by Louisa Trent
“Allow me to jump start your memory. No smoking in the offices of Ruiz Construction,” he said clearly, without raising his voice so much as a notch.
Newsprint hit blotter. “Are we a little cranky today?”
“Not me.”
“Yeah, but I'm always cranky so it doesn't count”
He sighed. “I love ya, babes. I want you around to see me grow up.”
Myra rolled her eyes. “For pity's sake, you're almost twenty-six.”
“An immature twenty-six.”
“Don't I know it,” she crabbed.
“No one can make me toe the mark like you can, cupcake. What would I do without you?”
Spiked lashes fluttered. “Stop guilting me! The no-smoking, post-hypnotic suggestion is working, I tell ya. This was only a small relapse.”
Tomas eyed the tin peanut butter jar lid that subbed as Myra's ashtray. Just as he suspected, it was filled to overflowing. “There's enough ashes on your blotter to put a volcanic eruption to shame. Either you're smoking like a fiend again when you think I'm not looking or you plan on scattering the remains of a long lost relative during your noon to three, lunch hour.”
A sly look stole over Myra's plump cheeks. “Ya know, I'm gonna miss Uncle Ted. He was quite the gent.”
“Myra-” he said in not so subtle warning.
“I hear ya. I hear ya.” She coughed her smoker's hack. “What's eating you all of a sudden?”
“Nothing.”
“Sure, nothin',” Myra scoffed. “You sound like some big bad bully just made off with your...” Here, she reached for her donut box, ducked her hand inside, pulled out a greasy pastry and gave it a wave. “...jelly cruller.”
Any punk who wanted that cholesterol-laden vein-clogger could have it. He wished Myra would start eating better. He was gonna have to make another sneak phone call to her doc...
“I can handle bullies.”
“Right. It's nice ladies like Seraphina Norris who give you the heebie-jeebies. Nice ladies don't bite, ya know,” she offered philosophically. “Not that Seraphina Norris will be taking any nips out of you.”
“She won't, huh?” he said, cocky as usual. He remembered all too well how she had looked at him.
“Nope. The lady is married.”
Tomas’ recollections screeched to a grinding stop. “Married? She is? But she wasn't wearing a wedding band-”
“So-you made it a point to check out her ring finger, eh?”
Damn! That was one ambush he never saw coming.
But yeah, he'd noticed, the same way he'd noticed her pretty green eyes, thick golden-brown hair, and compact curves. Her face said angel, but her body said something else again. Round breasts, trim waist, generous bottom...Seraphina Norris had the kind of womanly softness a hard man like him appreciated.
What was he doing? He didn't hit on married ladies, didn't even go there in his thoughts. Whether or not Seraphina Norris liked to bite during sex was none of his business. Her pretty white incisors were a moot point. If she liked to rake her nails over a man's back, or grab his ass, or cup his balls and squeeze, not too rough, just enough to make his uncut dick give a heads-up, all of that was nothing to him. She was married. He didn't interfere with married women.
Of course, that didn't keep him from envying the lucky prick Seraphina Norris was married to. The fortunate so and so who got to come home to her at the end of the day. The no good fuck who had the right to-
Tomas stopped right there. He was way outta line. Jealousy ain't pretty, and envy never got a man anywhere. Seraphina Norris was taken. End of story.
Except he couldn't get her out of his head, couldn't stop thinking about her, not since she'd squirted him with window cleaner-
And wasn't that real quick thinking on her part? He thought, laughing to himself in memory. Though-if he really had been a punk robber, high on crack, she could've been hurt. Where the hell was her husband? Why wasn't the negligent jerk-off taking care of his woman?
“Do you believe that Seraphina Norris, anyway?” he asked Myra in exasperation over the whole mess. “The kids on the Southside eat cereal three times a day, and she wants to bring culture into their lives. Ever try pouring milk over culture? It gets all mushy, just like her brand of sentimentality.”
