A Small-Town Homecoming

by Terry McLaughlin

  He inched back, giving them both some space. What he was about to say required some distance. “And so is the fact that I want you.”

  “I know.” Her catlike smile reappeared. “I’d prefer it if you respected me, or cared—just a bit—about me. But I can work with a simple case of lust.”

  “Good to know.” Damn. He sure did like her direct approach and her feisty attitude. And he supposed he liked Tess a bit, too. He hadn’t been ready to confess to that particular fact, but there it was, right up front. Just like her.

  A guy had to appreciate a woman who could lay it out straight and level.

  “Good to know that fact won’t be keeping you up nights,” he said.

  “Oh, but I’m hoping it’ll come to that.” She tilted her head to one side, toying with him. “Aren’t you?”

  “Is that an invitation?”

  “Do you have to ask?”

  “No.” He smiled, enjoying this particular game.

  She glanced over his shoulder and frowned. “Oh, hell,” she said as she dashed toward her door. “I’ll be right back.”

  He walked to the front of her office to watch the scene outside the bay window. Tess paced a tight circuit on the sidewalk, her temper on display as she gestured from her car to the meter near one headlight. It was obvious her arguments were failing to score any points with the uniformed woman calmly filling out a form on her notepad. Tess took the piece of paper, gave the woman a parting scowl and stomped back inside.

  “Parking ticket?” Quinn asked as the slammed door set the tiny bell overhead dancing and ringing.

  “Clever deduction.” Tess wadded the paper and stuffed it in a pocket.

  “Why don’t you park in one of the alley spaces?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “One should come with the lease.” He frowned. “Talk to your landlord.”

  “I did. He needed the space for another tenant, and I traded for a reduction in my rent.”

  “Seems to me you’re spending your discount on fines.”

  “I don’t need you to point that out.” She batted her hair out of her eyes with a disgusted sigh. “Besides, it’s the principle of the thing. There shouldn’t be any parking meters in the marina district.”

  “I thought the meters raised revenue for the city.”

  “But this is a tourist area. We should be encouraging tourism—and trade—in the city’s most historic area.”

  “Doesn’t seem to me the meters are as much of a hindrance to the tourists,” he said, “as are the merchants who take all the available curbside parking.”

  The look she gave him nearly blasted a layer off his hide. “As I said,” she reminded him, “it’s the principle of the thing. And I didn’t bother setting my alarms because I didn’t think I’d still be here this late.”

  With an effort, he suppressed a smile. “Alarms?”

  “Don’t ask,” she said with another hide-threatening look.

  “All right.” He shrugged. “You’re the one who called this meeting, not me.”

  “Thank you so much for pointing that out.”

  His smile faded. “I’m thinking of fencing in the site.”

  Her expression went blank for a second, and then she straightened and gave her jacket another tiny tug. “How much is that going to cost?”

  “More than what was budgeted.”

  “There’s nothing budgeted for a fence.”

  “There you go,” he said.

  “How will you pay for it?”

  “The only way I know how.”

  “Geneva.”

  He didn’t answer, and he could practically see her squirm. She didn’t want to go begging to her grandmother any more than he did. But one of them would have to do it.

  “It probably won’t prevent any more vandalism,” he said. “Anyone serious about getting in and causing trouble will still be able to do it. But it would make it a hell of a lot easier to collect on an insurance claim if anything else happens.”

  “Right.” She sighed and nodded. “Okay. Make sure I get a key.”

  He nodded and turned toward the door.

  “And don’t forget to keep me updated on everything. Everything,” she added as she scooted past him to grab the knob. “Quinn.”

  He stopped and stared at her, allowing himself to imagine lapping her up as if she were a sugary drink. No harm in looking. No harm in talking, in playing the kind of game where two adults laid their cards on the table. They both knew the score. “Yeah,” he said. “I know you want me, too.”

  “Good to hear,” she said as she turned the knob. “I like to keep things neat and tidy.”

