by Theresa Weir
She straightened her shoulders now. Maybe whoever it was wouldn’t charge her with anything. The neighbors thought the late owner’s professor son had inherited it. Maybe he would be a kindly older man—a philanthropist—who would find her story humorous. Or touching. Who would admire her for the help she’d given to other people. Who would appreciate the way she’d fixed up the place.
Or would consider her a thief, a cheat, and a squatter.
Her head held high, she strode out of her bedroom then down the hall to the living room.
A man was taking off a leather jacket, exposing a tallish, slender frame except for his wide shoulders, his back to her, hanging the jacket on the coat rack by the front door. About five eleven, he wasn’t bad to look at from the backside. Then he turned, and her breath sucked in, and it felt as if someone had kicked her in the stomach.
Maybe because this mattered so much, a pivotal moment in her life and her son’s life, time slowed, and the seconds dragged out to moments, the details imprinting in her brain. His eyes, flame-blue and deep-set. Her gaze clung to his, yet she noted the shadows under his cheekbones, his full mouth, and the clean lines of his jaw. His black hair shot with premature gray belied his skin, firm and unlined. An anomaly.
She suspected this man had many anomalies.
Her second suspicion was that a man that good-looking wouldn’t be as sympathetic to her plight as an ugly one.
Why oh why couldn’t he have been deformed and ugly?
Squaring her shoulders, she took a deep breath and headed toward him with a wide smile and her hand out, as if she were sent here as the town’s official greeter. “Hi! It’s nice to meet you. I’m Maddie Barrymore.” She may as well tell him her real name. He could easily find out what it was.
His eyebrows rose, but he shook her hand. “Related to the acting Barrymores?”
“Not that I know, though my stepmother claims we connect somewhere.”
“As in the wicked stepmother?”
“Not really. I wish she and my dad lived nearby, but my dad is stationed in Alaska. You’re Mr. MacLeesh, aren’t you?”
“Logan MacLeesh. Are you going to ask me for identification?”
“Yes.” She was taking a chance here, but she’d taken a chance every day she’d lived in his house. She’d never thought of herself as a risk taker, but she’d lived as one for five years already, so perhaps she was fooling herself.
The look he gave her now was amused. No question about it. He slid his wallet out of his back pocket and took out something, stepping closer to hand it to her.
She grasped the plastic card and saw it was a California driver’s license. Even his driver’s license picture looked good. Nothing like hers, which could be used as a “don’t” image for photographers. From his birth date, she saw he was thirty-three, only six years older than her.
Not that the age difference mattered.
Or that there was no ring on his left hand.
She handed the license back to him. “Would you like me to take you on a tour of the place?”
“My place?”
She kept the polite smile on her face. “Yes.”
“My lawyer told me the caretakers were an older couple. Did they ask you to show it to me?”
Her smile dipped. He wasn’t falling for her show of confidence. He knew. Damn it, he knew.
“No, they have nothing to do with my presence here.”
He nodded, not taking his eyes off her, pursing his lips—especially the full lower lip—as if considering what to do with her.
She knew what she needed to do. Bluff him into letting her go without punishing anyone else. Already she held her head higher, a gesture of poise instead of worry, her smile fixed in place. The one that said I-like-you-and-I-know-you-like-me-too.
“So, you realize I’ve been living here?” she asked.
“You mean squatting.” His striking blue eyes roamed down her body, very slowly, then up again. Like she was a piece of meat.
She hated it. Yet her body didn’t hate it, her skin prickling, hormones waking up after a long sleep.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“You wouldn’t believe me.”
“Try me.”
“I know what I’ve done was—”
A meow cut through her words, and paws padded into the living room from the back bedroom. The next second, Ginger stood in front of her, meowing at him, a whole string of meows and mewls and mrrrooos. Each with its own inflection and tone.
He waited until Ginger was done before jerking his gaze up to Maddie. “I get the feeling your cat is telling me off.”
“Oh? You have a guilty conscience?”
His cynical half smile came back. “Do you?”
“You want the whole story?” She gestured behind her. “It’s not short. Would you like to hear it in the kitchen? With coffee or tea? Or cocoa? I have pumpkin bread.”
His lips twitched, his blue eyes glinting, all the signs of held-back laughter.
Her tension eased, and she gave him a tentative smile.
“You’re something,” he said.
She suspected that might not be a compliment but said, “I’ve always thought everyone is something.”
“Coffee sounds about right to me.” He gestured to her to go ahead of him.
Without saying a word, she headed to the kitchen. At the first step, she thought of emphasizing the movement of her hips instead of her usual straight-forward, get-me-to-where-I-need-to-go stride. But she didn’t think a little jiggle would impress this man, and it would just embarrass her.
“You live here alone?” he asked as they entered the open kitchen. “Besides the cat?”
“I have a son.”
“How old?”
“Four years, six months.”
“How long have you lived here?”
She took down a mug for him. Hers was already on the counter. “Five years.”
His eyebrows rose. “So you were three months pregnant when you moved in.”
