CHAPTER 3
It was a good sound. The thud of hammers, the buzz of saws, the whir of drills. Through it came the jingle of a radio set to country music, so that Wynonna wailed over the clomp of boots and male voices.
It was a noise, the music of labor, that Rafe had known all of his life. This was different from the clatter of the milking barn, the hum of a tractor in the field. He preferred it. He’d chosen it the day he left Antietam.
Construction work had probably saved him. He had no problem admitting he’d been looking to rumble when he roared out of Washington County a decade before on his secondhand Harley. But he’d needed to eat, so he’d needed to work.
He’d strapped on a tool belt and sweated out the worst of the frustration.
He still remembered when he’d stepped back and looked at the first house he’d had a part in building. It had come to him in a flash that he could make something that mattered. And that he could make something of himself.
So he’d saved, and he’d sweated, and he’d learned.
The first place he’d bought, in central Florida, was little more than a shack. He’d choked on drywall dust, hammered until his muscles wept with the strain. But he’d made a profit, and used that to buy again. To sell again.
In four years, the tiny shoestring company called MacKade had earned a reputation for reliable, quality work.
Still, he’d never stopped looking back. Now, standing in the parlor of the Barlow place, he understood he’d come full circle.
He was going to make something in the town he’d been so hell-bent to escape from. Whether he stayed or not after he was done was undecided. But he would, at least, have left his mark.
Hunkered down in front of the fireplace, Rafe studied the stone hearth. He’d already gone to work on the chimney, and was covered with soot and grime. She’d draw, he thought with satisfaction. The first thing he was going to do, when the new lining was installed to bring it up to code, was build a fire. He wanted to watch the flames and warm his hands on them.
He wanted just the right andirons, the right screen. He could depend on Regan for that.
With a little smile, he picked up his trowel to mix a bucket of mortar. He had a feeling Regan could be depended on for most anything.
With care, precision and enjoyment, he began to repoint the stone.
“I figured the boss would be sitting at a desk, running figures.”
Rafe glanced back and lifted a brow. Jared stood in the center of the room, his gleaming black shoes resting on a spattered drop cloth. For some reason, his black Wayfarer shades didn’t look out of place with his gray pin-striped three-piece suit.
“That stuff’s for lawyers and bookkeepers.”
Jared took off the sunglasses and tucked them into the pocket of his suit jacket. “And think what the world would be without them.”
“Simpler.” Rafe stuck his trowel in the mortar and gave his brother a once-over. “On your way to a funeral?”
“I had business in town, thought I’d drop by and see how things are going.” He glanced around the room, then back toward the hall when something crashed, someone cursed. “So, how’s it going?”
“Steady.” Rafe sighed when Jared took out a slim cigar. “Blow some of that over here, will you? I quit ten really long days ago.”
“Reforming yourself?” Obligingly, Jared walked over, crouched. He smoked lazily as he and Rafe frowned meaningfully at the stone. “Not too shabby.”
Rafe knocked a fist against the rose-grained marble. “An Adam, pal.”
Jared grunted, clamped the cigar between his teeth. “Need a hand around here?”
Blandly Rafe looked down. “You’re wearing your lawyer shoes.”
“I meant over the weekend.”
“I can always use another back.” Pleased with the offer, Rafe picked up the trowel again. “How’s yours?”
“As good as yours.”
“Still working out?” He gave Jared’s biceps a testing punch. “I still say gyms are for sissies.”
Jared blew out a stream of smoke. “Want to go a round, bro?”
“Sure, when you’re not dressed so pretty.” To torture himself, Rafe sucked in secondhand smoke. “I appreciate you handling the settlement on this place for me.”
“You haven’t got my bill, yet.” Grinning, Jared straightened. “I thought you were crazy when you called and told me to go after it. Then I did a walk-through.” He turned, still grinning. “And I knew you were crazy. You practically stole the place, but I figure it’s got to cost you two times the purchase price to make it livable.”