“Gotta start somewhere, boss. I'm thinkin’ the Norris woman is nuts too, but her heart seems to be in the right place. She's got good intentions.”
“Good intentions are worthless,” he grumbled. “My bet says Seraphina Norris won't last on the Southside till the end of the month. First sign of trouble, she'll pack up her cello and move back to wherever she came from.”
Myra bit into her donut. “Piano,” she said around the pastry.
“Hunh?”
“Seraphina Norris plays the piano, not the cello. I heard her sing the other night over at the Chamber of Commerce welcome reception. The caterers served those fancy cocktail wieners. The kind floating in grape jelly. You should'a been there. The food was terrific. Let's see, what else did they have-”
When Myra started talking buffet food, the descriptions could go on for longer than he had time to listen. He cut in quick. “Cello. Piano. Same difference.”
“No, they're not. Movin’ a piano is a major commitment. My money's on her stayin'.”
“Not at the Monroe place, she's not! I already told her, I want her out.”
Myra wet a fingertip and drew it across her arched brow. “As a kid, didn't you wanna learn how to play the piano?”
Tomas's shoulders lifted. “Don't know. Could've been me-”
“Sure it was you, Tommie. I remember you tellin’ me that one of the foster homes you stayed at as a kid had a piano and you wanted to learn the keys.”
Myra always called him ‘Tommie’ when she was forcing unwanted memories down his throat, memories he didn't want to remember. He resented the manipulation, even as he gave into it.
Slouching, hands in his pockets, he felt himself revert to Tommie Ruiz, to that unlovable kid whose butt Myra had cared enough about to kick, and kick, and never stop kicking until he had made something out of himself. “That was years ago. What did I know? I was too young to understand that poor kids don't take music lessons.”
“I'm thinkin’ Seraphina Norris wants to reach kids before they ever have to learn that little piece of bad news.”
That said, his best girl tossed her donut back in the greasy cardboard box and pinned him with the same look that had inspired terror in his heart all those years before.
Myra Samuels had been crossing the street, a bag of groceries in each arm, when on the run from the cops, he'd accidentally knocked into her and mowed her right down. He'd been a tough, wise-mouthed delinquent, but he'd been no match for the infuriated Myra when her produce hit asphalt. He didn't know what grief was until Myra let him have some of hers. After reading him the riot act, she stood over him while he wiped her smashed carton of eggs up off the street. Upon learning he was a throwaway kid, she took him in, fed him, and gradually added him to her collection of strays. He'd lived with her and Bill, Myra's long-suffering husband, for two years. They never had any children of their own, but that didn't mean there was ever a chair at their kitchen table going empty come supper time. They were always feeding somebody or other; always taking some lost soul into their lives, into their home, into their huge hearts.
Myra was the one who encouraged him to get his G.E.D., who got him doing small carpentry jobs for her neighbors. When he found out he was good working with his hands, she was the one who urged him to get some decent skills.
After a stint in the military, he'd started up his own construction outfit. It wasn't easy, but Myra had been with him every step of the way. Stuff like that a man doesn't forget.
Tommie Ruiz slumped to the trailer door. “If anyone wants me later on tonight, tell them I'm on the Southside visiting a crazy music teacher.”
“Will do, boss,” Myra said, and went back to her newspaper reading.
* * * *
From behind her rusted screen door, Seraphina asked, “What are you doing here, Mr. Ruiz? You already informed me that you expect me off the premises by the end of the month. As I have a perfectly good memory, there's no need for a daily reminder.”
“Yeah. Well. About that. I was in the neighborhood and I just thought-” He fingered his silver earring. “Listen, I know it's late, but can I come in?”
“I suppose you are the landlord,” Seraphina said, voice testy, and about as far away from hospitable as a tenant about to be evicted could get.
She stepped back and away, giving the man in the black T-shirt and black jeans plenty of room.
Not that it helped; the porch seemed to shrink to half its former size when Tomas Ruiz stepped over the rotten threshold.
