long years after that to get his three rambunctious younger sisters safely launched into the world.

Then there was his mother. Rand loved her dearly, but the obstinate Marjorie Barclay had clung to Rand and this house like a tic on a hound dog. He had used every persuasive trick he could think of to get her to move to South Carolina’s most posh retirement village, where she could meet people her own age and develop some interests apart from her children. Fortunately, she’d adjusted quickly and now pretended the move had been all her idea.

Rand contemplated the stacks of research books that had grown like stalagmites around his office during the past six months. He’d been setting the stage for the massive task of writing his book—collecting papers and articles on rare skin diseases, tracking down subjects, accumulating stacks and stacks of statistics. But he had yet to commit a single word to paper.

Who could write with little kids underfoot and assorted females coming and going all the time, their high-pitched laughter and mindless chatter constantly in the background? One of his medical journals, he noticed, had a half-eaten lollipop stuck to it.

But that was all over now. As of today, he was embarking on a new life, one of total independence. For a while, at least, Rand Barclay was going to focus on Rand Barclay. He was going to do what he wanted, buy what he wanted, work, sleep and eat when he wanted—in blissful solitude.

And the first step was new bookshelves for his office—custom-made for his medical books and notes. Clark had already consulted a carpenter and negotiated a fee. Rand had signed off on the plans, which had arrived by messenger two days ago. Today the carpenter would start work.

Rand could hardly wait until the shelves were done. He could organize his research materials instead of pawing through unruly stacks every time he wanted to find a piece of information.

Clark came back into the room with a feather duster and went to work on Rand’s desk without saying a word.

“So what time is the carpenter getting here?” Rand asked.

“Should be any time.” Another mysterious smile. “But I still don’t see why you chose now to have bookshelves built. You’re supposed to finish your book…when?”

“End of next month,” Rand said, trying to sound matter-of-fact. But whenever he thought about his deadline, his stomach swooped.

“And how much have you gotten written?”

Rand didn’t answer.

“These bookshelves are just another excuse to procrastinate,” Clark said. “You can give a man a license to practice medicine, set him up at a primo research lab, but deep down he’s still a college kid, cramming for an exam at the last minute, finishing up a term paper at six in the morning—”

“I did not get through med school by procrastinating. And you have no idea what’s involved in writing this textbook. It’s not like writing a term paper. You have to lay the groundwork for something like this. If you don’t make the proper preparations, the whole thing will get out of whack.”

Clark rolled his eyes. “You can be the most pompous ass sometimes. And you don’t call this out of whack?” He made a sweeping gesture, encompassing every last untidy pile.

“Yeah, yeah, put a sock in it.”

Clark just smiled. They bantered like this all the time, and neither of them took offense. Clark had earned the right to insult Rand. He’d known Rand when he was “that no-good Barclay kid,” knobby knees and ill-fitting shoes and clothes that never quite went together.

And yes, all right, Rand did procrastinate. He couldn’t fool Clark, who’d been witness to Rand’s time-management impairment since high school.

But the job always got done. And the treatise would get written, too, just as soon as he had proper bookshelves.

SUSAN KILGORE CLIMBED into her truck and cranked open the window before starting the engine. The weather was unseasonably warm for October, even in South Carolina. She checked the mirror, put her truck in gear and backed out of the driveway, waving to her landlady.

Harriet Regis was a dear, and Susan hated the fact that she had to move out of the Regises’ attic apartment. But Mr. Regis was ill, and he needed a quiet tenant. Susan hadn’t even waited for Harriet to bring it up. She’d already gone out and found another apartment. It wasn’t as nice as this one, but it included a garage where she could set up her woodworking shop.

As she drove past a convenience store, Susan thought longingly of a cup of coffee. How long had it been since she’d had one?

No sense dwelling on all the things she couldn’t or didn’t have in her life right now, she lectured herself. Better to focus on what she did have, which was her first significant paying job since her father’s death more than a year ago.

She’d quickly discovered that potential customers had no faith in a woman’s carpentry abilities. During the past few months, she’d scrounged up a little bit of work. She’d framed in a new door for her landlords, and she’d put new facings on the neighbor’s kitchen cabinets. But the big jobs had eluded her. And, in truth, she hadn’t tried as hard as she should have to get work.

But the little nest egg her ex-boyfriend had left her—purely out of guilt—was gone, along with almost all of her own savings. If she didn’t revitalize the carpentry business immediately, she would have to get a nine-to-five job. And, let’s face it, who was going to hire her at this point?

Thank goodness Clark Best had called, not realizing her father had passed on. She’d been completely honest with him, and then she’d had to grovel to get the job. But he’d given her a chance, bless his heart.

Now it was up to her to convince Dr. Rand Barclay that she could build him the most awesome shelving unit he’d ever seen—solid mahogany, brass hardware…

Oh, hell, who was she kidding? The minute he laid eyes on her, she would be out the door on her fanny.

CLARK WAS BUSY IN the kitchen when the doorbell rang, so Rand answered it himself. A tall woman with long, dark hair in a sleek ponytail stood on his front porch, looking around uncertainly. She carried a huge sketch pad in front of her, so he could see nothing of her figure, but from the shoulders up she was breathtaking.

