Yesterday's Scandal
Page 4
FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, Trent left, explaining that he had an appointment with his fiancée. Sharon was touched by the eagerness that glinted in his eyes as he left. For almost a year after his accident, Trent had barricaded himself in his solitary rural home, brooding and alone. He’d held his friends at a distance, seeing no one but family—and Annie Stewart, the housekeeper his mother had hired for him against his will. Now he and Annie were planning their wedding, and Trent was learning how to smile again.
Sharon was delighted for him.
Mac cleared his throat, drawing her gaze away from the back door through which Trent had disappeared. “Prom, hmm?”
She smiled. “Yes. I wore a flame-red satin slip dress and Trent wore a black tux with a red cummerbund and bow tie. I thought we looked sophisticated and glamorous—like movie stars. My mother still keeps our prom picture on the piano with all her other family pictures.”
When Mac didn’t seem particularly amused by her reminiscing, she cleared her throat and turned the conversation back to business. “At what point would you want me to become involved with the renovation?”
“You’re considering taking the job?”
She practically itched to be a part of this project. “Yes.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Something about his expression and the tone of his voice made her wonder why he seemed so pleased that she would be joining the renovation team he was assembling. He didn’t really know her, and he had seen only a few examples of her work. Had the recommendations he’d heard really been so persuasive?
He had said it was his practice to patronize local businesses and workers whenever possible. Granted, there weren’t many professional decorators in Honoria to choose from—none, actually. “You’re sure you don’t want to consult a few other decorators first?” she asked, a sudden attack of nerves making her wonder if she was being wise to get involved with this man. With this job, she corrected herself quickly.
He shook his head. “I want you.”
She really wished he hadn’t worded it quite that way. Something told her those three words would echo in her mind for a disturbingly long time. “I would certainly understand if you want to at least consider—”
“Sharon—do you want the job or not?”
Clasping her hands in front of her, she glanced around the big, old kitchen. “Yes. I want it.”
“And you believe you can do a good job?”
She could already picture the front parlor done in tastefully restrained Victoriana, old Oriental rugs on satiny, refinished hardwood floors, strategically placed mirrors making the small rooms look bigger. “Yes, I do.”
“Then all we have left to discuss is the money,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’ve written the decorating budget here—” he stabbed a finger on one of the sheets of paper scattered across the counter “—which includes your fee, itemized on the next line. Does that look like a fair estimate to you?”
She glanced at the figure, blinked a couple of times, then read it again. “Yes, that looks fair,” she said, her voice a bit strained.
She couldn’t help remembering all those wild rumors about Mac—that he was a rich eccentric, or on consignment for a celebrity millionaire, or working for a big-money crime family. As improbable as those scenarios had sounded, money didn’t seem to be a problem when it came to this project. She would be compensated very generously for the sheer pleasure of helping this sadly deteriorating building become a beautiful home again.
“I’d like you to be closely involved with the project from the start,” he said. “You’ve probably noticed I have my own way of doing things—it’s not necessarily the way most contractors work, but it suits me. I assemble a team at the beginning and then involve everyone in the decision-making, utilizing their expertise in their areas. Final decisions, of course, are mine, but I’m always open to discussion and suggestions.”
“How long have you been doing this? Buying and restoring old houses, I mean.”
“Full time for almost three years now. Before that, I restored a couple of small houses as a sideline to my day job.”
“And what was your day job?”
She’d considered herself making conversation, not trying to pry, but she got the sudden feeling that Mac wasn’t comfortable with her questions. “I’ve worked in several jobs prior to this one.”
“I see.” She looked at her watch. “I really should get back to the shop. I have an appointment with a sales rep this afternoon.”
“I’ll walk you to your car.”
She knew the layout of the house this time, so she led the way with Mac following close behind her. As she walked, she looked around again, making dozens of mental notes. She would like to return soon with a camera and sketch pad. She was so involved with her planning, she forgot to concentrate on her steps and she might have tripped over a broken board had Mac not reached out to take her arm before she reached it, guiding her around the plank.
“The floors are pretty rough,” he said without letting go of her. “It’s even worse upstairs. Once the carpenters get started, I’m going to designate the whole house as a hard-hat zone.”
“I should have been watching where I was going. I’m afraid I was too busy mentally decorating.”
He chuckled. “As much as I appreciate your eagerness to get started, I wouldn’t want you to injure yourself because of it.”
“I’ll be more careful from now on,” she promised, trying to keep her tone light despite the ripples of sensation emanating from his hand on her arm.
“Good.”
When he didn’t immediately move away, her smile wavered. His face was only inches from hers. His dark eyes looked straight into hers. She’d never understood more clearly what it meant to be in danger of melting at someone’s feet. When it came to her hormones, this man was downright dangerous.
She cleared her throat so she could speak without squeaking. “Is there something else?”
He hesitated a moment, then dropped his hand and stepped back. Without further comment, he motioned for her to continue through the house. She took care to watch her step as she walked out.
