by Linda Turner
Rising to his feet, he extended his hand. “You’re on, hotshot.”
. If Mitch hadn’t seen it with his own two eyes, he never would have believed it. Other women would have cringed at the grease and grime of the junkyard and turned up their nose at anyone who worked there. But not Phoebe. Oh, no. She greeted the guy who ran the place like an old friend, talked shop with him, then argued good-naturedly with him over the price of the new starter she needed. When they finally came to terms on what they both considered a fair price, they were as chummy as if they’d known each other for years.
Intrigued in spite of himself, Mitch warned himself not to be taken in by the lady’s gift of gab. Maybe she did have the ability to talk to just about anyone, which in itself was a damn valuable asset, but that didn’t mean she knew squat about auto mechanics. Used-car salesmen could do the same thing, and most of them couldn’t tell a carburetor from an alternator.
Heading back to the Social Club, he took his eyes away from the traffic long enough to shoot her a considering look. “That was some pretty good wheeling and dealing you did back there. Where’d you learn to bargain like that?”
Pleased at the compliment, she grinned. “I come from a long line of horse traders.”
“And here I thought you were going to say you came from a long line of mechanics. Then I would have really been worried. Just for the record, I don’t like to lose.”
That was something she’d already figured out for herself. The man gave a whole new meaning to the word competitive. Far from disturbed by that, she only chuckled, her hazel eyes twinkling. “Then I guess you’re not going to enjoy paying up, either. Of course, if you wanted to concede defeat now, I might be convinced not to say ‘I told you so.’ Then again, I might not. I’ve got a feeling you don’t lose very often and a woman’s got to take her victories where she finds them.”
“Talk’s cheap,” he retorted. “I think you’re bluffing.”
“Better men than you have made that mistake,” she tossed back. “Go ahead—stick by your guns. That’ll just make the winning that much sweeter. Oh, and by the way, you can pay me in cash. Then I won’t have to make an extra trip to the bank.”
She was nothing if not cocky. Not sure if he wanted to laugh or strangle her, Mitch drove into the garage down the street from the Social Club and was lucky enough to find a parking space two over from her car. “Okay, Miss Smarty-Pants, put your money where your mouth is. Let’s see you do your stuff.”
He didn’t have to tell her twice. Taking a small tool box from the trunk of her car, she immediately set to work, and within sixty seconds anyone with eyes could see that she knew what she was doing. When Mitch bit out a short curse, she looked up at him with a grin that was every bit as mischievous as her nephew’s. “Did I happen to mention that I took an auto-mechanics class in high school so I could spend some time with this boy I had a crush on? We never actually dated, but we spent a heck of a lot of time together under the hood of a car. If I had to, I bet I could build one from scratch.”
She probably could, the little minx! “How convenient that you didn’t feel the need to mention that vital bit of information until now,” he drawled.
If he expected to make her feel guilty, he failed miserably. She only laughed and returned her attention to removing the old starter. “Nice try. And when was the last time you told old man Applebee everything you knew when you were both going after the same company?”
“That was business.”
“So is this. Anything that involves money is business to me. Granted, this is only pocket change to you, but a buck’s a buck. And it’s not as if I didn’t warn you,” she dared to remind him with a cheeky grin. “I gave you the chance to concede defeat, if you’ll remember correctly. Now I get to say ‘I told you so.”’
“I wouldn’t be so quick to count my chickens if I were you,” he warned silkily. “You haven’t gotten this pile of bolts running yet. And watching a teenage grease monkey work on a motor when you were just a kid isn’t the same thing as doing it yourself years later.”
Not the least disturbed, she chuckled, “Oh, ye of little faith.” Tossing the old starter into the back floorboard of her car, she reached for the new one and quickly began to install it.
A brain surgeon couldn’t have had surer hands. She knew exactly what she was doing and didn’t seem the least concerned that she was getting filthy. She had taken the precaution of pulling on an old pair of coveralls, but that didn’t protect her hands from the oily grime: Her nails were soon dark with it, and when she unconsciously scratched at her cheek, she left a long black smudge from her cheek all the way to the curve of her jaw.
He was normally a fastidious man, especially when it came to women. He liked a lady who enjoyed being a female. That didn’t mean she had to be dressed to the nines all the time, just that she had to look and feel and smell feminine. So when he watched Phoebe attach the last wire to the starter and straighten out from under the hood, smelling of grease, her face and hands in need of a good scrubbing, the last thing he expected to feel for her was desire. But she was delightfully full of herself. She flashed her dimples at him and he felt the punch of her smile like a fist right in his gut.
And she never even noticed. Cocking her head at him, she said, “Do you want the honor of firing her up or shall I?”
The only thing he wanted to fire up right then was her, and the realization stunned him. What the hell was wrong with him? The lady was working for him and they had an agreement. That made her off-limits, and he was a man who never had a problem respecting boundaries. A deal was a deal, and he’d given her his word. He wouldn’t go back on it.
But his word had never before been so difficult to keep. Curling his hands into fists to keep from reaching for her, he shook his head. “You go ahead. It’s your vehicle.”
