Читать книгу In Good Company - Teresa Southwick, Teresa Southwick - Страница 7

Charity City, Texas

Mid September, two weeks before the bi-annual town auction

Desmond O’Donnell was back. Like the Terminator. Or a bad penny. Or both.

Molly Preston watched him walk past her classroom window, wishing he looked like a troll. But, where Des O’Donnell was concerned, her luck had never been that good. Now was no exception. All she could see was his profile and that was still to die for.

She was dabbing green paint on construction paper with one of her kids, when he entered her classroom and began looking around. She took a good look, too. The rumor mill had been working overtime since Des had returned to Charity City, and reports of his hunk quotient bordered on the stuff of urban legend. The reports were annoyingly accurate.

Ever since she learned the Charity City Foundation had awarded First Step Preschool the money for a new wing of classrooms and Des had won the contract to build it, she’d known their paths would cross. Again. But he’d picked a bad time to drop in. Not that any time would have been especially good, but it was craft time for her pre-K kids and when paint was involved, it was always uncharted territory. On top of that, a handsome stranger’s appearance was like a shot of adrenaline to her four-year-old charges.

They weren’t the only ones. Her twenty-five-year-old hormones whipped her heart into a serious palpitation. And her hands were sweating. She was no good around men—never had been, never would be—especially not around one who looked like he should be on the cover of Carpentry Quarterly.

Still, she’d been preparing herself to deal with him. But this time she wasn’t an overweight, orthodontically challenged, four-eyed high-school girl, easily dazzled by the PHAT—pretty hot and tempting—captain of the football team.

This time, she was a woman, and a professional. More classrooms meant more kids getting a head start on learning—a start that would make them kind, caring and productive members of society.

Seeing Des again was no big deal. Probably he was no longer a jerk. Probably there was a Mrs. Des at home. Besides, Molly was so over him. She was prepared to be polite and helpful because there was no longer any reason to hate his guts.

Brave self-talk, but as she walked over to the man from her past who was standing just inside the classroom door, her tongue felt suddenly three sizes too big for her mouth.

“Hello,” she managed to say.

“Hi. I’m Des O’Donnell from O’Donnell Construction.”

That sounded an awful lot like an introduction. Their previous acquaintance, such as it was, would suggest dispensing with introductions. She blinked, then stared at him, waiting for some hint of recognition on his part. She saw none.

When she didn’t say anything, he continued. “I’ll be building the new wing for the preschool and I’m here to look over the construction site.”

“I see.”

“This classroom will be affected. In the office I was told that this is Polly Preston’s room. That would probably make you Miss Preston. May I call you Polly?”

“Sure.” Her stomach knotted but her inner smart aleck picked up the slack. “But I can’t promise to answer.”

“Oh?”

“My name is Molly. Molly Preston.”

“Sorry. My mistake.”

He didn’t look sorry, Molly thought, then reminded herself she didn’t need to be snarky because she didn’t care. “No problem.”

He grinned his charming grin and that was a problem. “Nice to meet you, Molly.”

Clearly he didn’t remember her or her name. She wasn’t sure whether or not that was more humiliating than him taking a payoff to date her. After a socially dismal beginning to her freshman year, her father had paid Des to date her and ensure her high-school popularity. Des should have gone into acting. He’d pulled it off without her suspecting a thing. She’d never have known his interest in her was a sham if a disgruntled girlfriend hadn’t ratted him out.

Des had used her as a stepping stone to success. He’d got what he wanted, then hadn’t had the decency to break it off with her face-to-face. He’d simply stood her up then left for college.

Screw the high road, she decided. His betrayal had unraveled the fabric of her self-esteem. Now he didn’t even remember her? She would never be grown up enough to not care about that, and she felt justified in her crabbiness.

“Yeah, nice,” she lied. “Look, Mr. O’Donnell—”

“Des,” he interrupted.

“Des,” she repeated, annoyed at how easily his name slipped from her lips. She hoped that only she noticed that her voice had dropped into the seductive range on the single syllable.

Time had been good to Des O’Donnell. He’d always been the stuff of girlish fantasies. Now he was a man, with the filled-out physique to prove it. His chest-and-biceps-hugging navy T-shirt brought out the extraordinary sapphire blue of his eyes. She remembered that his hair had a natural wave when he needed a haircut, which he didn’t at the moment. She missed the curl. Once light blond, his hair had changed color over time. Somehow, the darker shade suited him better.