She wasn’t a classic beauty—her face was a bit too angular for that. But her skin was flawless, her lips pink and moist, and her eyes—they were hard to look away from. A startling blue, they seemed to hold emotional depths Rand could never fathom.

She blinked a couple of times at him. “Is this the Barclay residence?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m Rand Barclay.”

“Hello, Dr. Barclay. I’m Susan Kilgore.” Clutching the sketch pad against her with one hand, she extended the other in an awkward handshake. Her hands were long, strong, and not very pretty, especially with those bitten nails. Yet Rand felt something odd when she touched him. He supposed it was because he wasn’t used to a woman shaking hands like a man.

He waited for her to state her business. The silence stretched an uncomfortable length of time, and it seemed as if she expected to be invited in. Then he saw the truck in the driveway and the logo on the door: Kilgore Woodworking.

“Oh, the bookshelves,” Rand finally said, feeling like an idiot. “Come right in.” He looked past her out to the driveway, expecting her father or brother to appear, but apparently she was alone.

She stepped into the foyer and looked around. “This is a fine old house,” she said, almost wistfully. “I imagine it’s been in your family forever.”

“No. I’ve only had it eight years. Frankly, it’s a bit of a pain. Always something going wrong.”

Susan sighed. “Old houses just need a little more TLC—like old people.”

“You have an old house then?”

“No, but someday…”

“The shelves go in here.” He led her into his lair.

“Oh, my, yes,” she said from behind him. “I see why Clark called.”

Rand studied his office, trying to see it with her eyes. The room was large, with French doors leading out to a patio on one end, a rolltop desk with a computer at the other, an unused fireplace with a faded wood mantel, and a chipped tile hearth, and not much else. One tiny, tired-looking oak bookcase overflowed with books, periodicals, and papers, along with a few office supplies. The rest of the room featured untidy piles of books and notes.

“I want this room to be a real office,” he explained. “The plans you sent over are perfect. You can do one of those rolling staircases, right?”

“Most definitely. When I’m done, you’ll have the prettiest office in all of Marlena.”

“Pretty is fine, but I’m mainly interested in function. I’ll be using this office to research and write a medical textbook, and I need a place to organize my source material.”

“I can see that.”

He ventured a look at her. She’d stepped behind his desk to examine the wall, knocking on it. Then she pulled a small electronic gizmo from the pocket of her striped overalls and ran it along the wall, pausing to make a pencil mark.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“A stud finder.”

Look no farther, darlin’, I’m right here. He couldn’t help his thoughts. Hell, he’d almost said it out loud. She was so pretty—even though he suspected she wasn’t trying. No makeup, no jewelry…He wished she would get out from behind his desk so he could see the rest of her.

“So…do you have a father or brother who does the actual building?” he asked.

Those soft blue eyes took on the look of a summer rain cloud. “My father’s deceased. It’s just me. I’m the Kilgore of Kilgore Carpentry.”

“But…”

“Yes?”

He supposed he didn’t need to point out to Ms. Susan Kilgore that she was a woman. And he would sound like a Neanderthal if he expressed doubts about her abilities simply because she was female. He’d been in these situations enough in the past to know he had an uncanny ability to stick his foot right in his mouth.

“Um, will you excuse me?”

“Of course.”

Rand headed for the kitchen, where he found Clark pouring sauce from a small pan into a Tupperware dish filled with some unidentifiable lumps. It wasn’t very pretty, but the smell made Rand’s mouth water.

“Take a look at this,” Clark said. He wore a tall white hat and apron, which only served to emphasize his huge muscles. “Chitterlings and portabello mushrooms sautéed in a white wine—”

“Chitterlings!” Rand said in alarm. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

“It’s not for you, it’s a project for class. We’re each supposed to take a family recipe and make it French.”

“Your mother never made chitterlings.”

Clark grinned. “Oh, yes, she did. We just told you it was something else. You want a taste?”

“No, thanks.” Rand got to the point. “Did you know you hired a woman to build my bookcases?”

“Oh. She’s here, huh?” Clark looked distinctly guilty as he snapped the lid over his masterpiece.

“Yes, she’s here! And I can’t see how she can do the work. Carpentry involves a lot of heavy lifting, power tools…”

Clark set the pan in the sink and ran water into it. “Look, Rand. I had doubts, too, when she told me her…situation. But she knows her stuff. And she sounded, you know, kind of desperate. Apparently not many people have given her a chance to prove herself.”

“But this is my office we’re talking about. My bookshelves.”

“Well, you can’t fire her now. You signed the contract.”

“You tricked me! I’ll…I’ll pay her off.”

“Can you look her in those big blue eyes and tell her she’s fired?”

Rand narrowed his gaze. “How do you know she has big blue eyes?”

“I’ve met her. She and her dad redid my mom’s staircase a couple years ago.”

“Well, you hired her, you can fire her.”

Clark glanced at his watch. “Golly gosh, look at the time. I’ll be late for class.”

