Crush on You

by Christie Ridgway

  Alessandra snatched it from him, frowning. As she unfolded it, he trained the beam of his flashlight onto the page. Glancing down at the sheet, the first thing she noticed was that it was letterhead from Newton’s construction business. The second thing to strike her was that the nitwit couldn’t spell.

  Left for Orgun.

  “Oh, fudge!” She really let the semicurse fly this time as comprehension dawned.

  She’d been wrong. She needed something after all.

  Worse, she needed someone.

  3

  Penn stared at his half brother Liam, sitting on the other end of the leather couch in the Bennett game room. He couldn’t believe that the same man who days ago had warned him off was now trying to hook him up—in a manner of speaking, anyway—with the nun.

  Yeah, that one. Alessandra Baci, the Nun of Napa. Penn still didn’t know why the hell she was called that, and he’d decided to make it a point not to find out. Hadn’t he learned his lesson about getting over-involved with strangers?

  So instead of responding to Liam’s request that Penn complete the work on the wedding cottage, he jabbed the buttons of the video game controller, focusing on the Halo 3 game projected on the big screen that took up nearly one wall. Obliterating one of the Brutes didn’t calm his uneasiness. “Should we be playing something more civilized, do you suppose?” he wondered, looking around him.

  The Bennett game room featured a teak-and-felt billiards table and in the opposite corner marble chess pieces sat ready for action. From his place on the long leather sofa, he could see dominoes resting in an inlaid box, a cribbage board that might have belonged to George Washington, and a backgammon set worthy of a European prince.

  Liam’s younger brother, Seth, spoke up from his sprawl in a nearby overstuffed chair. “You’re the one who wanted to battle the Covenant.”

  Which was strange, because he was much too cynical to act on the belief that he could eradicate evil from the world. He glanced at the younger man—Penn was sandwiched in age between Liam and Seth—and once again was startled by the resemblance he saw to himself. For a kid who’d grown up sleeping on the sofa in an apartment living room, making himself a dinner of Cheerios every night while his mom, blue-collar Debbie Penn, worked the bar at Mr. G’s, it was going to take more time to adjust. It was still hard to believe that when he’d been keeping company with late-night TV and the neighbor’s cat, four hundred miles away these near doppelgangers had been living in a Tuscan-styled villa with a game room, eight-car garage, and enough bedrooms for a football team, including its cheerleaders. Living with their father, Calvin Bennett, who apparently strode around town unconcerned by the secrets he’d left behind. Secrets who had grown up fatherless.

  And they called Penn a bastard.

  He thought again of that skinny boy who’d been himself, the kid scared shitless by things that went bump in the night, the kid just as scared his mom wouldn’t earn enough tips to cover the next month’s rent. Maybe it wasn’t such a surprise that there came the day when he’d been suckered in by a sob story.

  Never again, though. He’d wised up and remembered all the lessons he’d learned in his rocky childhood. Every pair of wide eyes wasn’t innocent. Not every trembling mouth told the truth.

  Liam closed down the game, the screen going dark. “Look, about the cottage. I know you’re here to relax, but—”

  “It’s not that,” Penn said. The truth was, he wasn’t used to hanging around watching other people go about their daily business. Seth worked as the Bennett corporate lawyer and suited up every morning for offices in Napa, so Penn was left to tag along with Liam as he walked the vineyards, talked on the phone, walked the vineyards some more, and talked some more on the phone. It wasn’t exactly stimulating.

  “If you agree to finish up the work, you’ll be doing yourself a favor,” Seth put in. “We have a financial interest in Tanti Baci. If the place is kept afloat with this wedding thing, then we all benefit.”

  So far Penn had avoided talking about the economic aspects of being Cal Bennett’s son, but he couldn’t help himself from probing a little now. “So the Tanti Baci winery’s not already nose-down?”

  Liam shrugged. “Papa Baci drove the place into the iceberg some time back. Nobody noticed, because my—our—father embraced the ‘silent’ in ‘silent partner’ and let Mario have his way with it. Then Dad had his heart attack and Mario’s cancer showed up and combing the books was even further from anyone’s mind. By the time Mario confessed to his daughters on his deathbed, the water was rushing in the windows.”