“Three times,” Rafe said mildly, “to make it the way I want it.”
“How do you want it?”
“The way it was.” Rafe scraped the edge of his trowel over stone, leveling his mortar.
“That’s always a tough one,” Jared murmured. “You don’t seem to be having a problem with labor. I wondered if you would, considering the place’s rep.”
“Money talks. Lost a plumber’s assistant this morning, though.” Wicked amusement sparkled in his eyes. “They were checking pipes in one of the second-floor johns. This guy claims someone clamped a hand on his shoulder. He was still running when he made it to the road. Don’t guess he’ll be back.”
“Any other problems?”
“Nothing I need a lawyer for. Did you hear the one about the lawyer and the rattlesnake?”
“I’ve heard them all,” Jared said dryly. “I keep a file.”
With a chuckle, Rafe wiped his hands on his jeans. “You did good, Jare. Mom would’ve liked seeing you duded up like that.” For a moment, he said nothing. There was only the scrape of trowel on stone. “It’s weird, staying at the farm. Mostly just me and Shane. Devin spends half his nights on a cot in the sheriff’s office. You’re in that fancy little town house in the city. When I hear Shane get up in the morning, it’s still dark. The idiot’s whistling, like going out to milk in January’s just a boatload of laughs.”
“He’s always loved it. He’s kept that place alive.”
“I know.”
He recognized the tone, shook his head at it. “You did your part, Rafe. The money you sent back made a difference.” Eyes shadowed, Jared stared out the grimy window. “I’m thinking of selling the place in Hagerstown.” When Rafe said nothing, Jared moved his shoulders. “It seemed practical to keep it after the divorce. The market was soft, and we’d only built up a couple years’ equity. Barbara didn’t want it.”
“Still sore?”
“No. The divorce is three years past, and God knows it was civilized. We just didn’t like each other anymore.”
“I never liked her.”
Jared’s lips quirked. “I know. Anyway, I’m thinking of selling, hanging out at the farm for a while, until I find the right place.”
“Shane would like that. So would I. I missed you.” Rafe swiped a grimy hand over his grimy chin. “I didn’t realize how much until I got back.” Satisfied with the re-pointing, he scraped his trowel on the edge of the bucket. “So, you want to put in some honest labor on Saturday?”
“You buy the beer.”
Rafe nodded, rose. “Let’s see your hands, city boy.”
Jared’s response was crude, simple, and uttered just as Regan stepped into the room.
“Nice mouth, Counselor,” Rafe said with an easy smile. “Hello, darling.”
“I’m interrupting.”
“No. The guy from the gutter here’s my brother Jared.”
“I know. He’s my lawyer. Hello, Jared.”
“Regan.” Jared found an empty can of soda and doused the stub of his cigar. “How’s business?”
“Picking up, thanks to your little brother. I have some estimates, figures, suggestions, paint and fabric samples,” she said to Rafe. “I thought you’d like to look them over.”
“You’ve been busy.” He crouched again, flipped over the top of a small cooler. “Want a drink?”
“No, thanks.”
“Jare?”
“One for the road. I’ve got another appointment.” Jared caught the canned soft drink on the fly, then took his sunglasses out of his pocket. “I’ll let you two get down to business. Nice to see you again, Regan.”
“Saturday,” Rafe called out as Jared left the room. “Seven-thirty. That’s a.m., pal. And lose the suit.”
“I didn’t mean to chase him off,” Regan began.
“You didn’t. Want to sit down?”
“Where?”
He patted an overturned bucket.
“That’s very gracious of you, but I can’t stay. I’m on my lunch hour.”
“The boss isn’t going to dock you.”
“She certainly will.” Opening her briefcase, Regan took out two thick folders. “Everything’s in here. Once you have a chance to look through it, let me know.” For lack of anywhere better, she set the files across two sawhorses. She looked back over her shoulder, toward the hall. “You’ve certainly jumped right in.”