His face had matured, lines fanning out at the corners of his eyes. His square jaw gave him a rugged appearance that was just right on him. And just wrong for her.

The years melted away, turning her back into that insecure, geeky teenager who’d learned that someone like her didn’t snag sincere attention from men. Bruce the Bottom-feeder had happened in college. Her mistake had been believing he was the polar opposite of Des. It seemed that every time she went on to a higher level of education, painful personal lessons were involved. Which made her wary of a postgraduate degree.

But she was no longer in high school or college. She was a grown-up responsible for the welfare of the children in her class. It was time to behave that way.

“Look, Des—”

“So I guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other during the construction,” he said at the same time.

“It would appear that way.”

“Arrangements will have to be made when your classroom is impacted by the construction. I’ll need to go over the work schedule with you.”

Molly tucked her hands into the pockets of her slacks. “Okay. But it can’t be right now.”

“Why not?”

“The children are involved in crafts. And that requires my undivided attention.”

She glanced over her shoulder and noticed one of the boys painting on the table instead of his paper. Thank goodness for butcher paper and her advance preparation for this very thing. “See what I mean? Now if you’ll excuse me—”

“I won’t take much of your time.”

“Children are schedule-sensitive. The slightest disruption can throw their world into chaos.”

“Then why did the office send me over?”

“We have a new receptionist. I’ll talk to her.”

“It wasn’t the receptionist who gave me the green light.” He folded his arms over his impressive chest. “I spoke to Mrs. Farris, the director. She said to tell you if you need backup while we discuss business to let her know.”

The little table-painter had wandered over beside her. When he slipped his hand into hers, Molly felt the sticky wetness and guessed she now had a green palm.

The boy looked up at the tall visitor. “Hi.”

“Hey, buddy,” Des replied.

Molly knew if this wasn’t nipped in the bud, the rest of her Picassos-in-training would be joining them, resulting in anarchy. Something any preschool teacher worth her salt would avoid at all cost.

“Trey,” she said to the child, “it’s craft time. Are you finished with your trees?”

“Yup.”

She glanced over to where he’d been sitting and saw his pristine paper with green paint all around it. “Are you sure?” she asked.

Des followed her gaze. “Looks like Trey thinks outside the box.”

The four remaining children at the table were getting restless. “Look, Des, this isn’t a good time. I have to clean up this group. The rest of my class is outside on the playground with an aide and they’re due in any minute for their turn at craft time. I try to stagger it for all my kids so it’s a relaxing and creative experience. So, Trey, I want you to go wash your hands.”

“But I wanna see what he’s gonna do,” the boy explained, pointing a green finger at Des. “Do you know Bob the Builder?”

Des squatted, bracing one denim-clad knee on the indoor/outdoor carpet as he rested his tanned forearm on the other. She noticed the way the material pulled snugly at his muscular thigh, then averted her gaze when her pulse jumped.

“Trey, I’m not going to do anything fun,” he said, his voice deep, calm and patient. “I’m just going to measure and write stuff down.”

The child looked disappointed. “You’re not gonna hammer?”

“Not today.”

“How come?”

“Because I don’t have anything to hammer. I have to order wood and nails and I don’t know how much I’ll need yet. I’m here to figure that out.”

“Oww.”

Molly turned at the cry of distress to see a curly-haired brunette rubbing her head.

“What’s wrong, Amy?”

“Kyle pulled my hair, Miss Molly,” she said, her bottom lip trembling.

“Kyle, remember what I told you about keeping your hands to yourself?”

The towheaded boy nodded. “She started it. She put paint on my new shoe, Miss Molly. My mom said I couldn’t even get these new shoes dirty or wet.”

“Don’t worry. The paint will come off. Did you tell Amy your shoes were new?”

He nodded. “But she painted ’em anyway. She’s stupid and I hate—”

Molly held up her finger. The guilty look on Kyle’s face told her he’d remembered too late her pet peeve—calling someone names. She’d been on the receiving end of enough hurtful taunts and wouldn’t permit name-calling in her classroom. Children weren’t too young to learn good manners and it was her goal to plant the seeds of kindness in as many of them as she could. But she tried to be fair when dispensing consequences.

She walked over to the pint-size squabblers. “Amy,” she said, squatting at the low table between the two children. She glanced at the black streak on the boy’s formerly snow-white sneaker. “Did you put paint on Kyle’s shoe?”