It wasn't just that he was tall. Or that he had muscles. Tomas Ruiz had that indefinable thing called presence; he overpowered the space with his raw strength and vitality...and sense of purpose.
She'd always been a sucker for a man with a mission. Too bad Tomas Ruiz's inner calling was all about making a fast buck, and darn the consequences. Too bad he had a powerful impact on her, anyway.
She supposed it was the way he looked at her. As though she was the only one, the only thing on his mind. Awfully seductive, having a young and handsome man's undivided interest. That had certainly never happened to her before.
Fortunately, she was on to Tomas Ruiz. She knew why he was turning on the charm. He wanted her out of the house so he could crank up those bulldozes and get that demolition ball swinging.
Unfortunately, knowing he had an ulterior motive, she was drawn to him anyway.
Sex. It was all about sex. All about hot loins and wet places and her shameful need for a man. Married to a good man, a Godly man for five years, widowed for one, and yet she stood helpless before Tomas Ruiz's irresistibly naughty pull.
Today his glossy black hair was swept back from his forehead and looked wet from a recent shower. The wealth of it was tied at the back of his muscled neck with a piece of rawhide. She wanted to yank at the thin leather tie until that thick mane fell like black Spanish silk through her fingers. She wanted to strip off her cotton blouse, her knee-length straight skirt, all of her underwear, and draw his dark head down to her belly, feel the ends of that long, thick, black hair tickle her bare skin-
What on earth was happening to her? Why was she having these sexual thoughts about this rough-looking, tough-talking, young man?
To contradict her illicit thoughts, she drew back her shoulders and offered him a cool, self-possessed, very balanced and mature, almost maternal smile. “Mr. Ruiz, let's cut through the fat and get to the bare bone, shall we? Tell me why you're here.”
“As a courtesy, I wanted to inform both you and your husband that I'm moving my trailer onto the site at the end of the month.”
“I see. A courtesy. How very thoughtful. But you see, there's only me you need to tell. I'm a widow.”
Even when not twitching with laughter, Tomas Ruiz had a sexy mouth-
Though his brown skin tones were not nearly as attractive with that sickly green cast.
After muttering a coarse word under his breath, he turned greener still. “My language. I'm sorry.” He shook his head. “I didn't know that you'd lost your husband, Mrs. Norris.”
A pulse beat beside a chiseled jaw; dark eyes dropped to the floor. “I apologize for my thoughtless remark. But seeing that you're alone, that's even more reason for you to leave this neighborhood. You know about the crime rate on the Southside. That's why you were so jumpy yesterday-”
“Thank you for your concern, but I overreacted yesterday. I assure you, I will not overreact again.”
To prove that to herself, she ignored the awful attraction she felt for this man. Rather than call him on his ulterior motive, which would have served no purpose other than to antagonize him, Seraphina instead tried a little diplomacy. “Mr. Ruiz-”
“Tomas,” he corrected. “Call me Tomas.”
“Fine,” she said tightly. “Tomas it is.”
Why not call him by his first name? He was practically a teenager; it was the height of absurdity to continue to address him as Mr. Ruiz. She did not, however, return the favor by telling him to call her Seraphina. She was years older, and she needed a reminder of that age difference to prevent the possibility of foolish behavior. Also, the day before, when he'd said her first name, the sexy intonation had done strange fluttery things to her belly. She certainly did NOT want that happening again.
“Tomas-” Goodness! There was that same flutter, low in her belly. How ridiculous! She was an adult woman who'd lost her husband, a husband she had respected in life and whose goodness she missed in death. How could her body betray her this way?
Fiercely disregarding the butterfly sensation, she began all over again. “Tomas, it's no secret that I want to stay at the mansion. It's also no secret that you want me gone. Couldn't we reach a compromise in this situation?”
He looked up. “How?”
She made a wide circular motion with her hand. “Couldn't you build your new houses around the mansion? I mean, the house is located on the very top of the hill. You could still build your houses at the bottom and up along the slope of the drive. Just leave me enough land for parking. And, of course, the summer amphitheater.”