“When you know what you want, there’s no point in wasting time. So how about dinner?”
She looked back, narrowed her eyes. “Dinner?”
“Tonight. We can go over your files.” He tapped a finger against them, left a smudge of soot. “Save time.”
“Oh.” Still frowning, she combed her fingers through her hair. “I suppose.”
“How’s seven? We’ll go to the Lamplighter.”
“The where?”
“The Lamplighter. The little place off of Main, at Church Street.”
She tilted her head as she visualized the town. “There’s a video store at Main and Church.”
He jammed his hands in his pockets with an oath. “Used to be a restaurant. Your place used to be a hardware store.”
“I guess even small towns have their changes.”
“Yeah.” He couldn’t have said why it annoyed him. “Like Italian?”
“Yes. But the closest Italian place is across the river, into West Virginia. We can just meet at Ed’s.”
“No. Italian. I’ll come by about six-thirty.” Needing to gauge his time, he pulled a watch from his pocket. “Yeah, I can do six-thirty.”
“That’s a nice one.” Without thinking, she crossed over, took his wrist gingerly in two fingers to get a better look at the pocket watch. “Hmm…American Watch Company, mid-1800s.” Already appraising, she turned the watch over to study the case. “Sterling, good condition. I’ll give you seventy-five for it.”
“I paid ninety.”
She laughed and shook back her hair. “Then you got a hell of a bargain. It’s worth a hundred and fifty.” Her gaze danced up to his. “You don’t look like the pocket-watch type.”
“Wear one on your wrist on the job, they end up smashed.” He wanted to touch her. She looked so neat and tidy that the idea of mussing her up was enormously appealing. “Damn shame my hands are filthy.”
Alerted, she released his wrist, brushed one hand against the other. “So’s your face. But you’re still pretty.” After shifting her briefcase strap more comfortably on her shoulder, she stepped back. “Six-thirty, then. Don’t forget the files.”
* * *
She’d changed three times before she caught herself. A business dinner, Regan thought as she dropped down on the padded stool of her vanity, was a business dinner. Her appearance was certainly important, but it was secondary.
She bit her lip and wondered if she should have gone with the little black dress, after all.
No, no, no. Annoyed with herself, she snatched up her brush. Simplicity was best. The restaurant in West Virginia was casual, family-style. The purpose was professional. The blazer, slacks and silk blouse in forest green were right. There was no harm in jazzing it up with the moonstone lapel pin. But maybe the earrings were wrong. She could go with plain gold hoops instead of the more dramatic dangles.
The hell with it. She dropped her brush, then tugged on her suede ankle boots. She would not fall into the trap of thinking of this as a date. She didn’t want to date Rafe MacKade. Just now, with her business showing real promise, she didn’t want to date anyone.
A relationship, if indeed she decided to cultivate one, was three years down the road. Minimum. She would never make the mistake her mother had and depend on someone else for emotional and financial support. First, she would make certain she was solvent, solid and secure. And then, if and when she chose, she would think about sharing her life.
No one was going to tell her if she could work or not. She would never have to cajole an extra few dollars out of a man to buy a new dress. Maybe it suited her parents to live that way—and they’d certainly always seemed happy enough. But that wasn’t the life Regan Bishop wanted.
It was just too damned bad that Rafe was so dangerously attractive. And, she noted when she heard the knock on the door, prompt.
Confident again after the quick pep talk, she walked out of the bedroom, through the small, cozily furnished living room, and opened the door.
And, oh, she thought one last time, it was really too bad.
He flashed that grin at her, and those wonderful green eyes swept down, then up. “Looking good.” Before she could think to avoid it, his mouth brushed hers.
“I’ll get my coat,” she began, then stopped, the door still open to the wind. “What are those?”
“These?” He jostled the bags he carried. “These are dinner. Where’s your kitchen?”