  He inhaled deeply as he passed her, breathing in her white-flower scent as he stepped into the street. And then he climbed into his truck and made a fast U-turn and a faster getaway.

  CHAPTER SIX

  FRIDAY AFTERNOON, nearly two weeks after the vandalism incident at the job site, Tess taped a gone-for-the-day note to one of her front windows. Any other time, she’d have given her new pair of Matisse sandals—the ones with the darling polka-dot bows and the sexy ankle straps—to have a client drop in with a request for her immediate assistance with a design. But today she didn’t want to be trapped in her office whipping up a set of revised elevations for a discount furniture warehouse. Today Tidewaters’ foundation was being poured, and she wanted to be there to witness every moment.

  Feeling like a mother whose toddler was about to take its first steps, she checked her quilted print tote to make sure she’d packed her camera. And then she flipped her Open sign over to Closed and locked her office door before heading down Main Street toward the small public lot where she’d parked her car.

  Things were definitely looking up. Besides sketching the last-minute elevations, she’d consulted with another potential client about a family house and met with a contractor at a commercial site across town. She couldn’t be one hundred percent certain that the big white sign Quinn had erected at Tidewaters—the one featuring Tess Roussel, Architect in neat block lettering—was driving new business her way, but with that possibility and the recent break in the weather, she was suddenly busier than she’d hoped she might be. Perhaps next month, if her customers paid their bills on time, she could avoid dipping into her savings to pay her own.

  She swung her tote onto the passenger seat, slid into her car and sped down Main Street, eager to get back to the waterfront and check out the finish work on the concrete slabs. Charlie had called a quarter of an hour ago to report that the final Keene mixer truck had delivered its load. Tess knew she wouldn’t be seeing anything she hadn’t already seen on other sites many times before, but she’d already missed more of the day’s events than she’d intended. She’d been at the site before seven that morning, watching while Quinn’s crew put the final touches on the foundation forms and waiting for the first mixer to appear. And she’d stopped by at lunchtime with a big pink box of Marie-Claudette’s brownies and six-packs of soft drinks.

  Now she figured it was time for a coffee break, so she pulled through one of her favorite drive-throughs to buy enough for everyone at the site. And since coffee alone was never enough in the middle of the afternoon, she stopped in at Bern’s Bakery again to purchase a dozen apple fritters. The snacks weren’t bribes for Quinn’s crew; they were a legitimate part of today’s celebration.

  Lately she’d made a habit of driving past the site early each morning on her way to work, and late every afternoon at the end of her business day. The groundwork was progressing well and in an orderly fashion—Quinn maintained a clean site.

  But not once had she found an opportunity to have the place to herself. It seemed Quinn was always there. He stayed late, working with a skeleton crew after regular hours. And he showed up early on Saturday and kept at it on into the weekend. She’d even spied his pickup parked near the foundation forms on Sunday afternoon when she’d detoured to the waterfront on a drive-through mocha run. As far as she could see, the man had
no life outside the job.

  She had to admit she was impressed by the way he worked beside his men—no drive-by supervision or watching from the sidelines for Quinn. Which meant he must squeeze in the paperwork late at night or before dawn.

  She could have stopped and asked how things were going, in a friendly manner, instead of scooting past. It would probably improve their business relationship if she’d make an appearance and mention her admiration for what Quinn had accomplished in near-record time. Still, she’d prefer to check on the site when he wasn’t there.

  It wasn’t because she was uncomfortable with what they’d discussed in her office that Monday afternoon following the vandalism incident. There was no point in ignoring the mutual attraction, especially if there was a chance they could enjoy the possible benefits without gumming up the work. A pretty slim chance, given the fact that he hadn’t made a move in her direction, even after she’d given him the green light.

  No, it was because the man made her uncomfortable with his impassive stare and his unnatural stillness. And she didn’t want to hand him an excuse to accuse her of sticking her nose in where it didn’t belong.

  Even if her nose had a right to be stuck in any place she chose to stick it at Tidewaters.