That was a mild reaction to her admission. She didn’t know what to make of him. Didn’t know if it was a good thing or not. “You’re good at math. It’s nothing to do with Alma and Dexter.”
He looked blankly at her.
“Dexter Young is your caretaker,” she said. “Alma’s his wife. I gave them the impression I was here with your permission.”
“Why?”
“I was broke and pregnant. That’s the short explanation.”
He stared at her, unresponsive. She turned to the counter, her back to him. Last Christmas, she’d splurged on one of the pour-one-cup-with-a-push-of-a-button coffeemakers, and now she wished she would’ve saved the money—even though it’d been on sale—because if this didn’t go right, she’d need every penny she could scrounge up to pay a lawyer.
She brought two mugs of coffee to the round kitchen table first then cut two thick slices of pumpkin bread with walnut and pineapple, one for him and one for herself. She took the chair across the table from where he stood. If she dined and drank coffee with him, it might make him reluctant to charge her with anything.
“I had a long drive,” he said, sitting with his legs apart, “and I’m hungry. Otherwise I wouldn’t be breaking bread with you.”
A shiver quivered through her. He knew all the angles.
He ate the pumpkin bread quickly, his eyebrows going up again. Only then did he take a sip of coffee. He looked down at her slice of pumpkin bread.
She slid it across to him. “I’ve lost my appetite.”
“I’m not letting you off the hook for two slices of pumpkin bread, no matter how good it is. What about your son’s father? Does he have anything to do with this?”
“The day after I told him about the pregnancy, I came home from work and he was gone.” She grimaced. “Along with my GPS and everything else I had of value.”
He looked at her, unblinking, not saying anything.
She put her hand around the mug. The w
armth calmed her nerves a bit. “My sister and brother-in-law live with their two kids in Eagleton. It was just one then. I was going to stay with them until I saved enough money to get my own place. Driving to their place, I got stuck in your driveway during a blizzard. Don’t ask me how.” She glared at him, though glaring probably wasn’t the smart way to handle it.
Be charming, she told herself. Pretend you’re a nice person who only did what you did because you had no choice.
But she couldn’t say that. There were always choices.
She wasn’t even going to mention Ginger running in front of the car. It would sound manipulative, as if she were using her cat to soften him up. Especially to this man. He had a look of a cynic, a man who’d seen the dark side of life. And if he saw the bright side, he’d keep looking until he saw the speck of tarnish.
She couldn’t deny that her specks were easy to find.
“Then Alma stopped to help me,” she continued. “Because I was on your driveway, she thought I was going to stay here. And I, uh, well…” She made a face. “I let her think that.”
“She gave you the idea?”
Maddie jerked her head up. “No! Alma had nothing to do with it. When I was a child, I was captivated by the Puss in Boots story. If anything gave me the idea, that’s it.”
He brought up his hand and scratched the cleft in his chin, his eyes narrowed, and he rubbed his chin slowly.
She picked up her coffee and swallowed, needing the caffeine energy boost.
“Sounds like you know a lot of stories.” His wry voice told her he wasn’t giving her a compliment.
“I’m my son’s official storyteller.” She pushed loose strands of hair behind her ear. His gaze followed her movement. Her face warmed, and she spoke quickly. “I was going to just stay until after Christmas, but then my sister was having problems with her pregnancy. There were a few bad months for her. Having me in their small house would’ve been hard on them.”
“And after that?”
“By the time the baby was born, I got a job at…well, in town.”
“Where in town?”
Her face heated. “The town hall.”
His lips twitched once then straightened to a line. “You work at the town hall?”
“Yes. I already had three years of college, and I could type. My former employer gave me a good reference. And by then…”
“By then what?”
“Nothing.” She shook her head. By then she’d had her first temporary guest—a local woman whose boyfriend had kicked her out of their house and moved in his new girlfriend.
He looked at her for a long moment, and it felt to her as if he knew, though that was impossible. “Show me the rest of the house,” he said, getting to his feet.
She stood, feeling numb. At least he wasn’t calling the sheriff yet. If he did that, everything she’d worked for would fall apart, even more than it had already. The town board would fire her. How could they trust her? And it would be hard to get another one. Who would want to hire a squatter?
She started with the former sewing room in the back, converted into a bedroom for Zach, and across the hall, the bigger bedroom for herself. He peered at the half-packed suitcase without saying a word before heading to the stairway, taking the lead.
Upstairs, he looked at the big bedroom with the queen-sized bed and asked her if that’s where the others had stayed.
Her breath sucked in again, and she stepped away from him then made herself stand still. “You know?”
“When I stopped at the local grocery store, I was accosted by three people who thanked me.”
“This is going to sound corny, but when I first stayed here, I promised myself that, if I could, I’d help other people in need.”
“By letting them stay in my house? Without my permission?”
“I shouldn’t have done it. I know it.” She looked straight into his eyes. “But the house was empty for years. As far as I knew, the real owner had forgotten about it. And…and…” She raised her hands then dropped them.
He just stared at her. She wanted to wrap her arms across her chest, as if to protect herself from his eyes that saw too much. But she didn’t. The gesture would tell him she was nervous, that she was hiding herself from him.
