by Lisa Kleypas
Zoë’s musings were interrupted as the door key snapped in two. To her dismay, she realized that part of the metal had broken off in the lock. “Oh.” She flushed and darted a mortified glance at Alex.
His face was inscrutable. “That happens with old keys. They tend to get brittle.”
“Maybe we could try to enter through a window.”
He glanced at the key ring in her hand. “Is there another house key?”
“I think so. But you’d have to get the broken one out of the lock first …”
Without a word, Alex went to his truck, reached inside, and pulled out a vintage red metal toolbox. He brought it to the front porch, and rummaged through a clatter of tools.
Taking care to stay out of the way, Zoë stood beside the door and watched as Alex inserted a metal pick into the jammed lock. In a minute or two, he had jimmied the broken key loose. Deftly he gripped the protruding end with a pair of needle-nosed pliers and pulled out the key.
“You made it look so easy,” Zoë exclaimed.
He replaced the tools in the box and stood. She had the impression that it cost him something to meet her gaze. “May I?” he asked, and held out his hand for the key ring.
She gave it to him, taking care to avoid touching his fingers. He sorted through them, tried one, and the door opened with a creak.
The house was dark, musty-smelling, and silent. Alex preceded Zoë into the main room, found a light switch, and flipped it on.
Zoë set her bag by the door and ventured farther into the main living space. Turning a slow circle, she was pleased to discover that the floor plan was simple and open. However, the kitchen was a small galley style, cramped and sadly lacking in cabinet space, floored with ancient linoleum. The only furnishings in sight were an antique chrome kitchen table and three dingy vinyl-upholstered chairs, and a cast-iron wood-stove in the corner. Crumpled aluminum blinds covered the windows like a row of skeletons.
Zoë went to unlock a window casing to let in some fresh air, but she couldn’t budge it. The window was stuck.
Alex approached, and ran a fingertip along the seam of the window sash and sill. “It’s been painted shut.” He went to the next window. “This one, too. I’ll cut through the paint later.”
“Why would someone paint the windows shut?”
“Usually to keep out drafts. Cheaper than weather sealing.” His expression conveyed exactly what he thought about the idea. He went to the corner, pulled up a loose section of carpeting, and looked beneath it. “Wood flooring under here.”
“Really? Would it be possible to refinish it?”
“Maybe. There’s no telling what condition the floor’s in until you take out all the carpet. Sometimes they cover it for a reason.” Alex went to the kitchen and lowered to his haunches to inspect a section of the wall, where a patch of mold had spread like a bruise. “You’ve got a leak,” he said. “We’ll have to take part of the wall out. I saw wood ants on the exterior—they’re nesting because of the moisture.”
“Oh.” Zoë frowned. “I hope it’s worth fixing up this place. I hope it’s not too far gone.”
“It doesn’t look that bad. But you’ll have to get an inspection.”
“How much will that cost?”
“A couple hundred bucks, probably.” He set his toolbox on the dingy chrome table. “You’ll be living here with your grandmother?”
Zoë nodded. “She has vascular dementia. It may soon get to the point where she needs a walker or a wheelchair.” She went to get her bag, rummaged for a pamphlet, and brought it to him. “These are things that need to be done to make the house safer for her.”
After a cursory glance at the pamphlet, Alex gave it back to her.
“Maybe you should keep it,” Zoë said.
Alex shook his head. “I know all about ADA codes.” With a speculative glance at their surroundings, he continued, “If your grandmother’s going to use a walker or wheelchair, you should have laminate flooring put in.”
Zoë was annoyed by the fact that he had barely looked at the list. His manner was just a hairsbreadth short of patronizing. “I don’t like laminates. I prefer real wood.”
“Laminate’s cheaper and more durable.”
“I’ll consider it, then. But I would like carpet in the bedrooms.”