  See, here’s what Penn didn’t get. Liam was an eyes-wide-open kind of man. No nonsense, and sometimes Penn thought no sense of humor, as well. “So why aren’t you putting the place on the market ASAP? I know the Bennetts and the Bacis have a long history there, but you don’t strike me as the sentimental type, Liam.” He looked over at the younger man. “You either, Seth.”

  The two brothers exchanged a glance. “Well, see . . .” Seth started, obviously lacking a good explanation. “Um . . . Alessandra . . .”

  Penn groaned. Were his half brothers the suckers now? “If it’s a sound business decision, it’s a sound business decision. But if it’s men falling all over themselves because a pretty girl winks out a tear or two . . .”

  “It’s not like that,” Seth protested. “Allie’s had a really rough time—”

  “I don’t want to hear it.” Penn stifled the impulse to put his hands over his ears. Not that he thought he could be conned by a woman and her woeful tale of hard luck ever again. Still, losing the contents of a juicy bank account and various other items of value could make a man wary. Bitter, even.

  “You don’t understand,” Liam said with a sigh. “I think I should tell you about Alessandra.”

  “Don’t.” Suddenly, the woman in question was standing in the game room doorway. “Don’t,” she repeated. “I don’t want you telling him anything about me.”

  Both Liam and Seth got to their feet, and to his own surprise, Penn found himself rising from the couch, too. Manners. Who knew he had them?

  The corners of her mouth tweaked in a little smile of acknowledgment. “Sit down, sit down.” She moved to perch on the arm of Seth’s chair. “Charlene let me in,” she added, referring to the Bennett housekeeper. Then she addressed her next remark to Liam. “You told me to stop by at two—that you’d have spoken to him by then.”

  Liam shifted on his cushion and glanced at Penn. “Yes, well . . .”

  Alessandra turned her head to pin him with her big brown eyes. “I take it you’re not interested in Newton’s old job?”

  “I—”

  “Don’t bother apologizing. I supposed it was a long shot. No surprise that my little construction dilemma isn’t of interest to some big-shot TV star.”

  He hadn’t planned on apologizing! And his refusal had nothing to do with him being “some big-shot TV star.” Good God. Folding his arms over his chest, he frowned at her, taking in the little dress she wore—a sleeveless shift that matched her lime-colored kitten heels. Her fingernails gleamed with a fresh, ladylike manicure, and she’d tamed her tumble of dark, wavy hair with a pink headband the exact shade of the lipstick on her I’m-not-that-innocent mouth. He wanted to—

  No. This was why he wouldn’t comply. In a wedding dress, in a sweatshirt, in something a second-grade school-teacher might wear, she had him thinking about sex acts. His blood was already taking the bullet train southward and he knew, just knew, that his reaction was something she practiced, counted upon, had used a dozen times with dozens of men. Only an expert at manipulation could snare Penn Bennett like this when he’d been so recently burned.

  Nun of Napa, my ass.

  She clapped her pretty hands together and stood up again. Penn stared at her knees, just skimmed by the hemline of her dress, and realized that even they were turning him on. “See you later,” she told the men.

  He and his half brothers were standing again. Seth cle
ared his throat. “What will you do now?”

  “Something will turn up,” she said, her voice just the craftiest bit husky. And maybe Penn was wrong, but could that be yet another sheen of tears in her eyes? “I’m going to make some calls. Look around town.”

  She’d already tried that, Liam had said so, which is why Penn had been approached as last resort. He knew any reputable business would already be booked at this time of year, leaving Alessandra’s only option that of picking up day laborers from the street corner. Yet if she managed to round up workers with the kinds of skills she needed, who would supervise them? He couldn’t imagine this spoiled, sexy little bundle with a splinter, let alone with wood stain under her nails and plaster dust in her hair.

  And didn’t that just piss him off? She wanted what she wanted, but she planned on cajoling—or worse, crying—to achieve her ends. Certainly Alessandra Baci had never worked up a good sweat outside of the bedroom.

