He tugged at the neck of his T-shirt. “It's hot in here.”
“You're hot?” When he nodded, she smiled and his skin prickled.
“Not hot as in hot,” he rushed on. “This has nothing to do with you or the fact that you look really nice in red.” Why the hell had he said that? Because it's true, a voice whispered. She not only looked nice, she looked sexy. Voluptuous. Ripe. But, hell's bells, he wasn't supposed to tell her that. “This isn't about you and me and sex.” Or the fact that he wanted it really, really bad.
“Sex? Who said anything about sex?” When he gave her a get-real look, she shrugged. “Okay, so I said something about sex. But that was last week. I haven't even mentioned the word tonight. There are lots of things that can cause a body's temperature to rise besides the notion of two bodies intertwined, pleasuring one another”—her voice grew softer, more breathless—“teasing each other, tasting and savoring and…” She blew out a breath of her own. “Whew, I think I'm getting a little hot myself.”
Beau stared at her, into the bright depths of her eyes and barely resisted the urge to press his lips to hers. He'd made that mistake last night and he wasn't going there again.
Because if he did, he knew there would be no stopping. No turning back. If he kissed her again, they were headed straight to Sex City. No detours. No red lights. Not even a sign.
Beau forced his attention to the empty space while she watched. He pulled out a pad and pencil and went about taking the required measurements. He trailed his hand over a nearby wall, feeling the straight lines and imagining how they would look with hand-carved wood attached to them, filling up the emptiness and making the space seem warm and cozy rather than stark and empty.
“You really like doing this sort of thing, don't you?” Xandra asked as she came up behind him.
The hair on the back of his neck ruffled and electricity sizzled along his nerve endings. He did his damnedest to ignore the sensation. His lips drew into a thin line. “It's my job.”
“Actually, it's not,” she pointed out. “Your job is to renovate what's already there, maybe rebuild a few things here and there. But I'm talking about the whole design process. About making something out of nothing. That's what you really like. It's your passion.”
“I suppose so, but it's more than that. It's my connection to the past. To my mother.”
“Did she make furniture?”
“She was more into refinishing, but the idea is the same. I make something out of nothing, and she made something beautiful out of nothing special.”
“Antiques?”
He nodded. “We had a house full of them. Most came from garage sales and rummage shops. They were usually the worst of the worst, either falling down or so scarred that it was hard to imagine how the piece had once looked. But my mom could. She would strip off the old paint and varnish, sand away the scuffs and scratches and refinish the wood, and make it look brand spanking new. My dad called her Doc because he said she could doctor up anything.”
“It must have been really tough on you when she got sick.”
He didn't want to talk to her. Hell, the last thing he needed to was sit and stroll down memory lane with Xandra Farrel of all people.
Then again, talking was a welcome diversion to the alternative—namely kissing and touching and stroking one damnable female hell-bent on seduction.
That, and the fact that there was something oddly compelling about her voice. As if she wanted to listen to him as much as she wanted to have sex with him.
Yeah, right.
Despite the doubt, he opened his mouth and the words came out, “One minute she was this happy, healthy woman and the next, she was gone. I think she suspected she was sick for a long time, but she was afraid to go to the doctor. She kept going about her business, pretending like nothing was wrong until she dropped twenty pounds in a month and my dad checked her into the hospital for a full checkup. She died less than six weeks later.” He shook his head and blinked back the moisture that sprang to his eyes.
He busied himself jotting down another measurement before sliding the tape measure along the floor to get the width. The damned thing bunched up until Xandra hunkered down, grabbed the end, and held it in place while Beau pulled in the opposite direction.
“I remember her. She ran the cash register whenever my grammie stopped at the station for gas.”
“She was always doing something.” He jotted down another measurement. “She got so mad at the doctor because he made her stay in the hospital. She was right in the middle of restoring this dresser she'd picked up at a church rummage sale. The thought of it sitting around half done bothered the hell out of her.”
His hand faltered on his pencil as a memory rushed at him. Of his mother and the way she would hug him when he ran into her hospital room. All too soon, she would push him away, wipe her eyes, and talk about all the things she still needed to do to that dresser.
“I think it gave her something to focus on, so that she didn't have to think about the fact that she was dying.”
“What happened to the dresser?” Xandra asked.
He pocketed the notepad and pencil and got to his feet. “I refinished it for her.”
“How old were you?”
“I was seven when she died. Twelve when I finished the dresser.” At her raised eyebrows, he added, “I'd never refinished a piece of furniture in my life and so I had to take it slow and learn along the way. Not to mention, I had to help my dad with my brothers and the gas station.”
“I can't imagine having so much responsibility at such a young age.”
“Responsibility is my middle name.” The words came out more sharp than he intended given the fact that he'd come to terms with carrying so much weight a long time ago. He shrugged, his voice softer as he added, “I thought it would lighten up a little when my dad passed away and my brothers graduated from college. But now I've got the guys at Hire-a-Hunk to worry over.” He gathered the tape measure up, dropped it into his toolbox, and reached for his ruler and wood-marking pencil. Placing the straight edge up against the wall, he marked a few spots where he wanted to put the main anchors for the shelf.
