“I…have to go,” she mumbled into his chest. Sliding a tentative foot backward, Miri uncurled her hands and pushed from him, feeling his arms relax around her, then drop. But she should have known her escape wouldn’t go smoothly. After all, her humiliation wasn’t complete. Miri almost sobbed when she felt her ankle buckle on the broken heel, and she made a wild grab for him again.
“Steady,” he murmured, one hand slipping around her waist, the other taking her arm to keep her balanced. “I think you need to sit down for a minute, Miri.”
Of course she didn’t need to sit down. She needed to cry. But first she needed to die, and that meant finding that cliff after all. Frantically, she wriggled her foot free of the broken pump and kicked it aside. A quick glance down at the heel told her it was beyond repair. Pulling her other foot free, she kicked the shoe away and started for the door, fighting the urge to run.
The voice behind her rumbled without mercy. “Don’t you want your shoes?”
A ridiculous question. As if she’d want a memento of her day from hell?
Miri sucked in a lungful of air to quell the urge to swear and started the long, bare-footed, and thoroughly undignified walk to her car. The longest walk of her twenty-four years. Sinking into the driver’s seat, she sat still for a moment, trying to steady her indignation, anger, and every hormone raging around in her body. “Omigod, omigod,” she chanted under her breath, finally braving a look back at the mill’s entrance.
He was watching her. Why wouldn’t he be? She was a joke, after all.
And then her car wouldn’t start.
Frantically, she turned the engine over and over, her eyes burning with tears of humiliation. If he comes out to help, it truly will be the end. He’ll find a red-faced corpse behind the wheel.
“Start, you shitty heap of junk.”
Her vicious order must have done something to the Beetle’s conscience, since at the fourth turn of the key, the car powered to life.
Miri drove away, telling herself not to look at his face in the rearview mirror. But she looked anyway.
He was still grinning.
CHAPTER TWO
“Fecking eejit!”
Jesus. What the hell was up Fitz’s ass today? He’d been Irish-cursing all morning over the smallest thing. Except this time it didn’t sound small.
Nick dragged his work-booted feet off the desk and went to investigate, although he had a fair idea what had happened. The sound of breaking glass, followed by one of Fitz’s explosive curses, pretty much said it all.
“So who’s the fucking idiot?” Nick asked, glancing down at the sight of Fitz’s feet planted in the middle of what would have been an expensive, high-quality glass light fixture twenty seconds ago.
“Fecking thing fell out my hands,” Fitz boomed, waving a fat hand in the direction of the ceiling hatch above the passage. “Must’ve been up there for fecking years.” He glared at Nick from under a hedge of eyebrow that met in the middle. “Are you laughing?”
“Not me.” Nick hid his grin by squatting down and poking at the heavy brass fitting covered in broken glass. “Looks thirties art deco. Good quality. Maybe five hundred dollars at auction. Any more up there?”
“Yeah, about a dozen of the fecking things.” Fitz kicked at a shard of glass. “I’ll get the scaffolders to help with the rest.”
Nick glanced at the mess and decided it was a good time to step in before the scaffolders found themselves on the receiving end of Fitz’s bad mood. It didn’t help that they were outright scared of the guy, even on one of his good days. “No, don’t bother,” he said over his shoulder as he made a fast U-turn to his office. “Give me a few minutes, and I’ll help.”
Fitz followed him into his office and slumped into a chair. “Hell, maybe I’m getting too soft for this work.”
Nick grinned and flicked his eyes over his site manager’s paunch. True, Fitz was past fifty and carrying an impressive spare tire. But soft? Hardly. Few men would be game enough to find out with a guy who weighed two hundred and thirty pounds and had boxed his way to an Irish heavyweight title back in the eighties.
“Maybe a little less Guinness,” Nick suggested, grinning at the deepening scowl on the face across from him. Fitz had introduced Nick to the black stuff seven years ago. He’d been a green twenty-four-year-old when Fitz had coming looking for a job, and despite a twenty-year age gap and frequent arguments over their favorite drink, they’d achieved a solid friendship.