  His gaze ran over her again, from her gleaming waves of hair to her delicate high heels. The tip of her nose was pink, he decided, definite proof of incipient tears.

  What she needed, he thought, was to know what overtaxed muscles and an aching back felt like at the end of the day. That would really give her something to cry about. “I’ll do it,” he heard himself say.

  “What?” She stared at him.

  Liam and Seth were surprised, too. But it was a good idea. The experience he had in mind would teach Alessandra Baci a lesson—and prove to himself that he’d learned the one Lana Lang had taught him four months ago in L.A.

  “There’s a condition,” he added, hoping he was disguising his evil grin.

  Her pink mouth pursed, and he noticed her lipstick matched her fingernail polish, too. If he got his way she wouldn’t be thinking about makeup and manicures for the next few weeks.

  “What condition is that?” she asked, and the look she gave him wasn’t the least bit teary. Her brown eyes were as suspicious as Penn should have been of Lana and her hard-luck story.

  But it was Alessandra Baci he was thinking of now and he let his evil grin go free. “That I’m Job Boss and that you, baby, are Laborer Number One.”

  Alessandra’s life had dished up unpleasant tasks before—including not getting married on her wedding day and picking out the headstone for her father’s grave—so agreeing to work with Penn Bennett for the next few weeks should seem like recess in comparison.

  But this didn’t feel like jump rope.

  She popped open the passenger door of Penn’s truck the minute it rocked to a stop in front of Edenville’s old-school hardware store, eager to exit the close confines of the cab. As a kid, she’d looked forward to recess—and she’d been good at jump rope, too—but she definitely wasn’t good at this. In Penn’s presence she was edgy and almost breathless, and if she didn’t get a hold of herself he was going to notice he made her . . . what was the right word? Nervous?

  Yeah. Nervous.

  She couldn’t wait for his snarky comments regarding that . . . Not.

  They stepped into the street at the same time and in a replay of the incident she’d witnessed from the beauty salon days before, a car screeched to a halt behind them. This time it was the driver who shouted a muffled “Build me up!” as he struggled out of his ripped and dingy wife-beater. Wearing his trademark grin, Penn obligingly reached into the backseat of the truck’s cab, found a T-shirt, and then tossed it at his fan.

  Alessandra watched the guy drive off, now covered by a new, royal blue and white shirt emblazoned with what she assumed was the logo of Penn’s show. Before she had a chance to remark on it, a snazzy convertible paused in the middle of the street. A blonde waved to get Penn’s attention. “Penn Bennett!” With her car still running, she kneeled on her seat and stripped off a tight nylon shirt. Underneath she wore a sportsbra that made a stunning presentation of her centerfold-sized cleavage. “Build me up!”

  “Sorry, I’m all out of T-shirts,” Penn said, his smile not the least bit apologetic. The big liar wasn’t even pretending to look the woman in the eyes.

  Alessandra leaned back inside the vehicle. Her searching hand immediately found a healthy stack of T-shirts. In two seconds she’d peeled one off and thrown it in the direction of her “boss.” It caught him smack in the face.

  Still, he remained smiling as the woman, now decently covered, accelerated off. “Thanks for helping me out,” he said to Alessandra, though his focus was on the receding vehicle as he waved a reluctant good-bye to the buxom blonde.

  Alessandra smoothed out her scowl. “Sartorial upgrades, too?” she questioned sweetly. “When they said you were an expert at improvements, I had no idea just how far that went.”

  He turned his head. “Truth? I’m nothing more than a glorified handyman.” His gaze trickled down, taking her in from pale work shirt to lightweight hiking boots. His smile went seductive. “But I will say I’m good at what I do. You have something in need of repair, sweet thing?”

  The way he said it, the way he looked at her, sucked the air from her lungs and caused her skin to prickle like a sunburn. “Just the cottage,” she choked out, turning away from him. “That’s all we bargained for.”

  The bell rang as she opened the hardware store’s door. Inside, the smell was a pungent combination of bubblegum balls, WD-40, and rosebush food. She didn’t bother to ensure Penn followed before the door swung shut. It was easy to ascertain he was on her heels. The curiosity stamping the faces of the owners, Ed and Jed, told her that. In twin gestures—apropos, since the elderly men were twins—they rocked back on their heels and slid their hands into the front pockets of their khaki coveralls.

