“Uh-huh.” He cocked his head to one side, considering it, and started to circle around the little building, squinting and frowning.
“It’s withstood hurricanes,” she offered, noticing for the first time that the hinges on the door were rusted nearly through.
“By the skin of its very ancient nails,” he replied, coming back to stand beside her, his arms crossed over his chest. He smelled freshly showered, clean and slightly spicy. “You sure you don’t want to rip it down, start fresh?”
“That’s always more expensive than renovating, isn’t it?”
“Most of the time. Depends.” He cast a wary eye back at the shed. “You wanted to use this as some kind of studio, right? All year round? You’re going to need insulation, possibly heat, this close to the beach.”
“It’s going to be a photography studio, yes,” she said, biting back a frown. Damn it. She wanted this shed renovated because she wanted to preserve some of its character. She didn’t want something new. She could see what this one would look like finished, and even if it was going to cost her an arm and a leg, she’d just have to figure out how to grow new ones.
And right now, she wanted Leo Dawson, skeptical or not, to understand that.
She was working up to explaining it to him when he tilted his head at her, those clear lake-water eyes regarding her with what looked like amusement. And then he grinned. It started slow, just a quirk in one corner of his mouth, but when it spread, it was warm and full and so incredibly sexy she suspected other women had actually melted under its influence.
Those eyes would look fabulous in a close-up black-and-white photo, she realized suddenly. And that jaw, too. All shadows and angles, the sun behind him…
“Okay. Show me around inside?” he said, one eyebrow cocked in invitation.
“Glad to,” she replied with a rush of relief, opening the creaky shed door and brushing away a sticky net of cobwebs as he preceded her inside.
Maybe this summer’s work was going to be closer to pleasure. Because a new idea was forming, and it involved her favorite Leica and Leo Dawson.
Two
There were very few things as dangerous as a client who knew exactly what she wanted, without having any idea what it would entail. Especially one who was as sexy, and innocently persuasive, as Mackenzie Pruitt.
Mackenzie. It was a big name for a little person, but it fit her, he thought, cutting his glance sideways as she wandered toward the window, trailing one finger along its rotted casing. The name was unusual, but pretty, just like she was.
At least so far, he reminded himself, drawing a small notepad out of his back pocket and making a few notes with a capless Bic he’d shoved into another pocket. There was never any telling when a client would turn into a demon from hell, snarling and growling at every additional nail and every extra minute spent on a job.
He couldn’t imagine Mackenzie Pruitt snarling, though. That lush little mouth wasn’t made for it. Whatever itwas made for was none of his business, though. She was a client. And that, as the saying went, was that.
She turned to face him in the gloom of the unlit shed. Her dark swing of hair fell forward over one shoulder as she rested a hip against the windowsill. “So we can do it?” she said suddenly, startling him.
Do it? Do what?
Oh. Crap, he was losing it.Focus, Leo.
“Yeah, we can…do it,” he said, nodding. “I may have to adjust a few prices here and there, and I need to give you a detailed quote, but I can make you a studio. No problem.”
She smiled, although the effect was muted in the dim light. “So what’s next? The quote, I guess, and then…well, when do you start work?”
“You want to see the quote first,” he told her gently, stuffing his notepad back in his pocket. “You always need to see the quote first.”
She nodded, biting her bottom lip as she led the way outside, squinting in the bright sun. Out in the yard, the salt tang of the ocean was sharp. “I’m just excited to see it happen, you know?” she said, tilting her head to one side as she looked up at him. Her eyes were brown, he noticed. A deep, luscious brown, like very good chocolate, or polished mahogany.
“I know,” he said, biting back a grin. “You can see it all now, right?”
She flashed him a curious look, her delicate brows drawing together. “I can, actually. I mean, I have this vision of what it’s going to look like. I always do, though. It’s the photographer in me, I guess.”