“Yes, but—”

Molly held up her hand. “No excuses. Please put down your paintbrush.” The little girl did as she was told. “Now, tell Kyle you’re sorry for what you did.”

“Sorry,” she mumbled.

Molly looked at the boy. “Kyle, you need to say you’re sorry for pulling Amy’s hair and calling her names.”

His stubborn expression clearly said he’d been wronged and shouldn’t have to apologize. But Molly sternly met his gaze without flinching. Every transgression required an apology even if hostilities hadn’t been initiated by the apologizer. Good thing she hadn’t held her breath waiting for Des to apologize for making a fool of her.

Finally Kyle rubbed a finger beneath his nose and said, “Sorry, Amy.”

“Good,” Molly said, nodding with satisfaction. “Now I want everyone to come with me to the sink and we’ll wash our hands.”

“But Trey is talkin’ to the man,” Kyle said, pointing. “Why can’t we?”

“Because after painting we have to make sure our hands are clean before we do anything else. And Trey is going to wash up, too.”

Molly walked her charges to the tot-size sinks and got them started. When they were finished, she lined them up by the door to the playground. “I’ll be right back.”

She walked to where man and boy were still talking.

“The boards are cut to the right length, then I’m going to put them together with nails,” Des was saying.

“Can I watch?” Trey asked.

“Sure.”

“He said I could watch,” Trey told her excitedly.

“I heard.” Molly reined in her irritation. She needed a word—or twenty—with this man. Preferably when no children were present and she could freely speak her mind.

“Can I help?” the boy eagerly asked.

“I don’t see why not.” Des smiled at the child.

“Trey, it’s time to wash your hands. Then line up with the others.” Molly touched his shoulder and turned him, gently nudging him in the direction of the sinks. He reluctantly went, glancing over his shoulder several times. When the boy was on task, she looked at Des. “May I speak to you in the time-out room?”

He straightened to his full six-foot-plus height. His eyebrows, a shade darker than his hair, rose along with the corners of his mouth. Something amused him. No doubt her. It seemed she was destined to be his comic relief.

“This sounds serious. Am I in trouble?”

Only if breaking hearts was a hanging offense. Hers had been a casualty. But she wouldn’t stand by and see him play fast and loose with a child’s emotions.

“Let’s not disrupt the children further. We can discuss it in there.” She indicated the small storage area off her classroom with windows that gave her a view of her charges. When they entered the room, she turned quickly, colliding with the man who followed her. He was all lean muscle, wiry strength and warm male flesh. It was like walking into a brick wall, and just as hard on her system.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, quickly stepping back.

“Why? You didn’t call me stupid.” So he’d heard her with the children. Apparently the man could multi-task. He pointed at the glass and said, “Is this like the two-way mirrors the police use? We can see them, but they can’t see us?”

“No, actually. They can see us.”

He rested his hands on narrow hips. What was it about a man in jeans that spelled danger for female hearts? Before going any further with that thought, she stopped herself. She was angry with him, which should leave no room for thoughts like that.

“Wait here. The other kids are coming inside and I need to have my aide hold down the fort for a few minutes.”

Des watched through the glass as Molly Preston walked across her classroom to talk to a tall, jean-clad woman with a whistle around her neck. He frowned, wondering what Miss Molly’s problem was. He hoped she wasn’t the type who got her panties in a twist over the small stuff.

And speaking of panties, he had a feeling Miss Molly filled hers out in the nicest possible way. She was quite a package. It was the first thing he’d noticed when he walked into her classroom. She was petite, pretty and pleasingly proportioned in all the right places. Then there were the thick auburn curls teasing her shoulders. He had the most absurd urge to run his fingers through her hair to see if it was as silky and soft as it looked. And familiar. Why was that?

Actually, their paths had probably crossed. He’d grown up in this town but couldn’t wait to leave. His father’s death had brought him back to salvage the company his grandfather had started. Des had pumped a lot of his own money into the failing construction business, so he had a lot riding on the success of the preschool project. The profit margin was real narrow, but profit wasn’t his goal. This was simply a stepping stone to the real prize—a contract with Richmond Homes for the new development south of Charity City.

He was in negotiations right now with Carter Richmond who’d said in no uncertain terms he’d be watching Des’s work. In a town the size of Charity City, one black mark on a man’s reputation could be his loss and a competitor’s gain. Des knew that if he was to keep his business afloat, losing contracts wasn’t an option. He needed to build the wing of classrooms on time, within budget, and it had to be the best work he’d ever done. Besides that, a good businessman never underestimated the value of word of mouth in a town the size of Charity City. For all of the above, he needed Miss Molly’s cooperation.