  “Hi, Jed. Ed.” Alessandra moved quickly along the side counter they stood behind, knowing what she was after could be found at the rear of the store.

  “Alessandra.” One of the old men nodded a greeting.

  The other just stared behind her. “That isn’t your boyfriend,” he declared, his faded blue eyes narrowing.

  “Of course not,” she answered, keeping her feet moving and keeping her voice light. “He’s just doing some work at the winery.”

  “Then why’s he staring at your backside like that?”

  Face flaming, Alessandra whipped her head over her shoulder to glare at Penn.

  He lifted his hands from his sides, the picture of innocence. “Senile,” he mouthed, sliding a meaningful look at the elderly twins, but the corners of his lips were twitching, as if ready to smile again. It made her want to smack him.

  Which meant she would have to touch him, and instinct told her she shouldn’t do that.

  Instead she increased the speed of her footsteps. At the rear she found the display of work gloves. Shoving her right hand into one that was much too big, she ignored Penn as he came up beside her. “I love hardware stores like this one,” he said, sounding happy. “You can still dump nails in a brown paper bag and weigh them like grapefruit.”

  Her second choice of handwear caught his attention. “Not those,” he said, plucking the flowered pair away. “You wear that kind when cutting flowers or weeding the herb garden. I’m putting you to real work, honey.”

  “Don’t call me that,” she said. “Don’t call me ‘sweet thing’ or ‘baby’ either, and don’t look at my . . . my . . .”

  “Ass?” he supplied, still in that happy voice. “But you have a very cute ass. I can’t help myself.”

  She huffed out a sound, knowing he was discomfiting her on purpose, knowing that he took enjoyment from it, but unable to stifle her annoyance anyway.

  “What?” He was all innocence again. “Is there some law around here against checking you out?”

  “Yes,” she hissed. Because there kind of was. And she liked it that way.

  “No,” he scoffed, picking out a pair of sturdy leather gloves and handing them to her to try. “It’s just part of your game—”

  “I don’t play games!” Frustrated, she whirled to face him. “You don’t know anything ab
out me, about who I am, about what I—” She broke off, mortified that her frustration had morphed into a telltale sting behind her eyes. Some people were just easy criers, damn it, and she’d always been one of them.

  “Here the tears come,” he said. His expression hardened and he made a point of glancing at his watch. “Right on schedule.”

  Without answering, she stomped off again, heading for the other side of the store and the paint counter. There was a small line there and she reached toward the old-fashioned metal dispenser and took a paper number.

  Thirteen. Yeah. Her lucky day.

  As she queued up, the person in front of her turned. “Alessandra! Good morning.”

  She managed a smile for an old friend of her father’s. “Morning, Rex.”

  “You need paint?”

  “Picking some up.” She felt Penn’s presence and explained for him, too. “I ordered a few gallons to refresh the kitchen when I get the chance.”

  “Then step up, girl,” Rex said. He tapped the lady in front him. “Alessandra needs to get her paint.”

  “Oh, but I don’t want to go ahead . . .” She started to protest, but already she could tell how this would turn out. Throughout the last five years, the town’s citizens had given her special treatment. She’d been determined to put a stop to it until her sister Stevie explained that it assuaged some of their grief by doing so.

  “But I want you to,” Rex assured her, and the woman was shuffling back and the man in front of her turned around, saw it was Alessandra, and with a gesture ushered her to his place at the start of the line.

  The transaction was over in just a few minutes, but it felt much longer with Penn radiating disapproval. It didn’t take a genius to guess he considered her manipulative and most likely spoiled, and this latest episode must seem like just more proof.

  She could explain the kindness and consideration by telling him about what hadn’t happened five years before. The wedding of Alessandra, age twenty, and Tommy, age twenty-two, had been eagerly anticipated, in part because their youth made the union so sweetly romantic. The bigger bonus, however, was it had presented an opportunity to celebrate health and vitality as only those whose livelihood depended upon farming—grape-growing was really nothing more, after all—could appreciate.