He considered that for a moment, watching as she turned to glance back at the shed. Seeing it finished, taking a snapshot in her head, he guessed. Framing it, judging sunlight and shadow, making it perfect.
It was a dangerous thing to do. At least that was his take on it. Life very rarely cooperated with imagination or expectations, at least in his experience.
Before he could comment, she’d turned back to him, her hands clasped loosely, a very dangerous smile on her lips. Dangerous in a pretty-please-don’t-deny-me way. He’d seen that look before. And it was hell to say no, especially when the woman flashing that smile was as appealing as Mackenzie Pruitt.
“Speaking of photography,” she said, her tone casual, “I have a proposition for you.”
A warning bell went off in his head. Several, if he was going to stop to count them. A “proposition” could mean a lot of things, but one that involved a camera was a definite no.
She plunged on, ignoring what he was sure was the beginning of a scowl. “I’m branching out, or trying to. I want to do more than weddings and company brochures and birthday parties. I’ve had my work in a few galleries, and I’ve done a few commercial shoots here and there, but I’m…well, I’m boring you, I can tell.” She smiled again, and he noticed a dimple in her right cheek.
Shit. She really was cute.
“The thing is, I just had a great idea for a photo essay,” she continued. The muscle in his jaw clenched, and he folded his arms over his chest, waiting. “I’d like to take pictures of you working on the project, black and white, kind of an exploration of form and function, you working, the tools, the shed coming back to life…”
She finally trailed off, the dimple disappearing as her smile faded in the face of his complete lack of enthusiasm. “Mr. Dawson?”
“Sorry, but no,” he managed, mentally subtracting the money he’d make on the job from his checking account. “I’m a carpenter, Ms. Pruitt, not a…model.” He nearly choked on the word, it was so unbelievable. If she had any idea how long he’d worked to keep his face out of the papers…Christ, maybe she was talking about a magazine, something national.
“Well, I know that.” She cocked an eyebrow at him, amused. “You wouldn’t have to actually do anything, just whatever you need to do to the shed. And the PR could be great. I’m thinking of a local North Carolina magazine, but there are a few other places I’d love to try and—”
She bit off the last word when he held up a hand and shook his head. He struggled to keep his tone calm when he said, “No. I have all the PR I need—thanks, anyway. I’m not interested. And I think you’d better find someone else for the job.”
He was already halfway across the lawn when she found her voice and raced after him, her fingers tentative on his elbow. “Wait! Look, you have to take this job. You were the only carpenter available on such short notice, and I need to get this place finished by the end of the summer. Please, Mr. Dawson.”
He turned around, even though he knew he would be toast when he did. The pleading voice was hard enough to resist, but those eyes?
Yeah, there they were, big and round and innocent. Not even messed up with any of that mascara and other stuff women wore. Naked eyes, just the way they were meant to be.
He took a deep breath and shook his head as she gave him a sweet smile. Maybe if she promised…
He growled, “No pictures, though. No photo essay, or whatever you call it. I mean it.”
Her shoulders slumped in relief. “You won’t regret it. I promise,” she
said. Her dimple flashed, teasing him like a wink.
“You promise there won’t be any pictures,” he repeated, sticking out his hand there on the tiny lawn, with the breeze rolling off the ocean, warm and full of brine, riffling her hair away from her face like a glossy flag.
She stared at his hand for a moment, and although it didn’t seem possible, she managed to look even more innocent when she returned his gaze. “I promise,” she agreed somberly, taking his hand and shaking it.
She had a nice, firm grip, businesslike and no-nonsense, he noted, holding her hand a moment longer than necessary, enjoying the feel of her soft skin against his palm, her long, delicate fingers against the inside of his wrist.
Not that it mattered, of course. Because no matter what she said, he didn’t believe her for a minute.
Well, damn it, Mackenzie thought, leading Leo back to the house. She hated to shake on something when she had no intention of fulfilling her promise.