Tipping back in his chair, Nick slapped his boots back on the desk. “Anyway, what’s the job looking like so far?”
Fitz’s scowl melted to a broad grin. “Nothing a wrecking ball can’t deal to in a few hours.” He folded thick arms over his barrel chest. “Jesus, I love these small jobs. Easy work. Easy profits. No fecking complications.”
Except for the one that turned up yesterday, thought Nick with a sigh. She’d been a regular visitor in his head all morning, and it was starting to annoy the hell out of him. Like a persistent itch just out of reach.
Swinging his feet back to the floor, he stared at the spreadsheet open on his laptop. “It’s looking like a profit of around three hundred thousand in total, including the sale of the cleared land and the building façade. The best small job for the month.”
Fitz grunted and scratched between two buttons straining to stay fastened. “Yeah, fecking lucky that I spotted the sale?”
Nick nodded and opened a new worksheet column. “How long to do the demolition and salvage? Still four weeks?”
“Make that five weeks with a small crew. They’ll start at the end of next week. We’ll use our own equipment. Packing the bricks for the seller will take a few days. They want delivery to their New York depot, so good for us. Only a two-hour drive down the coast.”
Nick updated the figures. “Good. I’ll be sticking around until the end of the week at least, maybe longer. I’ve had the Blaze transported up here.”
Nick was looking forward to some serious sailing. His favorite pastime and the first chance in months to get out on his ketch. He couldn’t really afford the time away from his business, especially with the multi-million-dollar Spanway Bridge demolition contract due to be finalized in the next three weeks. But a week or so in Charmford wouldn’t make a lot of difference. His London team had things under control.
Fitz grinned. “Sounds good. When are ya gonna buy one of those super yachts?”
“Don’t you start. Cate keeps pestering me, but only so she can use it to entertain her socialite friends.”
No damned way was he ever going to buy a super-yacht. They weren’t for sailing. Besides, as he’d reminded his sister many times, a big boat wouldn’t prevent her seasickness. He’d only taken Cate and her husband Charles on his ketch once. Despite the sea being as flat as a millpond, Cate had spent the entire time lying on one of the bunks, groaning. No, he’d stick to his basic forty-footer, and Cate would just have stick to socializing on dry land.
Fitz grunted in amusement. “By the way, who was it that arrived late yesterday?”
Nick raised his brow. “You saw her?”
“Saw you talking to her in the parking lot just as I was packing up. Hard to miss.”
Hard to miss, all right. A fresh image of Miri pressed into his mind. Damn, it was strange that he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Or visualizing her. Talk about a sight for sore eyes, decked out in that dress-to-impress business getup. Well, he’d been impressed all right, but not by Ms. Business Attire’s outfit or even her luscious body. It had been the pale delicate features, waist-length tumble of dark chocolate curls, and incredible green eyes that had spiked his interest. A genuinely beautiful woman with a soft innocence behind all that temper that straight out intrigued him. She’d been so far out of her comfort zone, he’d half expected her to bolt right there in front of him. Except in those heels and on that broken-down asphalt, she wouldn’t have made it very far. As much as he loved heels, he’d seriously worried about the safety of thos
e killer legs.
“What did she have to say?”
Say? Then there was her mouth. All plump and rosy-soft, with smiles and pouts. The kind of mouth that was grabbing his interest all over again.
Beautiful.
“So what did she want, Nick?” pressed Fitz with a chuckle.
Dammit, what did she want? Oh, yeah. “She’s an artist. Made an offer on the mill. Wants to open a gallery or something.”
He fell back to his thoughts. No way would he have picked her for an artist in that outfit. But what the hell did he know about artists? Zilch. If teasing her had gone down badly, catching her when she fell had sealed it. He’d been mean, he knew that. Toyed with her. But she’d riled him, and besides, she’d more than held her own without too much trouble. Jesus, she’d been mad. He’d half expected her to pick up that broken stiletto and stab him. But her temper aside, he’d enjoyed going a couple of rounds with Miri Jamieson. And she’d felt as good as she looked. Small and slender, with just the right amount of tantalizing curves to fill that outfit to perfection. A pity she’d fled like some skittish Cinderella. He glanced over at the shoes in the corner, picturing them on the end of her slim legs. Yeah, a real pity.