“I—” He was already in, kicking the door behind him. “I thought we were going out.”
“No, I said we were having Italian.” He took quick stock of the room. Lady chairs, gleaming tables, pretty little knickknacks and fresh flowers. All female, he mused. And the portrait of a gloomy-faced cow above the sofa added wit. “Nice place.”
“Are you telling me you’re cooking me dinner?”
“It’s the quickest way, without physical contact, to get a woman into bed. The kitchen through there?”
When she’d managed to close her mouth, she followed him into the galley-style kitchen off the dining el. “Doesn’t that depend on how well you cook?”
Appreciating her response, he smiled as he began pulling ingredients out of the bags. “You’ll have to tell me. Got a skillet?”
“Yes, I have a skillet.” She took a large cast-iron pan from its cupboard, then lips pursed, tapped it against her palm.
“You conk me with it, you’ll miss out on my ziti with tomato and basil.”
“Ziti?” After running her tongue around her teeth, she set the skillet on a burner. “I’ll wait until after I eat.” She got out a second pot for the pasta and handed it to him.
Once he’d added water and set it to boil, she watched him wash greens for a salad.
“Where’d you learn to cook?”
“We all cook. Chef’s knife? My mother didn’t believe there was women’s work and men’s work. Thanks,” he added and began chopping with a quick, negligent flair that had Regan lifting her brows. “There was just work,” he continued.
“Ziti doesn’t sound like farm food.”
“She had an Italian grandmother. Can you stand a little closer?”
“Hmm?”
“You smell good. I like to smell you.”
Ignoring that, and the little twist in her stomach, she picked up the wine he’d brought along. “Why don’t I open this?”
“Why don’t you?”
After she’d set it on the counter to breathe, she scooted behind him to reach the cupboard to get a salad bowl. When he asked for music, she slipped back into the living room and put Count Basie on low. Why, she wondered, did a man look so sexy with his sleeves rolled up, grating carrots into a salad?
“Don’t open that olive oil,” she told him. “I have some.”
“Extra virgin?”
“Of course.” She tapped a long-spouted copper pitcher on the counter.
“Count Basie, your own olive oil.” His eyes met hers, laughed. “Want to get married?”
“Sure. I’ve got time on Saturday.” Amused that he didn’t have such a quick comeback for that, she reached overhead for wineglasses.
“I was planning on working Saturday.” Watching her, he set the salad aside.
“That’s what they all say.”
Lord, she was one terrific piece of work. He moved closer as she poured the wine. “Tell me you like watching baseball on TV on hot summer nights, and we’ve got a deal.”
“Sorry. I hate sports.”
He moved closer still, and with a wineglass in either hand, she moved back. “It’s a good thing I found this flaw now, before we had five or six kids and a dog.”
“You’re a lucky guy.” Heart jittering, she backed up again.
“I like this,” he murmured, and traced a finger over the little mole beside her mouth. Inching closer, he ran his finger down to flip open the buttons of her blazer.
“Why are you always doing that?”
“Doing what?”
“Fooling with my buttons.”
“Just practicing.” The grin was quick as lightning, and just as bold. “Besides, you always look so tidy, I can’t resist loosening you up.”
Her retreat ended with her back between the side of the refrigerator and the wall.
“Looks like you’ve backed yourself into a corner, darling.”
He moved in slowly, slipping his hands around her waist, fitting his mouth to hers. He took his time sampling, his fingers spread over her rib cage, stopping just short of the curve of her breasts.
She couldn’t stop her breath from quickening or her lips from responding. His tongue flicked over them, between them, met hers. His taste was dark, and rabidly male, and streaked straight to her center like an arrow on target.
The small part of her mind that could still function warned her that he knew exactly how he affected women. All women. Any woman. But her body didn’t seem to give a damn.
Her blood began to pound, her skin to vibrate, from the shock of dozens of tiny explosions. She was certain she could feel her own bones melt.