“As long as it’s not too plush. Trying to get a wheelchair across that is like trying to roll through sand.” Alex stood at the opening of the kitchen galley and flipped on a light. “I don’t think this is a load-bearing wall. I could take it out and turn this area into an island. It would double your cabinets and countertop space.”
“Could you? It would be wonderful to have an open kitchen.”
Alex took a pad of sticky notes from the toolbox and scrawled a few words on the top one. He reached for a tape measure and went into the kitchen. “Do you know what kind of countertops you want?”
“Oh, yes,” Zoë said immediately. “Butcher block.” It had always been her dream to have butcher-block countertops, but she’d never had the chance. When she’d started working at Artist’s Point, soapstone counters had already been installed.
The measuring tape clicked and rasped a few more times. “If you do a lot of cooking, butcher block is going to show a lot of rough wear. It’s expensive. And high maintenance.”
“I’m aware of all that,” Zoë said. “I’ve worked in kitchens with butcher-block counters.”
“What about engineered stone?”
“I prefer butcher block.”
Alex emerged from the kitchen with his lips parted as if he were about to argue. As he saw her defensive expression, however, he closed his mouth and continued to make notes.
Zoë found herself beginning to actively dislike him. His silences were especially unnerving because he didn’t reveal a clue about what was behind them. No wonder he was divorced … the concept of anyone living comfortably with this man seemed impossible.
Taking care not to look at him, Zoë went to the back of the house, where a pair of French doors opened to a tiny porch with rotted slats. It was a nice little yard, enclosed by a wrought-iron fence, with a wooded copse and Dream Lake just beyond.
“Would it be possible to put in a cat door?” Zoë asked.
“A what?” came his voice from the other side of the room, near the woodstove.
“A cat door. Back here.”
“There would be a cat,” she heard him mutter.
“What does that mean?” Zoë asked, flushing.
“Nothing.”
“Is there something wrong with having a cat?”
Alex pulled out a length of metal tape and began to lay it out along the floor. “I don’t care what kind of pet you have. Forget I said anything. And yes, I can install a cat door. Although I can’t guarantee that a raccoon or fox won’t get in.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Zoë said shortly.
Silence.
While Alex measured the main room and made notes, Zoë went to investigate the narrow kitchen space. As she had expected, there was no microwave, and no dishwasher. She and Justine had previously agreed that part of their budget would include new kitchen appliances, since renovating the kitchen would increase the value of the house. Zoë thought it would be convenient to have a microwave drawer built into the kitchen island. The dishwasher would be next to the sink, naturally, and the refrigerator would have to be in an area where she could open the door without bumping it against a wall.
It might be possible to save money by painting the cabinets and adding new hardware. She opened a cabinet door. The interior was coated with dust. Seeing an object on the middle shelf, Zoë stood on her toes to pull it down. It was an antique eggbeater, rusted metal with a wooden knob. Although it wasn’t usable, someone certainly might want it as a decoration. Ruefully Zoë reflected that becoming an eBay seller was practically inevitable, with this and all the other antiques that Emma had saved.
As she set the eggbeater aside, Zoë was startled as a palm
-sized object dropped from the edge of the cabinet and landed on the counter.
It was a spider. A huge spider.
And it began to hop and bolt toward her with astonishing speed, its articulated legs a blur.
Eight
At the sound of Zoë’s scream, Alex reacted and reached her in a few seconds. She had bolted from the galley kitchen, her eyes huge in her ashen face. “What is it?” he demanded.
“S-spider,” she said hoarsely.
“It’s here,” the ghost called out from the kitchen. “Damn thing just jumped from one counter to the other.”
Dashing into the narrow space, Alex grabbed the antique eggbeater and killed the spider with a few decisive thwacks.
Pausing to look more closely, Alex let out a low whistle. It was a wolf spider, a species that tended to hide during the day and hunt for prey at night. This particular specimen was bigger than anything he’d seen outside of a zoo. A touch of humor quirked one corner of his mouth as he thought of how Sam would have reacted to the situation. Sam would have found a way to capture the spider without harming it and safely transport it outside, all the while lecturing about respect for nature. Alex’s view on nature was that any time it ventured inside, it was going to find itself confronting a big can of Raid.