“So what did you tell her?”
Nick wrenched his thoughts back to Fitz’s question, suddenly conscious of the increased blood flow to his groin. It might have been a few weeks, but even so. “I told her no. It didn’t go down well. Anyway, what about the equipment?”
“As I said, we’ll bring up our own. You’re not listening. Something on your mind?” Fitz grinned knowingly.
Nick leaned forward and tried to ignore the equipment in his pants. “Sorry. Just thinking about sailing.”
Fitz gave him a “whatever” look. “Okey, dokey. Oh, by the way, I’ve found an Irish pub in town. You interested in going tonight? The lads are keen.”
“Not tonight, thanks. I’ll be at Charmford’s only boxing gym, then back to the hotel.” Besides, he needed to work off some pressure.
Maybe he’d call her. Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d go sailing and forget about Ms. Business Attire.
“Righto, Boss,” Fitz was saying, pulling Nick’s attention back to the moment. “You ready to spend a couple of hours crawling around the ceiling?”
“I’ll see you up there. I just need a minute.”
Feck it.
• • •
“Will the Egg Beater be finished on time?”
As if Miri needed her roommate’s question. Not when she’d wasted her entire day brooding over her humiliation instead of working. She sighed and set down her enameling brush, which had sat idle in her hand for the past hour. Four months’ work on her twelve-foot sculpture was now down to a three-day deadline, and at least fifteen hours of enameling work lay ahead to complete the final section. “The way I’m going, it won’t be finished by Christmas.”
Bree tossed her rucksack on the floor and flopped down on the old sofa by the studio workbench. “You’ll finish. You always do. It looks great, by the way.”
Miri glanced automatically toward the gleaming metal sections spread across the studio floor, ready for assembly. Her most difficult work to date, and definitely her most satisfying. A series of long, sweeping concentric circles constructed in stainless steel and enameled copper lattice. Sculpture Quarterly had asked to feature one of her works in its next issue, so maybe this would be the one. In the last issue, the Quarterly’s editor had described her work as outstandingly original, thoughtful, and technically brilliant. He’d probably add off-the-wall when he saw this piece. Bree was right. It to look like a giant egg beater. But Marcus Carter had asked for something unconventional for display in his new medical center, and he’d certainly get it with this piece.
“Well, so long as Marcus likes it, that’s all that matters. Anyway, why are you home early? I thought you were doing a wedding rehearsal until six.”
Bree laid herself along the sofa and bit into a chocolate bar. “Finished early. Not one argument between the in-laws, and not a squeak out of the bridezilla. Can you effing believe it?”
“Not with you winding them up. I still can’t believe you do so much wedding photography. You being the woman who’s vowed never to marry and hates the whole ‘bride in a white dress’ thing.”
Bree chuckled and took another bite. “There’s nothing like a bridezilla challenge and grateful in-laws. By the way, I’ve ordered Chinese.”
Miri looked at her best friend sprawled on the sofa in her track pants and tee. “Rubenesque” was how Miri’s artist friends described Bree’s generous shape. Miri described it as straight out Anna Nicole voluptuous, riot of blonde curls included. Even in her usual dressed-down state, Bree turned men’s heads.
“Bree, you’re still coming to the unveiling on Tuesday? You know how I hate these things.”
Miri had tried explaining to Marcus that she didn’t want a fancy unveiling ceremony, but Marcus, being the culturally conscious type when it came to supporting the arts and keen to show the town that he had a Jamieson work, had insisted. Besides, the work was costing him enough, so she could hardly begrudge him his moment.
“Heck, yeah,” Bree drawled. “All those arty types and the Mayor. Does the Egg Beater have a real name yet?”
“Of course. The Circle of Life. Marcus wanted the spirals to symbolize that however much we change through our lives, our core values remain constant.”
