* * *
Rachel looked nearly as miserable as her son as they walked back across the parched grass, leaving silver footprints behind them. The kid looked up at Sean, hazel eyes wide in his white face, and then down.
Making Sean feel like Darth Flipping Vader about to order the destruction of the planet. Hell.
Rachel's hand tightened briefly on her son's shoulder, in warning or support. "Go ahead, Chris."
"I'm sorry, Mr. MacNeill," the kid mumbled to his shoes. "I shouldn't have come into the garage."
Rachel sighed. "And?"
The boy's dark head sank even lower between his bony shoulders. "And I shouldn't have touched anything, and I won't do it again."
"You want to tell me what you thought you were doing?" Sean asked.
"I saw you… Yesterday, you were… I wanted to help," he said.
Sean squashed a surge of sympathy. How many times, as a boy, had he used that excuse himself? "Didn't work out that way, though, did it?"
Rachel stirred. "He didn't mean to—"
"Oh, I know. Good intentions, right? They've gotten me in trouble, too. Or hurt. What if I'd been using the chain saw yesterday afternoon? Would you have 'helped' with that?"
The kid looked glum. That was all right. That was good. Rachel looked sick. Not so good.
Sean cleared his throat. "You got to ask permission, sport. Before you touch anything. Is that clear?"
The boy nodded.
"You don't need to worry," Rachel said. "Chris is not allowed in the garage again."
Sean had been about to suggest something like that himself. Tools and kids… Hadn't he and Patrick decided his workshop should be off-limits to Jack? But Rachel's staunch acceptance of responsibility, instead of letting him off the hook, made him feel guilty.
"It's okay," he heard himself say. "The kid doesn't bother me. As long as I'm around, he can—"
"No. I appreciate the offer, but watching over my son is not your job."
"If he's going to mess around with tools, he ought to learn to do it safely."
"Chris's safety is my responsibility. And I don't want him 'messing around with tools.'"
Her persistent refusal of help—his help—was beginning to tick him off.
"Listen, I can lock my doors, but you can't lock the kid up. If he wants to get out of the henhouse once in a while…"
"Excuse me?" Her voice took on the edge of a chip-carving knife.
Drop it, MacNeill. After the disaster with Trina in his senior year of high school, he'd promised himself no more Mr. Family Man. He wasn't making points with the woman by volunteering to baby-sit, anyway.
But he opened his big fat mouth and said, "Kid's living with his morn, his grandma and his sister. Let him come out and do the guy thing every once in a while."
"Playing with power tools?" she asked dryly.
He gestured toward the chair. "It wouldn't he the first time. Better if he learns how from me."
"Thank you. I'm sure you mean well, but…"
The doubt in her voice woke too damn many echoes from his past.
"But what?"
"You obviously have no experience at being a parent."
Only three months she couldn't know about. The reminder burned like turpentine in a cut. "Yeah, well, I had plenty at being a boy. At least my way he doesn't get hurt and he doesn't gouge a fifty-four-dollar piece of redwood."
"I told you I would pay for that."
"I'll send you a bill. In the meantime, what about teaching Chris a little responsibility?"
Wild color flooded her face. Her knuckles whitened on the boy's shoulders, making him squirm.
Sean felt like a jerk.
And then she drilled right through him with her cool, low voice, each word sharp and perfectly enunciated.
"I've spent the past year learning all about responsibility, Mr. MacNeill. I can teach my son responsibility. But if I thought he needed more lessons, the last person I'd send him to would be someone like you."
* * *
Myra eased into the chair opposite her daughter with a sigh. "We haven't seen much of Sean this week. You two didn't have words, did you?"
Worse than words. Rachel buried her nose and her guilt in the cutting board. She'd been rude. But then, Sean MacNeill had rattled her with his knowing dark eyes and his unexpected offer of help and his unwelcome accusation of irresponsibility.
Irresponsible? Rachel swept her perfectly squared French fries into a stainless-steel bowl. She'd never been irresponsible in her life.
But he tempted her to it. Oh, he tempted her.