His gaze swept across the kitchen. A loose collection of webbing was anchored at the corner of the ceiling. Spiders spun webs near food sources, which meant there had to be a big supply of insects attracted to the moisture from leaks in the wall.
“Alex,” came the ghost’s urgent voice from the other room, “something’s wrong with Zoë.”
Frowning, Alex left the kitchen and found Zoë in the center of the main room, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle. She was breathing in airless pants, as if her lungs had collapsed. He reached her in two strides.” What is it?”
She didn’t seem to hear him. Her eyes were wide and unfocused. She was shaking in every limb.
“Did it bite you?” Alex asked, looking over her face, neck, arms, every exposed inch of skin.
Zoë shook her head, wheezing as she tried to talk. Alex found himself reaching out for her and snatching his hands back.
“Panic attack,” the ghost said. “Can you calm her down?”
Alex shook his head automatically. He was good at making women angry, but calming them wasn’t in his repertoire.
The ghost looked exasperated. “Just talk to her. Pat her back.”
Alex gave him an appalled glance. There was no possible way to explain his unwillingness to touch her. The sure knowledge that it would lead to disaster. But Zoë swayed on her feet, looking like she was about to pass out, and there was no choice. He reached for her, his hands closing lightly around her arms. The feel of her skin against his palms, the texture of her flesh, sent a thrill of heat through him, which, in light of the circumstances, was nothing less than depraved.
He had been with women in every imaginable sexual position, but he’d never taken one into his arms with the sole intention of comforting her. “Zoë, look at me,” he said quietly.
To his relief, she obeyed. She was panting, gulping painfully as if she couldn’t get enough air, when the problem was that she was taking in too much.
“I want you to take a deep breath and let it out slowly,” Alex said. “Can you do that?”
Zoë looked at him without seeing him, her eyes desperate and tear-blurred. “My ch-chest—”
He understood immediately. “You’re not having a heart attack. You’ll be fine. We just need to slow your breathing down.” She continued to stare at him, wetness leaking from her eyes, mingling with the pearly mist of sweat on her cheeks. The sight caused something to twist painfully inside his chest. “You’re safe,” he heard himself saying. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Easy …” His hand came to the side of her face. Her cheek was cool and plush, like the sepals of a white orchid. Carefully he touched her nose, pressing one nostril shut, holding it like that. “Keep your mouth closed. Breathe through one side of your nose.”
With the intake of air restricted, Zoë’s breath began to regulate. But it wasn’t easy. She gasped and hiccupped, and kept fighting to breathe as if she were trying to insufflate corn syrup through a straw. All Alex could do was hold her patiently, and let her body work it out. “Good girl,” he murmured, as he felt her begin to relax. “Just like that.” A few more constricted breaths. To his relief, she stopped struggling. He let his hand cradle her face, while his thumb wiped at the stippling of tears on her cheek. “Take long breaths from deep down.”
Looking exhausted, Zoë dropped her head to his shoulder, the pale golden curls tickling his jaw. Alex went very still. “Sorry,” he heard her whisper in between broken gasps. “Sorry.”
Not as sorry as he was. Because the feel of her had sent a shock of pleasure through him, so pure and searing that it was almost pain. He had known somehow that it would be like this. He found himself gripping her closer, until her body molded to his as if her bones had gone liquid. A few remaining tremors went across her back, and he chased them slowly with his hands. He felt his senses opening to take her in, the incredible lush delicacy of her. She smelled like crushed flowers, a dry and innocent scent, and he wanted to open her shirt and breathe it directly from her skin. He wanted to press his lips against the wild pulse in her throat and stroke it with his tongue.
Heat uncurled and rose through the stillness. The urge to touch her intimately, slide his hands through her hair and inside her clothes, nearly drove him crazy. But it was enough just to stand here with her, disoriented from the desire that flowed all through him.