He put his full concentration into the task for the next few minutes, eager to get his mind back on his work and off his past and the fact that talking about it hadn't stirred nearly the hurt it usually did. Which was why he always avoided the subject.
Until now. Until Xandra.
“I can't imagine what it must be like to lose a parent,” she said, breaking the silence and drawing his attention. “I still have both of mine. Not that I see them that much. They're both involved in their careers.”
“Your mother seems very driven.” He marked a few more points and stepped back to eyeball the space.
“She is. She feels she has a responsibility to women everywhere to enlighten them when it comes to men. Namely, that men are the inferior sex and we women can't let them dominate.”
“Is that what you believe?”
“I believe that women are very strong emotionally. They have to be to survive in a man's world.”
“That's not what I asked you. I asked you if you think men are the inferior sex?”
“I think men and women are a lot more equal than my mother believes. I think men are stronger in some aspects, but at the same time, so are women. I think they balance each other out.” She shrugged. “Not that it matters.”
“You're entitled to your own opinions, even if they differ from your mother's.”
“It's easier to keep my mouth shut.”
“Easier, or safer?”
“I'm not afraid. I just don't like to argue with her and she's sure to blow a gasket if I announce that I don't buy into the doctrine she's been preaching her entire life. I can hear it now: ‘No daughter of mine would dare think such a thing.’”
“Meaning you wouldn't be her daughter anymore.”
“That's crazy. I'll always be her daughter.”
“I know that,” he
told her. “I was just wondering if you did.”
“I—” She caught her lip as if to hold back the rest of what she was going to say. “I, um, forgot something in the other room. Will you excuse me?”
“No problem. I'm almost done.”
“So soon?” Her voice carried from the other room.
“This is the preliminary phase,” he called out. “There's not much I can do without the materials.” He made several more marks and a few lines before turning to his pad. He drew a quick sketch of the image that danced in his head. “All done,” he announced a few minutes later. “I'll just let myself out.” He gathered up his toolbox.
She popped her head around the corner, a box of matches in her hand. “But you can't leave yet.”
“I have to order supplies. I can't do any actual work without them.”
“But I was almost ready,” she blurted before she seemed to think better of it. “I mean, I was almost ready to, um, heat up some leftovers from last night.” She gave him a hopeful look. “I've got plenty if you want to join me.”
I'd love to. “I'm afraid I can't.” He rubbed his stomach and made a face. “I still haven't recovered from those awful rolls. And that salad. And that fish and rice.” Her gaze narrowed and he knew he'd crept up a few notches on her obnoxious scale. “I was up all night, if you know what I mean. And all day. The Porta Potti out front hasn't seen so much action since Warren ate a half dozen chili dogs to win a lunchtime bet.” He fanned the air. “I wouldn't go out there if I were you.”
“I wasn't planning on it.”
“Good.” He winked, gathered his tools, and turned to leave. “Sleep tight.”
“Yeah, right.”
Chapter Eighteen
Xandra listened as Beau's van pulled away from the curb. Disappointment washed through her. She tossed her matches next to the candles she'd borrowed from Albert, loosened the button on her skirt, and collapsed on the couch with her laptop.
After powering up the screen, she opened a file and keyed in another entry on her ever-growing Imperfect Daddy list.
She had the insane urge to key in See Beau Hollister since he was the inspiration for the list of traits she didn't want in the future father of her child, but she'd vowed to be detailed and specific, and so she broke down his bad qualities and added them one by one.
Ungrateful when presented with a home-cooked meal.
Bad-mannered because he insults said home-cooked meal.
Tasteless because he doesn't melt in your arms thanks to said home-cooked meal.
Shocking because he openly discusses bodily functions that result from said home-cooked meal.
Uses a Porta Potti and probably doesn't even think about wiping the seat.
After adding the offensive traits, she opened her Perfect Daddy list and keyed in her must-haves.
Grateful for all home-cooked meals.
Compliments all home-cooked meals.
Will do anything for a bite of home-cooking.
Doesn't discuss bodily functions.
Uses a Porta Potti only under dire circumstances and carries his own disposable seat covers.
She closed both files, leaned back on the sofa and closed her eyes. Not that she could sleep, mind you. Instead, she spent the next half hour daydreaming about tomorrow and the success she was going to have once Beau stepped into her house to work on the bookshelves. Forget talking to him and working her way up to the moment of action. She was getting straight to the point tomorrow night, straight to the seduction, and to hell with subtlety.
That's what she told herself. But when she closed her eyes and pictured the scene, she didn't see them in bed doing the deed. Instead, she pictured them curled up in bed surrounded by candlelight. She had her head on his shoulder and he had his arm around her and they were talking—
Her eyes snapped open and she bolted to her feet. They were not going to talk tomorrow night. They were going to do it and she wasn't going to jinx it by thinking otherwise.
Come tomorrow night, Beau would be off her mind and into her bed. Or at least in her den where there was a nice, soft couch and plenty of room.
Beau was in Xandra's den by six o'clock the next night.
