"Whoa. Hold on,” the stranger said. He placed a firm hold on Casey's shoulder, silently commanding her to take a few steps back. “The lady is right, old man. I saw you pinch her. I suggest you apologize."
"Bullshit. I won't do it.” The old man stomped a foot in protest. He jerked his bent body into motion and hobbled off into a new crowd of passengers gathering at another gate.
"Hey.” Casey moved to follow but the stranger didn't relinquish his hold. “What are you doing? He's getting away."
"Ah, let him go."
"Let him go?” Casey threw up her hands in frustration. “The man has been harassing me for the past twenty minutes and you're telling me to let him go? He needs to be reported."
"I agree. But most likely, in his mind he doesn't know he's in the wrong. And with his advanced age, what real harm can he do?"
Casey bit her bottom lip and considered the stranger's words as she watched the old man sit down by himself on the other side of the terminal. He looked so alone, so lost. “True, but it still doesn't make it right."
"I know. But what are the cops going to do? They'd probably just tell him to knock it off, give him a ride home, and that would be the end of it anyway."
Casey planted her hands on her hips, not thoroughly convinced she should let the matter go. “Whose side are you on?"
"Well, I'm not really taking sides. I just think reporting him would be making a mountain out of a mole hill and—"
"Let me tell you something.” Casey poked her index finger into his firm chest. “The man wiggled his eyebrows, blew me kisses, and followed me around the terminal like a panting dog. I reached my breaking point when he pinched my...” She twisted and pointed to the assaulted spot on her backside.
The stranger shifted his weight onto one hip. He quirked an eyebrow and looked at the offended spot. A grin tugged at the corner of his lips. “I have to admit, he's got great taste."
Casey stilled. Recognition hit her like another unwelcome pinch on the posterior. She knew that voice. Their one conversation on a static-filled cell line had been brief, but she'd know that whiskey smooth voice anywhere.
And now, too late, she recognized that lazy, sexy smile from a photo she'd seen in a magazine article.
Oh boy.
"Alex Roy,” he said, holding out his hand for her to take. “I bet you're Casey Burrows? Right?"
Boy, oh boy. It was him. Embarrassment heated her cheeks. This was one helluva a first impression—him finding her in a tussle with an old man, and now with her butt cocked out for the world to see. Really, could this day get any worse?
Casey snapped herself into a straight position and lifted her chin, stepping into her professional mode. Sliding her hand into his, his lean fingers wrapped around hers perfectly. Alex's grip was strong and firm, yet gentle. And Casey could feel a slight roughness to his skin, confirming he didn't just design log homes, but had a hand in the actual building process of his creations as well.
Oh, sweet tangerine. The man was to die for. Tall, dark-haired, broad shouldered and with deep, soul-filled brown eyes, he was a delectable delight. He was better-looking up close and personal than in the picture she'd seen. Now she fully understood why Heather had been so insistent upon hiring Alex. Pure intelligent and talented hunk through and through, he was not only the perfect architect for the job, but the perfect addition to Studs for Hire. He was a master design himself.
Once word got around Omaha that Alex was working exclusively with Studs, the phone wouldn't stop ringing. Maybe she'd have to figure out a way to thank Heather for being so insistent.
"Nice to finally meet you, Alex,” she said around the zings of awareness pulsing through her veins. “I was beginning to wonder if you were on this flight or not."
"Sorry. If I'd gotten off the plane sooner I could have saved you from being harassed.” He winked.
"Yes, you could have,” she teased. “But I do want to thank you for ultimately coming to my rescue. No one else did."
"Most people these days feel it's safer not to get involved."
"I guess it's true what they say. The days of chivalry are dead."
"Maybe."
Casey saw a darkness cloud his eyes and got the feeling he agreed with her statement more than he wanted to let on. “So, what were you doing on the plane for so long? Napping?” she asked, hoping to ease the tension in his eyes.
"Uh, no.” He chuckled. His laugh was deep and sensual. Casey found herself liking the sound, maybe a little more than she should. “I don't like to sleep on planes,” he continued. “At least if I'm awake, I feel like I have some semblance of control in a totally out-of-my control situation."
Casey smiled. “I can relate. I love to travel, but flying isn't exactly my favorite part of the trip. Knowing my safe arrival is in the hands of someone I've never met bothers me."
"Yeah. If something goes wrong, I'm powerless to stop it. I know nothing about airplanes."
Casey nodded her head in agreement. “It's a control issue."
"Guess so.” Alex shrugged. “I can't help it. I'm serious about my business. I'm very hands on in both my professional and personal life."
And so was Casey. Being that way came from practically raising four younger brothers and sisters by herself. But that didn't stop her from worrying if she and Alex, two control freaks, could work together without locking horns and facing major challenges? For the job, they'd have to, or else end up in a disaster she didn't even want to contemplate.
She filed away her apprehensions, forcing the butterflies in her stomach to take a hike.
"So,” she said, getting back on track. “If you weren't sleeping, what were you doing? Wooing a flight attendant?"