Not that it would stop her, of course. She wasn’t going to paparazzi him and shoot film in secret, but she wasn’t above a bit of persuasive wheedling. Even cajoling, if it was necessary. Begging wasn’t entirely out of the question.
It was simply that she couldsee how gorgeous the photo spread would be, she thought, as Leo wrote up a quote at the kitchen counter, his brow furrowed over those amazing eyes, the pencil in his hand far too small for the size and strength of his fist. In her mind’s eye, the photos were arrayed on a long table, all black and white, the muted grays and shadows giving dimension to the shed, and to the man. The juxtaposition of the sharply defined curve of his bicep against a straight-edge was so real, she almost believed she would find the shot in her camera later.
Why on earth would anyone be against something like that? It wasn’t as if she was asking him to pose nude. At that thought, her cheeks heated, and she realized her gaze had rested on his ass. His very firm, very finely shaped ass. Which she could imagine all too well without its current covering of very well-fitting, faded blue denim.
“This is the ballpark,” he said, and she yanked her head up to meet his eyes. “A few things may change here and there, depending on available materials and unexpected problems, but this is the figure you should expect.” He slid the piece of paper across the counter toward her and she took it, amazed by the jumble of numbers and notations. The grand total was neatly circled at the bottom, and it wasn’t too much more than she’d anticipated.
Of course, at this point she’d probably mortgage something just to get Leo Dawson and his tool belt into her backyard for a few weeks.
“It looks fine,” she said, hoping her blush had faded. “When can you start?”
He folded his arms across his chest, and tilted his head at her. “Thursday, if that’s good for you.”
“That’s great,” she said, folding the quote and sticking it in the pocket of her shorts.
“Without photo documentation.”
Damn it.“Of course,” she said, making her expression as innocent as possible. It wasn’t easy when those sexy green eyes were trained on her in suspicion. “I already told you.”
“I’m going to hold you to it,” he said, arching an eyebrow.
She didn’t doubt it. But she was beginning to suspect that she’d be happier if he’d just hold her, period.
Three
Heaving his toolbox out of the back of his truck on Thursday morning, Leo considered Mackenzie’s black Jeep, parked in the driveway in front of him. She was here, then.
He bit back a frown and opened the battered gate to the backyard, wiping his forehead with his forearm. Just nine o’clock and it was already steamy. The air was thick, nearly soggy, and the sun over the ocean was shrouded in haze.
It didn’t matter if she was here. He had work to do, and he’d accomplished plenty of jobs with the homeowner around. It wasn’t like he had anything to hide.
Except his face, he thought ruefully. Not to mention his curiosity about this particular homeowner and her adorable dimple. He’d actually dreamed about her the other night, and the dream definitely hadn’t been rated PG. Not even PG-13.
He would just head out to the shed and start working—that was all, he told himself. If she wanted to talk to him, she could come find him. It was simple, really. She wasn’t a problem.
And definitely not a temptation. She was a client. Even if she was an adorably sexy, fascinating one.
Just as he opened the door to the shed, though, a splintering crash from inside the cottage brought his head up in alarm. What the hell?
Muffled cursing followed, along with a dull thud.
Damn it.
Dropping his toolbox in the dewy grass, he covered the distance between the shed and the back steps in moments, and squinted through the screen door. “Mackenzie? You okay in there?”
Another thud. “Damn it! But yeah, I’m okay.” There was a silent pause, then, “Leo?”
He shook his head in exasperation and pushed the door open, making his way through a mountain of cardboard boxes piled on the kitchen floor, and into the living room, which was littered with even more boxes among furniture that seemed to belong somewhere else. She was nowhere in sight. “Mackenzie?”
“Here.” She popped up from behind a particularly big box, hopping on one foot. “I had a little run-in with a box of china.”
That explained the crash, all right. It didn’t exactly explain her outfit, which was an ancient pink T-shirt paired with a loose, floral-print skirt. The fact that the flowers were blue was the problem, he thought. For a photographer, Mackenzie seemed to focus on everything other than herself.