He moved about the room and set up his work space while Xandra watched from the sofa. She still wore the hot-pink miniskirt and matching long-sleeve blouse she'd worn to work that morning. She'd kicked off her shoes, as usual, and sat with her legs folded and her feet tucked under her.
“Don't you have any Wild Woman stuff you have to do?”
“I do, but I would hate to be an ungracious host and leave you all to your lonesome.”
“I'm not a guest. I'm an employee.”
“In that case, I think I need to stay and supervise.”
He ignored the strange flutter in his heart when she smiled again. He spread out a drop cloth, then busied himself by unfolding his table saw and popping the legs into place. He unpacked his tools, plugged everything in and reached for a piece of unfinished cedar he'd picked up that morning.
He was about to power up the saw when he noticed movement out of the corner of his eyes. He turned just as she sprang from the couch.
“I'll be right back,” she told him.
“Take your time.” He watched her disappear and then he turned his attention to the cedar. He powered up the table saw, pulled his safety glasses into place, and started cutting. The next half hour passed in a loud, dusty blur as he cut the wood for the basic frame.
He'd just started to hammer the sides together when he heard her voice somewhere behind him.
“Boy, it smells funny in here.” The strike of a match sizzled in the air. Soon the sweet scent of vanilla and cinnamon and something he couldn't quite name overpowered the sharp smell of wood and filled his head.
He half turned to see her place what looked like a potpourri dish on a burner that sat on her coffee table. “I'll just put this right here to freshen up this place.”
He had half a mind to tell her that no amount of potpourri in the world could kill the smell of freshly cut cedar, but then he decided to let her figure it out for herself.
Ten minutes later he caught movement from the corner of his eye again and turned to see her wrinkle her nose.
“It doesn't smell the same way it did the other night.”
“What did you say?”
“I, um, said it doesn't smell the same way it did at the store.”
“It's the sawdust.” He opened a nearby window before retrieving his nail gun and popping a nail into the ends of the wood until he had the basic frame together.
“No,” she said after a few minutes. “I don't think it's the sawdust. I think maybe I need a double dose.” She added more of the colorful stuff to the pot. “There. I can smell that. Can you smell it?” She turned a hopeful gaze on him.
“I don't smell a thing,” he lied.
Her gaze narrowed. “Surely you can smell this. The aroma's so thick I'm practically choking on it.”
“I'm afraid between the sawdust and the red beans and rice I had for lunch, I'm not smelling much of anything else.”
“Red beans and rice…Oh, no. You didn't.”
He made a big pretense of waving at the air surrounding him. “Sorry, but when a man's got an urge, a man's got an urge.”
She wrinkled her nose and victory sang through him. This was it. She was going to tell him off once and for all and that would be the end of Xandra the Seductress.
“I can't believe”—she blew out an exasperated breath—“that anyone would have the nerve to…” She caught her bottom lip. “I mean, eating red beans and rice really takes a lot of nerve, especially when you know what it's bound to lead to. You've got guts.”
“Ugh, thanks.”
“But I don't think it's just you. I ate some of that cauliflower casserole my neighbor dropped off earlier and I haven't been the same since.” He saw the challenge that gleamed in her eyes and he knew she didn't totally buy his excuse. “It's way too mu
sty in here.” She moved the simmering bowl of incense to an end table closer to his work space. “There. That should make the working conditions bearable.” She stepped back and just stood there.
“You might want to retreat a little. I feel another one coming on.” He scrunched up his face and the challenge in her eyes faded into worry. “Yeah. It's going to blow anytime now.” That sent her back a safe distance to the sofa and he barely stifled a grin.
A sliver of guilt worked its way through him, but he tamped it down. He hated being so crude, but a man had to do what a man had to do to preserve his sanity against a sexy-as-hell woman like Xandra Farrel.
He reached for the shelves and fit them into place in the main frame. He'd never been much for incense or candles. Sure, he'd prayed for them a time or two after Warren finished a particularly spicy lunch, but he'd never needed any for himself, at least not in front of anyone, despite his earlier claim.
His nostrils flared and the scent filled his head and his heartbeat kicked up a notch. He had to admit, it smelled better than cedar dust.
Spicy. Exotic. Cleansing, even.
He drank in another deep breath and another, and oddly his muscles started to relax.
“It's looking good.” Her voice came from directly behind him and he stiffened.
“It's getting there. This is just the basic structure, of course. I've got to do all the detail work and then the stain and finish.” He hunkered down and tried to fit the shelf he'd just cut into its spot, but he hadn't shaved quite enough wood. But maybe if he pushed just a little…Maybe even a little harder…
His muscles bunched as he put on more pressure. Wood creaked and cracked and the edge of the shelf splintered.
“You're much too tense,” she said a heartbeat before she touched him. Warm fingertips closed over his shoulders, her touch heating him through the thin material of his T-shirt. “You need to relax.”
“You don't have to do that,” he said, setting the ruined shelf aside. But she was already kneading and massaging and as much as he hated to admit it, it felt really good.
“I want to. You've done so much work on the house and now you're building the bookshelf. It's just a little massage. It's the least I can do.”
Sometimes Naughty, Sometimes Nice Page 18