“Clark!”

Clark whipped off his chef’s clothes in record time, grabbed his Tupperware, and scooted out the back door, ignoring Rand’s objections.

“Well, hell,” Rand muttered. Better get it over with.

He returned to his office to find Susan with her back to him, stretching a tape measure up to the ceiling. He’d always thought a woman in overalls was kind of cute. She squatted to run the tape measure to the floor, and the denim pulled tight across her bottom.

She had a really nice bottom.

Oh, Lord, he didn’t want to fire her. Even if he offered to pay off the contract, her feelings would be hurt. Maybe…maybe he could at least give her a chance. He would keep a close eye on her work, of course. No harm in that, was there? If at any time it seemed she wasn’t performing up to par, he could pull the plug then.

She seemed to have some trouble standing. She had to grab onto the edge of the desk and pull herself up, conjuring up a familiar scene from Rand’s memory. He’d seen a woman make exactly that movement before…

She turned, startled, when he cleared his throat, and her difficulty suddenly made sense.

“You’re…you’re…” Rand sputtered.

“I think the word you’re looking for is pregnant.”

SUSAN WINCED IN anticipation of the explosion. She was busted, she knew it. Rand Barclay was going to throw her out, contract or no contract, and she had no recourse unless she wanted to sue him.

Clark had warned her that Dr. Barclay was something of a curmudgeon, a man immersed in his work with little use for outside distractions. She hadn’t expected him to be such a hunk, though, with that raven-black hair flopping over his forehead and those piercing blue eyes, even bluer than her own. Even Gary, her ex-boyfriend, who’d had a blond, beach-bum sort of charm about him, didn’t hold a candle to this guy. With those wide shoulders and big biceps, she could picture him on the racquetball court or paddling a kayak through white water. But in a white coat behind a microscope?

She glanced over to the blank wall where she’d just made her pencil marks where the studs were. It was completely radical of her to think she could do this job when she was pregnant. But she really needed the work, and with just a little help lifting the heavier pieces, she could achieve fantastic results—if only Rand would give her a chance.

But her hopes plummeted as she studied his face, which looked like thunder. “Did Clark know when he hired you?”

“Yes. I was completely honest with him.”

“I’ll kill him.”

She straightened her spine, prepared to do battle. “Don’t blame Clark. He said no at first, but I talked him into it.”

“Well, you won’t talk me into it. I will not have a pregnant woman doing heavy manual labor in my house.”

“But I can do this, I promise I can.”

“Do you have any help?”

“No. Look, I’ve been working with wood since I was five, Dr. Barclay.”

“I’m not questioning your skills. But you can’t possibly build a massive project like this when you’re…How far along are you, anyway?”

“About seven months,” she fudged. Really she was closer to eight, but she didn’t look that far along.

“How are you going to lift big pieces of lumber and climb ladders in your condition?”

“I’ve checked with my nurse-practitioner. I know my limitations. Besides, I’ve been working out at the gym every day. I’m strong as a broodmare. The harder I work, the better I feel. Just…just please give me a chance. I’m sure people have believed in you your whole life, but I haven’t had that luxury.”

“Doesn’t your husband object to your doing this kind of work?”

Susan fingered the plain gold band on her left hand. It was her mother’s. She’d started wearing it when she got tired of explaining to people that she didn’t have a husband.

She could tell Rand the truth—that she wasn’t married and never had been, that the father of her baby had abandoned her before he even knew she was pregnant, that she was all alone in the world and nothing stood between her and the street except this job.

But she didn’t want his pity. She wanted him to have faith in her. “My husband is not a problem.”

He looked down at his shoes. Was it possible she was making headway? She decided to press her advantage, if she did indeed have one.

“Although the shelves and cabinetry look massive on paper, this particular project doesn’t require much heavy work, and Clark promised to help. The lumberyard will do all the big cuts for me, so I won’t have to lift whole pieces of lumber or anything like that.”

“Do you have insurance?” he asked.

“Yes, of course. I can show you the policy—”

“No, that’s not necessary.” He paused, staring out the window. He seemed to be deliberating.

She held her breath. Please, please, please.

He came closer, until he was only a step away from her, and eyed her up and down, making her feel like he was the stallion to that broodmare she’d mentioned earlier. What did he see? And did he like it? And why was she even wondering something so stupid?

“I guess since I signed a contract, I have no choice.”

She resisted the urge to throw her arms around him in gratitude and instead grasped both his hands. “You won’t be sorry, I promise. I’ll build you the best damn bookshelf you ever saw!”

“Um, yes, right.” He extracted his hands from her enthusiastic grip. “But I don’t want to see you endangering yourself or your baby. I mean that. Contract or no contract, I will throw you out in a New York minute if you so much as—”

“I won’t.”

“You’ll be able to finish the job before your, er, family addition arrives, right?”

Susan felt a lump rising in her throat. Family addition. That was ironic, seeing as she had no family. She forced a smile. “This job should take two weeks—well, three, tops.” And she was a good four weeks from her due date. That was cutting it a bit close, but she was pretty sure she could make it.