"Hardly.” He laughed again and the sound soothed her nerves. “I was talking with the pilot. He's thinking about building a log home."
"Ah, a potential client. Your reputation precedes you. Impressive."
He shook his head. “Not really. I guess he recognized me from an article."
"The one in last month's Timber Home Living?"
"I don't know. Maybe.” He shrugged as if it didn't really matter to him in the least.
"Publicity is good for business. Get plenty of publicity and you'll never want for clients."
"I prefer my homes to speak for themselves."
"Absolutely,” Casey agreed, a new round of worry and dread coating her words. Heather's design was certainly going to speak for itself. There was no doubt the mansion was going to be one-of-a-kind. And in a class by itself.
That is, if they ever made it that far.
* * * *
Casey glanced at her watch as she and Alex stood outside the front door of Heather's colossal home. They'd arrived with two minutes to spare. Heather might be impulsive, and oftentimes deserving of the dumb blonde label, even though her hair color changed with the wind, but she was a stickler for punctuality. If you wanted to stay on Heather's good side and continue to be invited into her circle, you were never late. For anything.
This was one time Casey thought being late might be a wise move. With Alex's flight delay, his luggage being momentarily lost, she'd had no time to brief him on the plans for the Gridmore mansion.
Well, there was the drive from the airport to Heather's home in the Happy Hallow area. However, telling Alex the truth while trapped in a speeding car zigzagging through Friday five o'clock traffic, with her nerves already fried, wasn't exactly prime spill-your-guts time. Wrecking her brand new Mazda Six with in-transit stickers still stuck to the windows, would play hell on her insurance.
So, now here they stood. Casey steeled her shoulders and pushed the doorbell. Even through the heavy oak door, she heard the muted chimes tolling the moment of truth. Crawling under one of the large landscape boulders decorating the yard sounded like a good idea at the moment.
"This place is huge,” Alex said, breaking the quiet of the fall evening. The rain had stopped, but a heavy dampness clung to everything like carpenter's glue. “I can't believe sh
e wants to add on.” His strong hands splayed over his hips, pulling back his waist-length bomber jacket. As he studied the exterior of the house, Casey couldn't help noticing the broad chest hidden beneath his jacket and flannel shirt.
According to what she'd read about Alex, he was a no nonsense kind of guy, practical and down-to-earth. His basic, durable wardrobe reflected that personality. But it wouldn't matter if he wore a space suit for his clothing of choice. Alex Roy would still look sexy as sin.
His gaze landed on Casey and her pulse picked up another notch. A strand of his coffee brown hair fell over his forehead and she fought the urge to brush it aside. Yeah. He was sexy all right—with a capital S.
"What for?” he asked.
"Hmm?"
"Why does she want to add on?” Alex stared at her, a question furrowing his brow.
Crap. Why did he have to ask that question now when she felt like a drowned rat and her confidence was in the toilet? Casey pulled up the lapels of her black trench coat, giving her hands something to do, and her mind time to figure out how to answer. Never in her life had she felt so out of sorts. Maybe she was coming down with something—like terminal idiot syndrome.
"Heather likes to entertain ... a lot.” There, that wasn't a lie, or stretching the truth. Heather loved to party, and when she did, it was a five-star event.
The brass door latch clicked. Casey sucked in a breath. At least for the moment she was saved from answering any more of Alex's questions. In a matter of minutes the truth would come out and short-circuit her plans, her business, and her future.
Chapter Two
"Casey, sweetie!” Heather Gridmore said as she swung the door wide. Her green-eyed gaze landed on Alex within two-seconds flat of opening the door.
Casey groaned under her breath. Here we go.
As expected, Heather was dressed to the nines. When it came to fashion, the young, wealthy widow never missed a beat. And today was no exception. With her barely anything there black heels, short black skirt and sheer, loose fitting black top that conveniently exposed one tan shoulder, one that Casey noticed Alex admiring, she looked ready for a night on the town, not a business meeting.
"Heather, it's good to see you again,” Casey said, putting her business facade firmly in place.
"Oh, and you're Alex,” Heather cooed, not waiting for an introduction.
"In the flesh,” he said.
Heather wasted no time in slipping her arm through Alex's and pulling him into the house. In an instant Casey found herself left out on the cold, damp doorstep. To say this job was going to be a challenge was an understatement, and her business sense told her she better get control of the situation now, or she never would.
"Welcome to Omaha, Alex,” Heather said with a voice seductive enough to charm a cobra. “And welcome to my home. I'm thrilled to have you here."
I bet you are, Casey thought as she moved up beside Alex on his left.
"It's a pleasure,” he said.
"I hope you had a good flight.” Heather stopped in the middle of the massive grand foyer and waved her hand. A man dressed impeccably in a black tuxedo appeared out of the shadows and moved toward them. He walked as if he had a golf club rammed up his back, but he proceeded to take their coats without making a sound and disappeared into the shadows of the house again.