When she walked back into the interrogation room, he said, “So, what did you want to talk to me about?”

“So many things, so little time.” Her gaze narrowed.

This was not exactly the most convenient moment to notice what interesting things irritation did to her green eyes.

“What’s on your mind?” he prompted. If this was going to go smoothly, they needed to get all their cards on the table.

“For starters, I have a problem with you promising Trey that he could help you.”

Des shrugged. “He seemed interested. A boy can’t start too young. My grandfather started teaching me to work with wood when I was about Trey’s age.”

“Let’s forget the liability issue for now. Let’s go straight to the part where Trey comes from a single-parent home—his mother being the only parent there. His dad is out of the picture.”

Des wondered how that was a bad thing. If he had a nickel for every time he’d wished he didn’t have a father, money would never have been an issue. “Lack of male influence is all the more reason to let him help me.”

Molly’s frown deepened. “So you pay attention to a lonely little boy. What happens to him when you walk out of his life? And you will.”

Where did she get off judging him? They’d just met. He stared down at her. “Even if that’s true, and you can’t know it is, isn’t some positive male influence even for a short time better than none at all?”

Her full mouth tightened for a moment. “From personal experience, I’d have to say no.”

“Oo-kay.” He blew out a long breath.

Now what? The school director had made it clear that because her classroom was involved in the renovation, he had to coordinate schedules with this teacher. First, he had to find out what was bugging her, then figure out how to fix it.

“Look, Molly, like you said, I’ve come at a bad time. Maybe it would be best to discuss this when you’re not so busy with kids.”

“You’re right. This isn’t a good time.”

Stubborn as a mule. But it looked good on her, in spite of her attitude from hell. It made him want to lean over and touch his mouth to hers—to shock the stubborn right out of her.

“Okay. Not a good time. We finally agree on something.” He rubbed his hands together. “How about this? I’ll take you out for dinner and we can—”

She held up her hand. “No way.”

He wanted to ask why not, but decided not to go there. Compromise and negotiation. “Then how about a drink after work?”

“I don’t think so. Any discussion would be best conducted here on school grounds.”

He recognized a shutdown when he saw it, and he would admit to some ego. Women had always paid attention to him, which had made for a bitter lesson when he’d learned that attention and respect for who he really was were two very different things. It was a mistake he wouldn’t repeat. But that was personal. This was business; he was good at business. He knew when someone was giving him the business. The question was…why? Molly Preston was a puzzle he couldn’t wrap his mind around. But she was about to learn he’d invented the word stubborn.

He nodded. “When would be a good time to talk?”

Her look said when the devil ice-skated in hell, but she answered, “The children are all supposed to be picked up by six o’clock.”

“Then I’ll see you at six sharp.”

She opened her mouth to say something but he moved toward the door, refusing to give her a chance to stonewall him. Right now he needed to have a word with the preschool director. Maybe Mrs. Farris could shed some light on the mystifying Molly Preston.

After leaving her classroom, he crossed the courtyard and entered the administration building where Molly’s boss happened to be standing by the desk in the reception area. She was blond, attractive, probably in her early to mid-fifties, and trim.

He stopped in front of her. “Hi.”

She smiled. “You’re already finished? Obviously you and Molly work well together.”

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that.”

The woman frowned. “Uh-oh. No one wants to talk if everything’s okay.”

“Yeah. You got that right.”

“There was a problem with Molly?”

He nodded. “Apparently I rub her the wrong way.”

“I’m stunned. She’s not your typical stubborn redhead. I’ve never known her to be anything but easygoing and mellow. Molly gets along with everyone.”

“Then apparently I’m her first,” he said ruefully. “I tried to talk to her about the building schedule, I think I got on her bad side. Somehow.”

Mrs. Farris looked surprised. “I don’t get it. If anyone would understand the importance of building schedules, it’s Molly.”

“Why’s that?”

“Molly’s father is a home builder. You may have heard of him. Carter Richmond, of Richmond Homes.”

“But I thought her last name was Preston?”

“That’s her married name.”

Des felt as if he’d just been hit by a big steel wrecking ball. Her maiden name gave him the missing piece of the puzzle and the picture wasn’t pretty.

He was the guy who’d done her wrong.