“Why didn’t you stay upstairs?” He gestured at the bedroom. “It’s much bigger.”
She paused. Would he believe her? Well, since he was standing in front of her, waiting, she had no other choice but to answer truthfully.
“I thought if I stayed in the smaller rooms, I’d be taking less advantage of you.” She bit her lower lip then realized what she was doing and released it. “I have no excuse for what I’ve done, but I can pay you rent for the five years I’ve lived here. I know what it costs to rent a home in the town, and as soon as I got my job, I set up a separate bank account. Every month, I’ve been depositing money to pay the owners.”
He continued to stare at her, and she put her weight on one foot then the other. His lips were curved up, but it was a cold smile, and his eyes were still narrowed, as if he was thinking of a way to punish her. She could read it in his face. His very handsome face.
It was a good thing she didn’t go for handsome men anymore. “I can go to the bank with you right now and pay you with cash. Or I can write you a check. Or…or…”
“I have an idea,” he said then headed downstairs, letting her follow him or not. Letting her take her sweet time, as if she really had a choice.
She headed downstairs after him.
Chapter 4
Logan didn’t know why he was doing this. Amusement? Pity? At least she hadn’t blamed anyone but herself. Maybe that was her plan. Be the brave little soldier girl. So much more sympathetic and likable than if she cried and whined.
“I can just leave,” she said, a nervous edge in her voice. “Give you the money and go.”
He didn’t answer her, gazing at the living room. Despite the cottage look on the outside, the living room was open to the kitchen, giving it a modern feel. He took in the light gray walls and the aqua sofa with orange pillows. Modern mixed with traditional. His grandmother’s furniture had been heavier and fussier. “It looks different.”
“I painted and changed the furniture. It was, um…”
“Ugly,” he finished.
“Not my taste,” she said firmly. “The old furniture is in the attic and the basement. I didn’t touch the upstairs, except to clean and change the bedding. I can easily take my stuff out and return it to the way it was.”
“No. Leave it.”
She sucked in her lips between her teeth then quickly released them and frowned at him instead.
What the hell was he going to do with her? Charge her? Call the cops? Kick her ass to the curb? Let her work off the rent?
He’d come here to be alone, but being alone hadn’t worked for him for the last three months. Not in California. Not in New York. Not in Italy. Not in Greece.
But in the few minutes he was in the house, she’d entertained him. Listening to her, he’d felt…curious. A couple times, he’d even felt on the verge of laughter.
“You know who I am?” he asked.
Her forehead creased. “Are you an actor? You look familiar.”
He screwed up his lips. “I’m a…writer. And director. And producer.”
“What did you write?”
“Never mind.” He hadn’t called himself a writer for years and didn’t know why he’d mentioned it. “It was long ago and far away.”
She nodded, not asking any other questions. He narrowed his eyes. “You’re going to leave it like that?” he asked, not believing she’d do that. No woman he knew would leave it.
“Sure. I can Google you later.”
He laughed, and he realized that this was his first real laugh in the last three months. And the gray fog that had wrapped around him since he’d left California had—
“Why are you staring at me?” she asked.
Thinned, he thought
. The fog had thinned.
“You amuse me. I have an idea…”
She sat up straight, invisible prickles shooting off her skin. He could practically see the cynicism in her eyes. The knowledge that men usually did have an idea, and it often involved nudity.
“Nothing like that,” he said.
“Like what?” She frowned suspiciously.
“Kinky.”
Her cheeks flushed a deep vermillion.
“You don’t have to worry about me making unwanted advances. Would you believe me if I said I was under the spell of a dark queen?” He smiled as he spoke, but there was no smile inside him. Just the blackness. “That she stole my heart, and unless she’s nearby, I’m heartless?”
“Heartless? Does that mean…” She lowered her gaze to below his belt and winced. “Never mind.”
He held back a grimace. For a woman who seemed so proper, she was clearly having improper thoughts. He was almost tempted to tell her that his dick operated just fine, so he could see her face turn the color of the inside of a ripe watermelon.
As if she read his mind, her eyes shot up, questions still in their depths. Hazel eyes, with brown surrounded by green that was surrounded by dusky blue, and not medium brown, as he’d first thought. Everything about her was like that. His first impression had been of an ordinary woman. Attractive but not stunning. Medium height, medium weight. Brown hair with a bit of red and a bit of a wave, falling just below her shoulders. Practical but silky. There was quietude to her but enough spunk that she didn’t fade into the background.
And she wasn’t the scheming opportunist he’d thought she was when he’d come into the house and she’d walked toward him with the fake smile.
And there was one more thing. Nothing about her screamed sex…but from the first sentence she’d spoken to him, the first touch of their hands, he’d felt the whisper of the attraction, drawing her to him like a starving dog to a steak.
This was a bad idea.
But what did he have to lose? If it didn’t work out, he could pack up and leave.
He’d make sure she and her son left, too.
“I started off as a writer,” he said. “I wrote one screenplay when I was twenty-two. No one wanted to make it into a movie, so I did it myself.”