"Yeah. It was all right.” Alex said, tugging at the collar of his navy and red checked flannel shirt.
"Oh, yum. Flannel,” Heather crooned as she brushed her hand up and down the length of Alex's arm. “It's so warm, cozy, and rugged. I love rugged,” she growled.
Casey rolled her eyes. Apparently Heather was in no mood for subtlety tonight. Once Heather made up her mind she wanted something, she didn't stop until she got it, regardless of the cost.
Time to throw a wrench in the little seduction scheme Heather had going. “Your late husband must have worn flannel a lot then,” Casey said.
"Hecky didn't care for flannel.” She stuck her pert nose in the air and sniffed.
"That's right. I remember now. Hector preferred polyester blended fabrics."
Alex threw Casey a confused look. “Late husband?"
"Heather is a widow. I guess I forgot to mention it."
Alex quirked a brow, the irritated look on his face hinting that she'd neglected to tell him much of anything. Well, he hadn't asked, either, Casey thought silently.
"I'm sorry, Heather. I didn't know,” Alex said with compassion in his voice.
"Really, you didn't know?” she asked. “His accident was reported in all the newspapers. He made national headlines."
"Accident?"
"Yes.” She flipped her long hair over her shoulder. “He died while lounging on a deck chair at the Happy Hallow Golf Club."
"Heart attack?"
"Oh, no. He was hit by a runaway golf cart. Another member had a few too many before heading out onto the course. He had a blood alcohol level of point zero five. Anyway, he was so confused as to where he was, he lost control, and wham!” Heather slapped her hands together. “That was it. I don't know how he thought he was going to play eighteen holes in such a condition."
Casey watched Alex's expression go blank, obviously at a loss for words. Heather had a habit of effecting people that way.
"That's him over there,” Heather said, pride in her voice. “The last portrait on the right."
The three of them walked over to the portrait where it hung under a small light. The balding, elderly man leered down at them with a scowl that made him look more like Ebenezer Scrooge than the philanthropist he was. A shrewd businessman, Casey knew he relished playing the part of a curmudgeon, when in actuality he possessed a heart of gold.
The sensation of Hector watching them from beyond the grave zipped down Casey's spine. Hector had worked hard and played hard during his life, and had always treated his friends and loyal employees with respect and compassion. But if anyone messed with two of his most prized possessions: his wife and his house, there was hell to pay.
"He was your husband?” Alex asked with disbelief.
"I know what you're thinking.” Heather placed flawlessly manicured fingertips on her slim hips. “I've heard it all. Sure, he was old enough to be my grandfather. But Hecky and I loved each other. Our age difference didn't matter to us."
"Of course, Heather. I think what took Alex by surprise is that you were married to the founder of the famous Gangsters Pizza. Weren't you, Alex?"
"Uh. Yeah. I had no idea you were married to that Hector Gridmore.” Alex cut Casey a glare, then turned and walked around the foyer, appearing to study the details of the architecture.
The place really was dreary. And why Hector liked it so, was beyond Casey. The dark paneled walls matched the equally dark gray marble tiles covering the floor. A dimly lit chandelier hung in the center, and a wide staircase swept around the east perimeter of the room.
"Your home is really amazing, Heather,” Alex said. “It looks like it's straight out of one of those gothic novels my aunt used to read."
"I know. Isn't it appalling?” Heather mumbled. “I'm so tired of living in a mausoleum."
"That's why we're here,” Casey said, anxious to get this over with so she had an excuse to indulge in the chocolate and strawberry margaritas she'd fantasized about earlier. “We'll have your home brightened up and updated in no time."
"It's so exciting.” Heather clapped her hands in excitement, her Flamingo pink nails glowing like neon orbs in the dimly lit room. “Alex, I just know with your expertise, you'll make this place perfect for my Elvis conventions."
Slowly, Alex turned around, his eyes narrowed in question. “Elvis conventions?"
Oh. Shit. Casey cringed.
"Excuse me, Mrs. Gridmore.” The man who'd taken their coats earlier stood at the edge of the foyer. “I'm sorry to interrupt, but you have an important phone call."
"Take a message, Joey."
Joey? The butler who looked like he'd swallowed lemons for break
fast that morning was named Joey? Casey sighed. Leave it to Heather.
"Normally I would, ma'am, but it's in regards to that Elvis jumpsuit coming up for auction next week."
Heather squealed. “Oh, at last, I've been waiting months for this. Excuse me. I have to take this call. Casey, fill Alex in on all we've talked about so far, will you?"
"Sure."
Heather trotted toward the door, her heels clicking on the marble. There was no missing the appreciative gleam in Alex's eyes as he watched that personally trained butt of Heather's sashay out of sight. But his appreciation vanished within seconds as he turned to Casey. A frown tugged at his handsome lips. “Elvis jumpsuit? Elvis conventions? Why do I have the feeling I've been left in the dark about this project?"
James, Sherry - [Studs For Hire 02] Page 2