Grinning, she slid into the driver’s seat and inserted the key in the ignition. A split second later, the engine roared to life, accompanied by the sound of her laughter as she bounded out of the car. “Yes! I knew I could do it!”
You’d have thought she’d just won the damn lottery instead of a measly twelve bucks. Her hazel eyes fairly sparkled with triumph and she was so pleased with herself she could hardly stand still. Unable to take his eyes off her, he fought the need to smile. There was, he told himself ruefully, nothing worse than a winner who rubbed your face in your defeat with a spontaneous victory dance that made you want to laugh out loud.
Damn her, why did she have to be so different from every other woman he knew? He could have handled someone cool and sophisticated, who not only knew all the rules of the game, but wasn’t above using her feminine wiles to bring a man to his knees. But Phoebe was neither cool nor sophisticated and wouldn’t know a feminine wile if she tripped over it. How was he supposed to deal with a woman like that?
Delighted with herself, she sashayed up to him and held out her hand. “I believe you owe me twelve dollars, Mr. Ryan. Would you like your ‘I told you so’ before or after you pay up?”
He didn’t mind eating a little crow, especially when he was in the wrong. If he’d been thinking straight, he would have told her to go ahead and have her fun at his expense, then paid her what he owed her. But his gaze got hooked on her teasing smile, on the sweet, tempting curve of her mouth, and even as warning bells clanged in his head, he knew he was going to kiss her. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that he would regret it later—the lady would make sure of that—but there was no way he could walk away from her when she was smiling up at him so prettily. Just once, he assured himself. He had to taste her just once to satisfy his curiosity. Then he’d be able to finally put her out of his head.
“Later,” he growled, and took her hand to pull her into his arms.
“Mitch! What—”
With a touch as light as the brush of the morning dew on a magnolia blossom, he pressed a long, lingering kiss to her lips. Just once. That was all he allowed himself, but damn it was hard to step back and
let her go! The second his mouth touched hers, she gasped softly and the sound rippled through him like the thunder of a summer storm. Before he thought to note the danger, he wanted her more than he wanted his next breath.
He couldn’t have been more stunned if she’d tripped him and beat him to the ground. He controlled his passions—they didn’t control him. But there was no question about it—his heart was beating out a wild rhythm in his chest, and she hadn’t even kissed him back! And that rhythm only intensified when he drew back to glare down at her. Her eyes were closed, her lashes thick fans against her cheeks, and on her face was an expression that could only be described as transfixed. It was all he could do not to haul her back into his arms and kiss her all over again.
Then her eyes opened and focused on his face, and she blinked like someone coming out of a daze. “Oh, God!”
Keep it light, he told himself, and drawled, “Not quite, but I’m flattered that you think so.”
Flustered, she blushed as red as a cranberry. “I didn’t mean...you’re not...dammit, I said no hanky-panky!”
“That was hanky-panky?”
“Yes! And you agreed,” she reminded him hotly as her temper started to simmer. “You promised to keep your hands—and your mouth—to yourself! Or was that just lip service to get me into the apartment? I wouldn’t have thought you were that kind of man, but I’ve been wrong before.”
That stung. “It was just a kiss—”
“An unwanted kiss,” she began.
That was as far as she got. “Watch it,” he growled. “If it was so unwanted, why didn’t you just say no? Or push me away? You had to know that’s all it would have taken to get me to back off.”
Caught in the trap of his hot, steely gaze, she was forced to acknowledge deep inside that he had a point. But if he thought she was going to stand there and admit that she’d wanted him to kiss her, he wasn’t nearly as sharp as she’d thought he was.
“What I know is it’s not going to happen again,” she snapped. “If you’ve just got to kiss somebody, then go pick a woman off the street. I’m not interested. I’m not looking for a man. I don’t want one. You got that? Have I made myself clear?”
“Perfectly,” he replied coolly. “The next time you want me to kiss you, you’ll let me know.”
Frustrated, Phoebe could have screamed. How could such an intelligent man be so incredibly dense? “What part of no didn’t you understand? There isn’t going to be a next time, dammit!”
“If you say so.”
“I do,” she ground between her teeth. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Just stay away from me. Keep your hands and your mouth to yourself, and we’ll get along just fine.”
Not giving him a chance to respond, she snatched up her tools and deposited them in the trunk of her car; then grabbed her keys and stormed back to the Social Club to clean up. If her heart was still racing and her cheeks embarrassingly warm, it had nothing to do with that kiss. She was just irritated. She didn’t lose her temper often, but when she did, it took her a while to calm down. She just needed some space, some time to herself to put the whole incident out of her mind. Remembering the errands she still had to run, she sent up a silent prayer of thanks. If she was lucky, she wouldn’t be back until after she picked up the kids from school.
Maybe by then, she’d be able to look Mitch in the eye without remembering the taste of his mouth on hers.
Chapter 6
As she unlocked the front door to Alice’s apartment, Phoebe knew she’d taken the coward’s way out. She’d waited to collect the kids from school before returning to the apartment because she couldn’t bring herself to face Mitch again without having the kids there to diffuse the inevitable tension that was bound to spring up between them the second they came face-to-face. So she’d lingered over her errands, dragging them out, buying herself time until school let out. In the end, though, she’d procrastinated for nothing. The apartment was deserted, and at her work area was a note from Mitch. In a bold hand, he explained that he’d had to fly back to Dallas to take care of some business that he had to handle personally, and he didn’t know when he’d be back.