She was exciting to watch. His eyes were open as he changed the angle of the kiss, deepened it, degree by painfully slow degree. He found the flutter of her lashes arousing, the faint flush desire brought to her cheeks seductive. And that helpless hitch of breath, that quick shiver when his fingers skimmed lightly over the tips of her breasts, utterly thrilling.
With an effort, he stopped himself from taking more. “God. It gets better every time.” Gently he nuzzled his way to her ear. “Let’s try it again.”
“No.” It surprised her that what she said and what she wanted were entirely different. In defense, she pressed a wineglass against his chest.
He glanced down at the glass, then back at her face. His eyes weren’t smiling now, weren’t gently amused. There was an edge in them now, dark and potentially deadly. Despite all common sense, she found herself drawn to this man who would take, and damn all consequences.
“Your hand’s shaking, Regan.”
“I’m aware of that.”
She spoke carefully, knowing that the wrong word, the wrong move, and what was in his eyes would leap out and devour her. And she would let it. She would love it.
That was something she definitely had to think over.
“Take the wine, Rafe. It’s red. It’ll leave a nasty stain on that shirt.”
For one humming moment, he said nothing. A need he hadn’t understood or counted on had him by the throat with rusty little claws. She was afraid of him, he noted, deciding she was smart to be afraid. A woman like her didn’t have a clue what a man like him was really capable of.
Taking the glass, he tapped it against hers, making the crystal ring, then turned back to the stove.
She felt as though she’d barely avoided a tumble from a cliff. And realized she already regretted not taking the plunge. “I think I should say something. I, um…” She took a deep breath, then an even deeper gulp of wine. “I’m not going to pretend I’m not attracted to you, or that I didn’t enjoy that, when obviously I am, and I did.”
Trying to relax, he leaned back against the counter, studied her over the rim of his glass. “And?”
“And.” She scooped back her hair. “And I think complications are…complicated,” she said lamely. “I don’t want—that is, I don’t think…” She shut her eyes and drank again. “I’m stuttering.”
“I noticed. It’s a nice boost to the ego.”
“Your ego doesn’t need any boosting.” She blew out a breath, cleared her throat. “You’re very potent. I have no doubt sex would be memorable—Don’t smile at me that way.”
“Sorry.” But the smile didn’t dim. “It must have been your choice of words. Memorable’s good. I like it. Why don’t we save time here? I get your point. You want to mull the idea over, make the next move when you’re ready.”
She considered, then nodded slowly. “That’s close enough.”
“Okay. Now here’s my point.” He turned on the burner under the skillet and added oil. “I really want you, Regan. It hit me right off, when I walked into Ed’s and you were sitting there with little Cassie, looking so pressed and polished.”
She fought to ignore the flutters in her stomach. “Is that why you offered me the job on the Barlow place?”
“You’re too smart to ask a question like that. This is sex. Sex is personal.”
“All right.” She nodded again. “All right.”
He picked up a plump roma tomato, examined it. “The problem here, as I see it, is that I don’t much care for mulling over things like this. No matter how you fancy it up, sex is still the animal. Smell, touch, taste.”
His eyes were dark again, reckless. He picked up the knife, tested its point. “Take,” he added. “But that’s just me, and there are two of us here. So you go on ahead with your mulling.”
Baffled, she stared at him as he chose a clove of garlic. “I’m trying to decide if you expect me to thank you for that.”
“Nope.” Expertly he laid the flat of his knife over the garlic, gave one quick pound of his fist to crush it. “You’re just supposed to understand it, like I’m understanding you.”
“You’re a real nineties man, MacKade.”
“No, I’m not. And I’m going to make you stutter again. You can count on that.”
Challenged, she picked up the wine, topped off their glasses. “Well, you count on this. If and when I decide to make my move, you’ll do some stuttering of your own.”
He scooped the minced garlic into the oil, where it sizzled. “I like your style, darling. I really like your style.”