"I don't know what you mean by 'words,' Mama. We said 'hello' outside the bathroom this morning."
Myra perked up. "And?"
"And nothing."
If you didn't count the moment of tension when Sean came out of the shower with his clean wet hair and pirate stubble and bland, dismissive smile. She fumbled with the plastic wrap, remembering.
"I think he's having trouble at that job of his," Myra volunteered.
"How would you know?"
"A woman can always tell."
"Not always," Rachel said rashly.
Myra's soft face creased with concentration. "Honey … was there some problem with Doug you never told me about?"
Yes.
"No, Mama. Of course not. Should I make a salad?"
Myra sighed, disappointed of her gossip. "You're always so … practical, dear," she said.
The accusation in her voice made Rachel wince. She got up to turn on the broiler, ignoring the heat it would add to the already stifling kitchen.
"Mrs. Jordan? Have you got a minute?"
Sean's voice, clear and confident. Bent over the stove, Rachel sucked in a ragged breath. He stomped into the kitchen in boots, smelling of sun and clay and man and looking like some construction worker fantasy on a Hunk-of-the-Month calendar. He wore sweat as if a photographer's assistant had applied it with a spray bottle, and a battered blue cap that read Sure, Work Pays Off—But Laziness Pays Off Now.
She backed defensively into the counter and crossed her arms.
"Love the hat," she drawled.
"Thanks." He took it off. His hair was tied back in a stubby ponytail, dulled with dust.
Myra smiled. "Here for dinner? Rachel's making wonderful cheeseburgers."
She ducked her head, embarrassed by her mother's plug of her domestic skills. "School starts Monday," she explained. "I'm cooking all the children's favorites."
He barely glanced at her, his eyes glittering like Doug's after a high-stakes game. The air around him shimmered with suppressed… Temper? Excitement? Her own adrenaline level rocketed in response. "I almost never say no to food. But actually I came to give your mother the receipts."
He slid a battered clipboard across the dark pine table. Myra fluttered, rising from her chair without taking it. Without even looking at it. "Oh, yes. Of course. Let me get my checkbook."
The word "checkbook" rang like the five-minute warning bell that signaled the start of school. Rachel cleared her throat. "What receipts?"
When Myra didn't answer, Sean shrugged and replied, "For building supplies."
"Home repair?" Rachel asked.
"Renovating the garage."
The warning bell turned into a siren. "My mother's paying for your workshop?"
"Your mother's paying for improvements to her property. I'm paying for my workshop."
A little demon of doubt prompted her forward. She twisted the clipboard around. He'd printed a neat list on a yellow pad, like one of her own lesson plans, and stapled a slim sheaf of receipts behind. She scanned them quickly. Paint. Pipes. Drywall. She saw charges for the fan and for the door lock. She didn't find any listings for power tools or skylights or fifty-four-dollar pieces of redwood. Some of the tension left her stomach.
Myra retrieved her pocketbook from the utility cart by the door. "I thought it would be nice to have a—what did you call it, Sean?"
"A mother-in-l
aw apartment," he said, his gaze steady on Rachel's face. She felt the hot blood crawl into her cheeks.
"Yes, a mother-in-law apartment over the garage. He said it could be a source of income for me."
Maybe. "Income?" Rachel asked. "You mean, your rent?"
He hesitated. "Actually, that's the other thing I need to discuss with you, Mrs. Jordan."
Myra paused with her pen extended over her posy-pink checks.
Here it comes, Rachel thought. Another man wanted to take advantage. She could hardly object to Sean's living rent-free at Myra Jordan's expense—wasn't she doing the same?—but disappointment pinched her. She'd actually hoped this one was on the level.
"I'd like you to accept my labor on this project in lieu of rent, at least until the end of next week," Sean said evenly.
Myra blinked. "Well, I guess that would be…" Different, Rachel thought. None of the "uncles" had ever suggested they work for their bed and board.
"Why?" she asked.
He hitched his thumbs in his belt loops. "One, because it's a fair return for my time. And, two, because as of today I'm officially unemployed."