Reading the few instructions he’d left for her, Phoebe couldn’t help but feel things had worked out for the best. She’d never expected to be attracted to him, and she was sure that he hadn’t planned that kiss between them any more than she had. It had just happened, and she had to believe it was because they were practically living in each other’s pockets and working so closely together. She just needed a break from him to put things back in perspective. By the time he returned, she’d wonder what she’d ever seen in the man.
Or at least, that was what she told herself. But that night, after the kids were in bed and she settled down at the kitchen table to work on her murder mystery, the apartment seemed strangely empty without him. Her mind had a tendency to wander to Dallas, and she found herself wondering what he was doing and who he was with. With seemingly no effort on her part, her hero’s hair turned from blond to black and his eyes from green to sharp, cold blue. Irritated with herself, she changed everything back, but it didn’t help. In the silence of the apartment and her own thoughts, she could hear his footsteps in the hall and the deep rumble of his voice as he said good-night to the kids.
She couldn’t get him out of her head and she didn’t like it. He had no right to nag her this way, dammit! He probably hadn’t given her a second thought since he’d walked out of the apartment, and if she was wise, she’d do the same thing.
She tried, she really did, but every time she let her mind drift the least little bit, he stole into her thoughts like a thief in the night. Giving up in frustration, she went to bed, but he walked through her dreams like he owned them, and her sleep was anything but restful. By morning, she could cheerfully have killed him.
Annoyed with him and herself, she had no intention of spending the day mooning over the infuriating man. She had work to do, work she was getting paid to do, and she wasn’t going to let him interfere with that even if he was the one doing the paying. So as soon as she returned to the Social Club after taking the kids to school, she grabbed her sketch pad and a pencil and hurried up to the attic to see what ideas she could come up with for the remodeling project.
Mitch had shown her around the old attic ballroom several days after she and the kids moved in and discussed the changes that would need to be done in order to transform it into a luxury apartment, but Phoebe had never been up there by herself before. Reaching the top landing, she didn’t bother with a light, but stood in the shadows, absorbing the peace of the place, the quiet that seemed to vibrate in the very air.
The Lone Star Social Club had a well-known history in the city, and anyone who had lived in San Antonio for any length of time had heard the stories about the place. Just about every tenant she met had a story, an anecdote, a tale that had been passed on by Mitch’s Aunt Alice, and they all sounded like they just happened yesterday.
For the first time, Phoebe understood why. In the attic, tucked under the eaves where grand balls had taken place long before the turn of the century, time hadn’t touched the house at all. The morning sun streamed in through the dormer window on the east side, highlighting the rich patina of the old oak floor. Countless cowboys had danced across that floor, holding their ladies at just the proper degree of closeness, and the wood still bore the scars of their boots. Outside, the twentieth century raced by, but inside, wall sconces that looked as if they had been designed by Edison himself decorated the walls. A flip of a switch proved that their candle-shaped lights were in perfect working order.
The scene sprang to life before Phoebe’s eyes as she pictured the women in their hoopskirted dresses being twirled around the dance floor by cowboys in starched shirts and string ties, the smell of perfume and pomade mingling with the sweet freshness of the night air. Smiling, she told herself her imagination was just working overtime, but the images were as clear as if she herself had stepped bac
k in time. Sinking down to the floor, her back propped against the newel post, she let her pencil fly over the paper.
Humming to the strains of a waltz only she could hear, she lost herself in her drawings and never noted the passage of time. One scene after another took shape on her sketch pad, beautiful, romantic etchings that were so detailed, she could only marvel at them. She’d always been able to draw, but she’d never done anything so magical before. She could almost see the couples moving across the page.
Sure she had to be getting some kind of heavenly inspiration, she finished a second sketch and started a third. This one, however, was different. The couples were gone, the party long over. Instead of a ballroom, the attic was now a romantic apartment under the eaves. Light and airy and open, a cozy breakfast nook at the east dormer opened into a white-on-white kitchen, which in turn gracefully flowed into an octagonal living area that was situated right in the middle of the original ballroom floor. To preserve the feeling of spaciousness, the only walls were on the west side of the living room, and they followed the angled roofline to create two bedrooms and an old-fashioned tiled bathroom, with a claw-foot tub, directly under the west dormer.
It was, Phoebe decided, studying the finished sketch, a thoroughly modern design that fit amazingly well in a historic setting. The original wall sconces, wainscoting, and even the glass-paned doors of the kitchen cabinetry kept the spirit of the past, while the open living areas were straight out of the present. Light, airy, and old-fashioned, it was a design that Phoebe felt sure the original architect of the Social Club would have heartily approved of.
It was also everything that Mitch had told her he wanted in a design, but she still needed his approval before she could take the sketch to an architect. She could have faxed it to his Dallas office, but she doubted that he’d want to be bothered with the attic renovations when he obviously had a business crisis to deal with. So she bided her time and waited for him to return.