Bree’s large bosom shook as she blew a raspberry. “Jeez, that’s deep. He wants to get into your pants anyway, so he’ll love it no matter what it’s called.”
“Pardon me, the doctor is very discerning. And forget the pants thing. He’s just friendly.”
“Friendly! Is that what’s it’s called? Dr. Friendly Pants keeps asking you out. Why don’t you oblige the poor guy?”
“He’s not my type. And he’s a client.” That sounded lame even to Miri.
“Aw, let’s face it, sweetie, you don’t have a type. When did you last go out or get laid? Why not Dr. Carter? He’ll give you a good physical.”
Miri put on her “that’s so disgusting” face as Bree pumped her hips suggestively. “You’re crude, Bree Matson.”
But crude or not, Bree was right. Miri didn’t go out much, and as for getting laid? Actually, never. But then, trips to the market, the gym, and Body Beautiful for pedicures and waxes didn’t exactly open a path to romance. Of course, she did go out for coffee, but that was just maintenance.
Maybe if she had a good “physical,” as Bree put it, she might have stopped her under-used sex hormones from going into hyper-drive in Nick Brannagh’s office. She’d drooled over every inch of him, and he’d known it.
But him aside, it was the loss of the mill that really hurt. Her dream was gone. It had taken every ounce of strength since the death of her parents two years ago to get this far. Now, two months past her twenty-fourth birthday, she was finally ready to invest some of her inheritance. Her two New York exhibitions had been so successful that she could hardly keep up with the lucrative commissions now rolling in, so the time was right to set up a fully equipped working studio.
From the day the mill went up for sale, she’d started planning. Where the studio would be situated. The exhibition space. The combined art supplies and book shop and small café. The smart website with an image of the mill displayed on the home page with links to information about upcoming exhibitions, an online shop, and art blog.
Looking around the converted sunroom at the back of her parents’ house, she wondered how much more art welding equipment, pots, paints, materials, and books could be crammed in without having to knock the walls down. As it was, the sunroom had been fully strengthened and fireproofed, and the roof raised. The only pretty feature left was the French doors that opened out to the terrace and cottage garden.
The front door chimed.
“That’ll be the takeout,” yelled Bree over her shoulder as she disappeared into the passage.
“Okay,” Miri y
elled back, shuffling through to the adjoining kitchen to get things ready and turn on the coffee machine. Not doing anything could still work up an appetite.
Her parents had purchased the huge two-story Cape Cod house overlooking Charmford Harbor within weeks of the family’s arrival from the United Kingdom eight years ago. Apart from her studio, Miri’s favorite part of the house was the warm, welcoming kitchen, originally designed to flow through to the sunroom for year-round dining. She hadn’t changed a single feature in the kitchen, even though it needed some redecorating after eight years. The expansive wooden countertops, huge oak kitchen table, country-style cabinets, and large bay window with the faded chintz-covered window seat and cushions were so integral to the house, Miri couldn’t imagine it any other way.
Bree set out the packets of Chinese food and poured the wine while Miri found chopsticks and paper napkins.
They sat down to eat.
“I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I ran into Amber today, a maid-of-honor at one of last year’s horror weddings. Anyway, she now works at the Endeavour Hotel.”
Miri scowled down at her plate. “You’re right, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Well,” Bree breezed on, “Nick Brannagh and his foreman or whatever they call those construction types are staying there. She said he’s gorgeous. Nick, that is, not the foreman.”
Miri looked up to find Bree’s eyes fixed on hers like a set of crosshairs. “What? What do you want me to say? I already told you he was youngish and quite good-looking.”
“‘Quite good-looking’! According to Amber, he’s one big sex-on-a-stick. No wonder you came home with a face like a beet! What’s he really like?”
“Just as I said.”
“Oh, pleeease tell me all about him. How old is he?”
Miri sighed and set her chopsticks down. “Perhaps thirty or thereabouts. Why do you want to know, anyway?”
“Because you’re hiding something. How tall?”
Bid Me Now Page 2