"Oh, dear," Myra said.
Rachel bit back her instinctive sympathy. Someone had to look out for her mother. Someone responsible. "I'm sorry. Fired?"
He laughed shortly. "No. Quit."
"Why?" she asked again.
"What is it with you? Do you stop and gawk at traffic accidents, too? Poke the victims?"
She winced, but her voice was cool and steady. "I want to know. And if you're asking for an accommodation in your rent, I think my mother has the right to know."
"Rachel, dear, I really don't need—"
"It's okay, Mrs. Jordan. She's got a point. And I don't figure either one of you is going to report back to Walt Baxley and get me sued for libel."
"Baxley? Is he your boss?"
"He was. Baxley Construction. 'Fine homes at affordable prices.' Or shoddy ones at rip-off rates, but that's my opinion."
"Is that why you quit?"
"I quit because to cheat the building code Old Walt needed a hired monkey, not a carpenter."
Myra clasped her hands together. "How principled of you," she said approvingly.
Reluctant admiration moved in Rachel. "Integrity is good," she said. "But what will you live on?"
"Not your mother, if that's what has your shorts in a twist." He grinned at her the way Doug used to, back in the days when her good opinion still meant something to him. "Something will turn up."
She'd heard that before, too. The easy way he made light of her concerns drove her nuts. "Did you get a reference?"
Myra protested. "Rachel, really…"
"I don't need Baxley's recommendation. I'm not saying the phone's going to ring off the wall with offers, but—"
The phone did ring, reverberating in the heated atmosphere. Sean laughed, surprised and quick.
Rachel fought the insidious warm-and-fuzzy effect of his laughter. Why was she the only one who saw the seriousness of the situation? She was tired of trying to protect her mother from unsuitable men. She was tired of fighting her own attraction to a laid-back, out-of-work, twenty-something carpenter. And she was sick to death of worrying about money.
She snatched the receiver off the wall. "Hello?"
"Mrs. Fuller?"
Her heart stopped at the sound of that heavy, solicitous voice. "I thought you weren't going to call me here anymore."
"Did I say that?" He sounded genuinely surprised. "No, I wouldn't want you to think I'd forgotten about you down there. I got the last check in the mail, just like you said."
Her heart resumed beating, slamming into her rib cage. "Well… That's good. That's all right, then."
"Yeah, that's great. Only I think you got the amount wrong."
"No," she said sharply. "That's what we agreed to."
"Sure. Only we reached that agreement, you know, before you sold the house. I was thinking now that Doug's estate is settled, you might be able to meet your obligations faster."
Rachel sucked in a deep breath, turning her back on her mother's uncomprehending stare, Sean's intent look. The receiver slipped in her sweaty palm. "No. I can't I'm sorry, but I can't."
"Look, I've got obligations of my own, Mrs. Fuller. It's not good business for me to carry a debt on my books"
She swallowed. "Yes. And I appreciate your patience. But Doug had other commitments, too." Gambling losses. Hotel and casino bills. Unsecured loans. "I can't afford to give you more right now."
"Maybe you can't afford not to. You've got to consider there's more important things than money. There's family."
"Yes, I know what kind of 'family' you come from," Rachel snapped.
The voice chuckled. "That was cute, Mrs. Fuller. That was smart. You're a smart woman. Which is why I know you'll understand when I tell you it's your family you've got to be concerned about."
Terror coiled cold around her heart. She squeezed her eyes shut, as if she could block out his threat, force back her fear. "You leave my family out of this," she said fiercely.
A warm hand closed next to hers over the receiver. Startled, she opened her eyes and found Sean MacNeill at her shoulder, broad and hard and close.
He plucked the phone from her. "I don't know who the hell you are," he growled. "And I don't give a damn what you want. You're annoying the lady. She's not taking your calls, and we've notified the police. Now bug off."
The receiver rattled into its cradle.
The police. Oh, my God. "How could you… What have you done?"
He raised an eyebrow. "I hung up. Don't fall over thanking me, now."
"I won't. Don't interfere. Please. You have no idea what you're getting involved in."