  Several blocks from the bakery, Tess parked her roadster between a row of pickups and the pump operator’s boom truck. Before collecting the coffee and pastries, she brushed back her bangs and then pulled on the second layer of a matched-sweater set that coordinated with the casual tan slacks she’d chosen for today’s wardrobe challenges. And then she carefully picked her way across the muddy job site in her pretty new low-heeled boots, careful to avoid the worst of the mud.

  Circling around a stack of rebar, she paused near the ridiculously handsome driver washing out a Keene Concrete mixer. “Shorthanded today?”

  “Nope.” Jack Maguire flashed a deeply dimpled grin at her as he sprayed the chute. “Spying.”

  “Didn’t Charlie give you a full report?” Her friend had delivered the first load early this morning.

  “Can’t let her have all the fun. I wanted to check on things for myself.” He stepped to the side and hung the hose on its hook. “And I wanted to personally deliver a dinner invitation. For tonight, if you can manage to pry yourself away from all the excitement here. I know it’ll be tough. There’s nothing like watching concrete setting up…unless it’s watching grass growing.”

  “That depends on the concrete. This happens to be mine. In a supervisory sense, anyway.”

  “You’re not going to mark your initials in it, are you?”

  “Please. I’m a professional. I’ve got a stamp. Just kidding,” she added when Jack shot her a quizzical look.

  “I figured. I didn’t think Quinn would let you pull a stunt like that, anyway.”

  She ignored the reference to the contractor and lifted the bag of fritters. “Are you cooking?”

  Jack nodded as he pulled off his gloves to take one of the pastries Tess offered. “Extra-thick steaks, my country-bean salad and a bottle of Napa Valley champagne. To celebrate Tidewaters’ foundation.”

  Tess turned to study the view, her heart swelling with pride and anticipation. Wide, slick surfaces of gray concrete spread along the bay’s shore, boxed in by stake-studded forms. Quinn’s crew guided the power trowels, smoothing the surface as it hardened.

  “Sounds good,” she said. “But I want to stay here until they’re finished.”

  “I reckoned that might be the case. Looks to me like they’ve just about wrapped things up.” Jack stuffed the last bite of fritter into his mouth before removing the chutes and placing them on their hangers. “Another hour or two, then, at most. No problem. We’ll wait till you and Quinn show up.”

  “Quinn?”

  “He’s invited, too. Come on, Tess,” Jack said when he noticed her scowl. “He’s a big part of this, too.”

  “And one of your biggest customers.” She felt a pout coming on, damn it. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t waste any emotional energy on Quinn this week, but she wasn’t having much success with the resentment part of the bargain.

  “That’s right,” Jack said. “Wouldn’t hurt to let him know just how much Keene Concrete appreciates his business.”

  She glanced toward the office trailer where Quinn stood with a clipboard, paging through a thick stack of papers. “I guess I could tolerate his company for one evening.”

  “Big of you,” Jack said. “And safe. Charlie says he’ll probably turn me down. He’s got a daughter waiting for him at home.”

  “He does?”

  She didn’t understand why the thought of Quinn as a parent should knock her off balance. She’d heard a few vague references to his divorce—bitter, was her impression—and more than one person had mentioned something about a kid. People in Carnelian Cove discussed each other’s business; they always had. But few of them, it seemed, had much to say about Quinn—maybe because he had so little to say about himself. Or anything at all, for that matter.

  Still, she’d assumed his daughter was living with her mother.

  Jack tossed his gloves in the truck’s cab. “Must be tough running a business and taking care of a kid all on his own.”

  “Women do it all the time.”

  “Tough for them, too.”

  He leaned a shoulder against his truck in one of his casual poses. “You don’t like him much, do you?”

  “Quinn?” Tess shifted the bags in her arms. “Define much.”

  “At all.”

  She shrugged. “Personality conflict. No, wait—that can’t be it. He’d have to have a personality for that to cause a problem.”

  Jack shook his head. “I sure do feel sorry for the guy.”