She unlocked the driver’s door of the rental car her insurance company had provided until she could replace the one she’d lost in Snake Creek. Uncertain what to say, she turned hesitantly to Mac before getting in. “I’ll start gathering some pictures and samples before our next meeting. I’d like to come back soon to take some measurements and photographs.”
“The work crew starts tomorrow, so someone will be here pretty much all the time, Monday through Saturday. Come by anytime, but be careful around the construction.”
“Thank you, I will. So, I guess I’ll see you later.”
“Mac,” he said.
She lifted an eyebrow in confusion, wondering why he’d just said his own name. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’d like to hear you say, ‘I’ll see you later, Mac.”’
“Why?”
“Let’s just say I like my team to be on comfortable terms with each other.”
“I’m quite comfortable with you,” she lied briskly.
Wearing a slightly challenging smile, he leaned against her open car door. “Then why can’t you say my name, Sharon?”
He said hers easily enough. And something about the sound of it on his tongue made a funny little shiver go through her. Which was hardly a professional way to react to a business associate, she chided herself.
“I have no problem saying your name, Mac. But I am running late, so if there’s nothing else, I’d better be on my way.”
There was definite satisfaction in his smile when he straightened away from the door. “No, there’s nothing else—for now. Drive carefully.”
He didn’t stay to watch her drive off, but turned on one heel and walked back to the house. He didn’t even glance over his shoulder before disappearing inside. Sharon was left staring after him. She roused herself with a slight shake of her head and reached for the key.
Any further exchanges between her and Mac Cordero were going to be strictly business—even though she was beginning to wonder if Mac had something else in mind.
BRAD WAS on his very best behavior Thursday evening during dinner, which pleased Sharon almost as much as it worried her. She loved her younger brother dearly, but any time he acted sweet and polite, she couldn’t help wondering what he was up to.
“How are you enjoying your summer vacation, Brad?” Jerry Whitaker, who had joined them for dinner, asked encouragingly.
Looking up from the baked pork chops, rice and steamed vegetables Sharon had prepared, the boy tossed a fringe of shaggy brown bangs out of his face to look across the table. “It’s okay. Better than school, anyway.”
“What are you doing to keep yourself busy?”
“Baseball, mostly. Coach Cooper has practice every afternoon. And I go to the Boys and Girls Club a couple of mornings a week for tennis lessons.”
Jerry smiled at Sharon. “Sounds like you’ve got quite an athlete in the family.”
Absently returning the smile, she glanced at her brother. “Yes, Brad’s very good at sports.”
“What else do you have planned for summer, Brad? Hanging out at the pool with your friends? Flirting with the girls? I seem to have a vague memory of doing a lot of that back in the olden days when I was your age.”
Because he knew it was expected of him, Brad chuckled in response to Jerry’s exaggeration, but then his smile faded as he glanced at his sister. “Sharon doesn’t let me hang out with my friends much. She’s afraid I’ll get into trouble.”
Sharon’s defenses went up when Jerry gave her a reproachful look. “That’s not exactly accurate,” she protested. “I certainly don’t forbid Brad to see his friends. I simply ask him to let me know where he’ll be and what time he’ll be home.”
“And I have to tell her who’s going to be there, and what we’ll be doing, and what we’ll be eating, and—” Brad held up a finger for each point he made.
“That’s enough,” Sharon cut in, knowing her brother was still annoyed with her for keeping him from attending the party Monday evening.
She still felt justified in her decision, especially since she’d heard that Officer Dodson had been dispatched to send everyone home when the festivities had gotten too loud. She’d been surprised that he hadn’t reported seeing signs of drinking among the underage guests. At least the kids had been smart enough not to try to get away with that—probably because they’d guessed that Chief Davenport would have someone keeping a close eye on them.
“Your brother is fifteen years old, Sharon,” Jerry murmured. “You have to loosen the apron strings sometime.”
Brad looked smug.
Sharon was annoyed with Jerry for undercutting her in front of Brad. Surely he knew she was doing the best she could while their flighty mother was off vacationing with a group of congenial widows she’d met over the Internet. It wasn’t the first time Lucy Henderson had left Sharon in charge of the house-hold—she’d been doing it since Sharon was a teenager, herself—but it was getting much more difficult as Brad grew older and more rebellious.
She picked up a bowl. “Have some more vegetables, Jerry.”
Fully aware of the message she was really sending him, he chuckled, took the bowl and obligingly changed the subject. “What’s this I hear about you working on the Garrett-house renovation?”
It had taken less than forty-eight hours for the news to get to him. Sharon wasn’t sure why she hadn’t already mentioned it, herself. Maybe because Jerry so rarely showed any real interest in her business, which he tended to refer to as “the little wall-paper shop.” “I’ve been hired as the interior-design consultant. I’ll help choose colors, patterns, fixtures and so on. Mac wants the house completely ready for occupancy when the renovation is completed.”
“Mac?” Jerry murmured, lifting an eyebrow.
Funny how easily the name had slipped from her this time, proving that she’d already begun to think of him that way. “He doesn’t care much for formality.”