“What the hell-excuse my language—is an amphitheater?”
“An oval or round structure having tiers of seats rising gradually outward from an open arena at the center. Generally used for entertainment purposes.”
“Like a boxing arena?”
“Well-er-yes, in a manner of speaking.”
“Why didn't you just say so?”
Because Oscar de la Hoya aside, she wasn't a huge sport's fan, that's why. “It wouldn't be as large as a boxing arena.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Or nearly as entertaining.”
She was not a sports fan and obviously, Tomas Ruiz was not a music fan. What a relief that they had nothing in common, that there was no meeting of the minds!
“Well-ahem-let's get back to our negotiations, shall we?” she said briskly. “If it's the amount of the rental I agreed upon with Mr. Anderson, I could manage to pay you a little more every month.”
“It's not about the money! Apart from you living alone in an abandoned building in a high crime zone, this mansion is structurally unsound. It'll never meet code for a school.”
“Code?”
“Building specs.”
“I guarantee the mansion will meet...uh...code before the school opens in September.”
“Where's a widowed music teacher gonna come up with the investment capital needed to fix up this dump?”
Money.
With some people, like Tomas Ruiz, it was always about the bottom line.
CHAPTER FIVE
Seraphina smoothed her fingers over her straight tan skirt. “I don't see where my financial situation is any of your concern,” she said primly.
“I'm not getting all in your business. All I'm interested in is getting you off my property. You're not safe here.” He scratched his temple. “Ain't nowhere in this whole neighborhood that's safe for a woman like you.”
She kept her temper. Barely. What kind of a woman was she? She had no idea any more. Though, obviously, this man seemed to think he had her pegged. “Believe me, I have lived in far worse neighborhoods than this one. And, I like it here.”
“Yeah, well, the funky ambience will wear thin pretty quick on a woman like you.”
There was that woman like you again. This was getting her anywhere, time to try a different approach...
“My goodness,” she said, going for sweet, “all I'm trying to do is level the playing field a bit by offering low-income children equal access to music lessons through an extensive, and privately funded, scholarship program. Any, and all donations are greatly appreciated.” She paused, smiled, heaped on the saccharine. “I wish you'd try to understa
nd the needs of these disadvantaged children.”
“Oh, I understand, all right! I understand that Southside kids need more than the pipe dreams of a do-gooder. Hell, I've seen my share of philanthropists like you. You think you can blow into a neighborhood, make a whole lot of pretty promises about establishing social programs, and then split when you get bored or your white gloves get soiled. What you don't realize is that when you get tired of slumming, and hurry back to your neat little life, in your neat little neighborhood, in your clean-window suburb, you leave a bunch of disappointed little kids behind. The Southside is damn messy, lady, and a bottle of window cleaner ain't gonna fix it!”
Seraphina felt her face grow flushed. “That is flagrantly unfair! I am not like that. I've never even owned a pair of white gloves!”
But Tomas Ruiz didn't seem to hear her; he continued on with his rant.
“These kids need something solid, something they can build on, in their lives. They need job opportunities, apprenticeship programs, a way to make an honest living. What they don't need is a do-gooder lady with empty, reckless promises. So, I won't change my mind about the school. These kids don't need music lessons. And I want your tail out of here by the end of the month.”
“Why don't these kids need music in their lives?” Her chin jutted, impressed by his passion, but at the same, defending her own commitment. “Because they're poor?”
“Exactly,” he said, scorn registering in every syllable. “Because they're poor. Ain't that what I just said?”
“I don't think I like your attitude.”
“Ditto here, Mrs. Norris! You think you can solve world problems with one tap of your magic musical baton. If that ain't attitude, what is?”
“It's not attitude when someone tries to make a difference through hard work-”
She stopped. Frowned. “I wonder,” she said, genuinely seeking his candor, “if other people in town feel as you do about the school? I assumed everyone felt positively, because I was made to feel so welcome at the Chamber of Commerce happy hour given on the school's behalf.”