  “Because he has to work with me?”

  Jack avoided answering her question by flicking a fingertip affectionately down the tip of her nose. “Maybe we’ll discover he has a personality at dinner tonight.”

  “If he agrees to come.”

  “Leave it to me,” Jack said as he climbed into the cab, drenching his words in his thickest South Carolina accent. “I’ll talk him into it.”

  The mixer’s engine roared to life, and Tess stepped back as Jack pulled away. If anyone could persuade Quinn to be sociable for an evening, it was syrup-tongued Jack Maguire.

  She turned and continued toward the foundation forms, pausing near a plank-and-sawhorse table to hand steaming cups of coffee to Phil and Ned. As she chatted with the men and set down the bakery bag beside the cardboard coffee carrier, she noticed Quinn look her way, fixing that laserlike gaze on her as if he were locking on target.

  What would it be like to be the object of that startlingly acute focus in bed?

  She rubbed her hands over her arms and wandered toward the southwestern corner of the foundation, where his crew had begun the pour that morning. With every step, she was aware of those piercing blue eyes tracking her movements, making her skin tingle with a prickly sensation that had nothing to do with the chilling breeze blowing in off the bay. Would Quinn manage to be pleasant tonight, if he came to Charlie’s house for dinner? Or would he stare at her across the table, upsetting her stomach and torturing her with a different kind of hunger?

  She wasn’t sure she wanted to discover whether he could be relaxed and charming. She was having plenty of trouble dealing with him here, in a work setting, where she was supposed to be in control. As much in control of the situation as she could manage, considering she’d spent most of her time trying to avoid him.

  This was not how she normally conducted her affairs, business or otherwise. This was no way to get a building constructed the way she wanted it, and it was no way to maintain the upper hand in a personal relationship—if they were going to have one.

  She turned to face Quinn, meeting and holding his stare, before he frowned and lowered his gaze to the paperwork in his hands. Score one for Roussel.

  It was a silly game, and suddenly she was tired of playing it. Ti
red of keeping score. It was time to take charge of the situation. She could begin by being relentlessly reasonable and charming this evening, whether Quinn liked it or not.

  TESS SAT at Charlie’s kitchen table at seven-thirty that evening, slicing bread for bruschetta. Her friend stood at the sink, cleaning potatoes to bake in the microwave. “Did you hear that?” asked Tess. “Did you?”

  “If you’re going to complain again about your stomach growling,” Charlie said, “I’m going to cram this potato in your whiny mouth.”

  “Never mind, then. Just ignore the starving guest in the corner. The one who’s helping prepare the meal.” Tess heaved a theatrical sigh and sawed through another length of sourdough. “What time is it, anyway?”

  “Two minutes since the last time you asked.” Charlie wiped her hands with a dish towel and crossed the room to gaze through the window. No doubt she was checking on Jack, who’d been sent to scrub the grill under Hardy’s supervision. “Quinn can’t help it if he’s running late. He had to arrange for dinner and a sitter for his daughter, and he said he wanted to swing by the site to check on things again on his way here.”

  His daughter. Tess struggled for a moment, caught between stubborn pride and curiosity. Only for a moment. “How old is she?”

  “Quinn’s daughter?”

  “No. The sitter.” Tess rolled her eyes. “Is she in elementary school? Junior high?”

  “Elementary. Nine? Ten, maybe?” Charlie returned to the sink and picked up another potato. “You know, you could always ask him when he gets here.”

  “It doesn’t matter. What?” Tess asked when Charlie’s mouth twitched up at one corner. “What are you thinking?”

  “That you have this strange and complicated thing for Quinn.”

  “That’s absurd. The man’s a walking minefield.”

  “I know. That’s why you’re attracted to him.”

  Tess sighed again and reached for the mozzarella. “I hate to be so predictable.”

  “It’s better than being complicated.” Charlie dumped the potatoes on a baking dish. “Or touching off an explosion that might maim a couple of innocent bystanders.”