“I’m not sure I approve of this arrangement.” Jerry seemed to be only half teasing. “Apparently he’s quite the romantic figure around town. Handsome, mysterious, reportedly wealthy. And he’s the guy who saved your life last weekend. I wouldn’t want you to get swept off your feet.”
Sharon forced a smile. “I’m only working for him, Jerry, not dating him.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Why do you think he chose you as his decorator? Do you suppose his budget is more limited than rumors have implied?”
Aware of Brad listening to the conversation while he ate, Sharon tried to keep her tone humorous. “Are you calling me a cut-rate decorator, Jerry? Hardly flattering.”
He didn’t even have the grace to look sheepish. “Now, Sharon, you know I didn’t mean it like that. But you must admit, you aren’t a licensed decorator. Picking out colors and wallpaper patterns has been a hobby for you.”
A hobby? She thought of the hours she’d spent reading, studying, poring over magazines, journals and sample books. She’d had several paid decorating jobs, including the recent remodeling of the First Bank of Honoria and the upcoming McBride Law Firm project. Needlework was a hobby; decorating was a passion she’d had since adolescence. “He said I came highly recommended,” she said simply, knowing it would be a waste of breath to argue semantics.
“I’m sure he won’t be disappointed.”
Had Jerry always had that slightly condescending tone when he talked about her work, or was she simply being oversensitive this evening? Whatever the cause, this conversation was beginning to annoy her as much as his criticism of the way she was watching out for her brother.
“I’ll make sure he isn’t,” she said, and stood. “Who wants dessert? I baked a strawberry cake.”
Brad and Jerry both eagerly accepted the offer.
As Sharon stood alone in the kitchen slicing cake, she found herself thinking that maybe she shouldn’t see so much of Jerry for a while. She’d gotten into the habit of hanging out with him without really thinking about where the relationship was going. She hadn’t liked the note of possession in his voice when he’d quizzed her about working for Mac. Was he under the impression that they had an exclusive relationship?
As far as she was concerned, she and Jerry were friends. They weren’t lovers. Jerry had broached the possibility a time or two, but Sharon had always put him off. She wasn’t ready to take that step, she’d told him. She didn’t think it set a good example for Brad. Both were legitimate excuses, but the truth was, she simply hadn’t wanted to become that intimately involved with Jerry. Something had always held her back.
Maybe it was because he’d never taken her breath away just by looking into her eyes, a small voice whispered inside her head. He had never caused a jolt of electricity to go through her with a simple brush of his hand. She had never actually reacted to any man’s touch that way—until Mac.
The cake server slipped from her hand, clattering against the tile floor. The noise roused her from her disturbing thoughts, clearing away the image of Mac’s gleaming dark eyes.
“Are you okay in there?” Jerry called out from the other room.
“I’m fine,” she answered, her tone sharper than she had intended. She immediately regretted it. It wasn’t Jerry she was angry with, it was herself. She was simply going to have to get herself under control when it came to Mac Cordero. And she was going to have to take charge of this situation with Jerry. It wasn’t fair of her to lead him on.
Maybe it would be better if she simply concentrated on her brother and her business, at least for the next few weeks.
CHAPTER FOUR
MAC WAS in his motel room early Thursday evening when someone tapped on the door. He took another look at the photograph in his hand—a picture of a woman holding
a tiny infant with Mac’s dark hair and eyes—and then slipped it back into its usual place in his wallet before moving toward the door. He had to take a couple of deep breaths to release the pain and anger looking at that photo always roused in him. Only then could he answer the knock.
From long habit, he checked the peephole before releasing the lock. Curious, he opened the door and leaned against it, shoving his disturbing memories to the back of his mind. “Well, hello, Chief. Paying a social call?”
“Partially,” Wade Davenport surprised him by answering. “Mind if I come in?”
Mac stepped out of the doorway and gestured toward the two chairs beside the window. “I would offer you a drink, but all I have is half a can of soda—and it’s probably flat.”
Glancing around the rather spartan motel room, Wade asked, “Are you going to be staying here long?”
Was the police chief just making friendly conversation, or keeping tabs on the stranger in town? Mac shrugged. “I’ve been looking for an apartment to rent for the duration of the renovation job. I talked to the manager of the complex on West Elm this afternoon. I’ll probably move there next week.”
Wade wandered to the window and glanced out. “Not much of a view. The McBride Law Firm’s parking lot. The McBrides are related to my wife, you know. Caleb’s her uncle, Trevor’s her cousin.”
“There usually are a lot of family connections in a small town like this one,” Mac observed, following Wade’s glance. He wondered if the police chief would be so cool if Mac told him about his own family connection to the chief’s wife.
Turning away from the window, Wade sat in one of the chairs. Mac settled in the other. “What can I do for you, Chief?”
“Call me Wade. Seems more appropriate between colleagues, don’t you think?”
“Colleagues?” Mac repeated carefully.
“One cop to another.”
Long experienced at concealing his emotions, Mac kept his posture relaxed. “Cop to ex-cop is more accurate.”
Wade nodded acknowledgment of the distinction.
“Any particular reason you’ve been checking up on me?”