Through heavy-lidded eyes, he saw a movement nearby. It was the ghost, only a few yards away, regarding him with lifted brows.
Alex shot him an incinerating glare.
“I think I’ll check out the other rooms,” the ghost said tactfully, and vanished.
Zoë clung to Alex, who was the one solid thing in the world, the still center of the merry-go-round. Dancing at the edge of her awareness was the mortified knowledge that, after this, she would never be able to face him again. She had made a fool of herself. He would have nothing but contempt for her. Except … he was so gentle … so concerned. His hand moved over her back in slow circles. It had been a long time since a man had held her—she had forgotten how good it felt. The surprise was that Alex Nolan was capable of such quiet, fluent tenderness. She would have expected anything from him except this.
“Better?” he asked after a while.
She nodded against his shoulder. “I … I’ve always hated spiders. They’re like … hairy wads of death on eight legs.”
“Usually they only bite humans to defend themselves.”
“I don’t care. I’m still scared of them.”
Amusement rustled in his chest. “Most people are.”
Zoë lifted her head to look up at him with wide eyes. “Including you?”
“No.” He caressed the edge of her jaw with the backs of his fingers. His face was austere, but his eyes were warm. “In my line of work, you see enough of them that you get used to it.”
“I wouldn’t,” Zoë said vehemently. Remembering the one in the kitchen, she felt her pulse skyrocket. “That one was huge. And the way it dropped out of the cabinet and started hopping toward me—”
“It’s dead,” Alex interrupted, his hand returning to her back, resuming the calming stroking. “Relax, or you’ll start hyperventilating again.”
“Was it a black widow?”
“No, just a wolf spider.”
She shuddered.
“They’re not lethal,” he said.
“There must be more. The house is probably full of them.”
“I’ll take care of it.” He sounded so assured and matter-of-fact that she couldn’t help but believe him. His face was so close that she could see the shadow of whisker-grain heralding a dark five o’clock shadow. “The only way spiders can get in,” Alex continued, “is through cracks and places th
at aren’t sealed. So I’m going to install door sweeps and weather stripping, caulk around all the windows and doors, and put wire mesh over every vent. Trust me, this is going to be the most pestproof house on the island.”
“Thank you.”
A moment later, it occurred to Zoë that she was still glued to him as tightly as a barnacle on a harbor piling. And her heart was still in overdrive. Standing as close as they were, it was impossible not to notice that he was becoming aroused, the pressure of his body hard and delicious. She couldn’t seem to move, only leaned against him in a dry-mouthed paralysis of pleasure.
Alex eased her apart from him, and turned away with a wordless sound.
Zoë still felt the vital imprint of his body everywhere they had touched, a throbbing awareness lingering right beneath her skin.
Desperately trying to think of a way to break the silence, she cast her mind back to what he’d said about pest-proofing. She blurted out, “Will I have to give up the cat door?”
A scratchy sound came from him, as if he were clearing his throat, and she realized he was struggling to hold back a laugh. He threw a quick glance over his shoulder, his eyes bright with amusement. “Yes,” he said.
After Zoë stepped out of his arms, Alex became businesslike again. While Zoë cautiously investigated the rest of the small house, he continued to take measurements for a rough floor plan. He tried to focus on anything other than Zoë.
He wanted to take her somewhere, to some dark quiet room, and undress her, and screw her nine ways from Sunday. But she possessed a fragile dignity that, for some reason, he didn’t want to undermine. He liked the way she’d stood up to him when they’d argued about the butcher-block countertops. He liked the little smiles that danced out from beneath her shyness. He liked far too many things about her, and God knew no good could come of it. So he was going to do them both a favor and stay away from her.
While Alex peeled off sticky notes and adhered them in a line across the old chrome table, Zoë went to the side door that opened to the carport. “Alex,” she said while looking through the dirt-striped window. “Is it difficult to turn a carport into a garage?”