Not that she didn’t look tasty, anyway. All that glossy hair was piled in a loose knot on top of her head, and her toenails were painted…was that purple?
Dragging his attention back to the problem at hand, he poked a tipped-over box with his foot. “This the china?” he asked her.
“Sadly.” She lifted one corner of it with effort, and he winced at the sound of loose pieces jangling. “I think it’s probably pieces for a mosaic now, though.”
“Didn’t you wrap it?”
Her chin came up in self-defense, and she sniffed as she said, “I ran out of newspaper. I wrapped other stuff, though.”
He arched an eyebrow at her, and she shrugged. “I was trying to get it done quickly. My moving man, also known as my impatient brother, didn’t have a lot of time.”
“I can see he didn’t exactly help you get this stuff organized, either,” he said, pointing at a box marked “bathroom” which was wedged on the back of the sofa.
“Yeah, well.” She’d perched on one of the sofa’s arms to rub her injured foot, and stood up now, a sudden smile on her face. “So you’re here! Beginning work on the shed, right?”
“You bet,” he agreed, turning around slowly, glancing at the boxes stacked against the wall and lining the short hallway that led, he assumed, to the bedrooms. Stuffed laundry baskets and several black plastic garbage bags rounded out the wall of brown cardboard. “Although I could spare an hour if you want some help in here. I don’t know how you’re going to find anything until you get some of this into the right rooms.”
She turned those huge brown eyes up to him in surprise. “No, that’s okay. I mean, I know it’s a mess, but you’ve got your own thing to do.”
“What if I insist?” He hefted up a box marked “bedroom” and started down the hall. “Which room?”
“Mr. Dawson, really…”
“I thought you were going to call me Leo,” he said, turning around to find her following him down the hall. She stopped short, her cheeks pointed with color and the beginning of a smile nudging her dimple into an appearance.
“Leo.” She tilted her head, considering him. “And you’ll call me Mackenzie?”
“I’ll call you whatever you want if you tell me where to put this box,” he said with a smile, shifting the box in his arms. “What have you got in here?”
She frowned, squinting at the
lettering on its side in the dim light of the hallway. “I don’t remember. And it’s that room, on the end.”
There was nothing in her bedroom but a rumpled double bed and a serviceable pine dresser, and a laundry basket piled high with clothes. The wood floor was bare, as were the old casement windows. Wallpaper had been scraped away with what looked like effort, and the walls were rough with the remains of old paste and layers of paint.
“You take off that wallpaper yourself?” he asked, setting the box down near the wall. Pieces of tackless carpet strips meant wall-to-wall had been removed, too, and not professionally.
“It was awful,” Mackenzie said, brushing a hand over the wall near the door. “I thought it would never come off, and I still have a lot of work to do before I can paint.”
“That’s an understatement.” He crossed his arms over his chest, hearing the next words in his head before he uttered them, and wondering what the hell was wrong with him. He had enough work to do, here and elsewhere. “I can help you out, if you need it. Spackling isn’t for everyone.”
“You’re beginning to seem too good to be true,” she said, leaning against the doorjamb, her eyes thoughtful.
“You might not think so if I start unpacking your underwear.”
She snorted, then bit her lip in embarrassment. Her cheeks were bright with color again, but her eyes were sparkling. “I’ll take care of the unmentionables if you do the heavy lifting.”
“Just point me in the right direction,” he said, but when he started into the hall, she was slow to move, and they wound up together in the doorway, her chest brushing his arm. “Sorry.”
“My fault,” she said, turning toward the hall.
Just then he stepped back into the room, which suddenly brought them chest to chest. Her hair smelled like spring, light and green and vaguely flowery, and her skin, where his hand brushed against her arm, was warm and soft.
“Sorry.” He should have moved, he knew it, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to breathe her in for a while, and then he wanted to touch her some more. In a lot more places. On purpose.
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