"Why don't you tell me?" he invited quietly.
She wanted to. She almost did. His eyes were steady and kind.
Was she out of her mind? Confiding in Sean could only result in danger for him and disappointment for her. And the threat of the police… Her heart pounded like a sprinter's. She had to protect her children. Bilotti had told her. Warned her. No police
"You don't want to know," she said, moving away from the phone. Away from his solid chest and his warm persuasion.
'Try me."
Myra chimed in from the kitchen table, her eyes and tone anxious. "If something's wrong, you should let Sean help, Rachel."
Good old Mama. When in doubt, rely on the most unreliable male around.
"Everything's fine," Rachel insisted. "1 can handle it."
From Myra's worried face and Sean's skeptical expression, it was clear they didn't believe her.
Rachel fought the lurch of fear. She didn't believe it herself.
* * *
Chapter 5
«^»
Sean frowned as the woman's voice—breathless, urgent, yearning—carried out to the porch.
"I need you," she said. "I'll always need you. Darling, please…"
"Does your antacid medicine work when you need it?" The announcer's rich voice rolled from the television inside.
Sean set another screw into the threshold of the front door. He'd never been a fan of daytime drama. But even before the commercial interruption, it was pretty clear that that guy on Myra's soap, that "Darling," was being taken for a chump.
Sean could sympathize.
He drilled the screw into the frame. Twelve years ago, Trina had told him she needed him, too. Only to decide, when his chance at graduation was gone and his college plans were shot and his heart was irrevocably given to a three-month-old baby, that it was someone else she needed after all.
He shook his head. Definite chump behavior.
At least with Rachel Fuller, he'd never have to worry about being asked to take on more responsibility than he wanted.
I can handle it, she'd insisted.
Meaning, Butt out, MacNeill.
Fine by him. He'd never had to work for a woman's company or approval. He wasn't about to spoil his record fo
r a stubborn high school teacher with two troubled brats.
A stubborn, bossy high school teacher. He checked the level of the door one more time before sinking the screws. It was Rachel's fault he was working on this door. Well, not her fault exactly. He'd offered his labor in lieu of rent. But in Rachel's zeal to protect her mother, she'd presented him with a list of household repairs that would have intimidated Bob Villa.
He targeted another screw. The drill whined and chugged. So, she looked out for her mother. Given his own close family ties, he could admire that. He could even appreciate her devotion to her kids. But they weren't his kids, and he wasn't getting involved.
Too bad he couldn't shake the memory of Rachel's white face that night he'd hung up the phone. She'd needed him then. At least, she'd needed somebody.
He set the drill down on the porch. Since Trina, he'd tried to stay out of the game until he knew the score. It was his tough luck Rachel tempted him to play.
He was caulking under the step when Myra Jordan's serviceable old Buick rumbled up the drive. It must be three-thirty already. He stood to stretch. The car's rear door opened and Rachel's daughter tumbled out, pale-legged, red-cheeked and furious.
He ambled to the top of the steps as she slammed the car door practically in her brother's face and stormed up the walk.
"Nice day?" he inquired dryly as she charged the porch.
"It stunk," she announced. "The kids here are all losers."
She stalked past him.
"Careful of the step," he said.
She threw him a scornful look and then lifted her foot with exaggerated care over the newly installed threshold. He could hear her stomping up the stairs.
The driver's door swung open. His breath jammed in his lungs as Rachel got out of the car in sections: her long, lovely legs beneath a midcalf-length skirt, her glossy dark hair pushed back by sunglasses, her oversize purse and a plain canvas bag thick with teacher stuff.
She looked tired.
Beneath the familiar, almost reassuring, tug of sex, he felt sympathy stir. She looked like she could use a long, cold glass of something—he pegged her as a white-wine-on-ice kind of girl—and a long, hot soak in the tub and a long, slow back rub. Naked.
Don't go there, chump.
Chris trailed up the baking concrete walk, his head low and his brand-new book bag dragging.
THE TEMPTATION OF SEAN MCNEILL Page 5
