The Fix-It Man

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  Also by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  * * *

  Vintage VLT

  ‘Tis the Season

  As Time Goes By

  Mingled Hearts

  The Nerd Series

  Nerds Are From Mars

  My Nerdy Valentine

  Nerds Like It Hot

  Talk Nerdy to Me

  Gone with the Nerd

  Nerd Gone Wild

  The Nerd Who Loved Me

  Nerd in Shining Armor

  * * *

  Read on for a sneak peek at

  the next Vintage VLT release,

  AN IMPRACTICAL PASSION

  * * *

  Gripping the steering wheel with one hand, Sydney stuck the bullhorn out the open truck window and shouted her message into the rain. “Hurricane Bruce is ten minutes away! You must evacuate immediately!” Through the fan-shaped slash of the windshield wipers she saw the Gibsons in cottage number five dump fishing rods in their SUV and start back for another armload of their belongings. “Things are replaceable, Gibsons!” she called. “Lives are not!”

  The foghorn from the Saybrook Lighthouse bellowed a deep-throated warning through the heavy curtains of rain. As the echo died away, the Gibsons looked at one another and with a nod of agreement scurried back to the car. Sydney breathed a sigh of relief. City dwellers didn’t understand, but cottage number five could be crushed like a cardboard box in the next half hour. After this final pass, she, too, would head inland and abandon Hawks Haven Beach to the hurricane that had been building since early morning.

  Slowly she maneuvered down the single-lane road behind the row of cottages. Perched on wooden pilings, the frame structures looked woefully inadequate to withstand the punch of hurricane-force waves. And it wouldn’t be long. Already the granite jetties were covered by gray, swelling waves that loomed out of the mist to pummel the shore like giant fists. She braked to watch the fists open, grab handfuls of her soft beach sand and drag it out to sea. As the water withdrew, a child’s red plastic pail tumbled into the forceful undertow and disappeared.

  She shivered. How much would she lose? Probably some of the faithful old rowboats tied under each cottage. The screened-in front porches might be the next to go, and then… The foghorn repeated its ominous message, and she looked away from the cottages, the image of destruction too real for her to contemplate.

  She shook her head and continued down the road. At least the Petrowskis had evacuated, and the Thurmans. Thank God the summer crowd disappeared after Labor Day. Suddenly her eyes riveted on the last cottage, where a low-slung import sat in the parking space. Was Colin Lassiter still in number ten?

  With a snort of disgust and fear, she stepped on the accelerator. She’d driven the road twice in the past hour, and he must be crazy or dead to have ignored her. The rain gusted through the window as she yelled once more into the bullhorn. “The Coast Guard demands you leave immediately, Mr. Lassiter!”

  She threw the truck into neutral and deposited the bullhorn on the tattered seat next to her. She could afford to wait a couple of minutes, no more. The gaps between cottages gave her a hyphenated view of waves higher than her head crashing perilously close to the row of front porches. She flinched, even as she reminded herself that destruction of the cottages wouldn’t end the world. In fact, Hurricane Bruce could be the answer to her prayers.

  As water crept under the pilings supporting the cottages and advanced toward the tires of her truck, she glanced nervously at the back door of number ten. Why the hell wasn’t he coming out? Was he sick? Drunk? Knocked unconscious? Taking a deep breath, she leaned on the horn, holding it down for a good ten seconds. Nothing. Pulling her rain jacket tightly around her, she opened the door. She had to go in there and, if necessary, drag him out.

  The raging wind immediately blew the hood of her jacket back from her face, and the rain flattened her pixie cut to her head as she splashed through several inches of water to reach the back of the cottage. No point in knocking, she decided as she leaped up the steps. If he hadn’t heard her by now, knocking was a waste of precious time. Only the screen door blocked her entrance. She yanked it open and stomped towards the kitchen, her boots dribbling sand and water as she went.

  “Mr. Lassiter!” Her shout was punctuated by the banging of the screen door. “Where are you?”

  “On the porch, Miss Blake!” called a male voice.

  “On the porch?” She walked through the living room and stared in disbelief. With blue shirttails flapping in the wind, bare feet planted wide apart on the wooden porch floor, Colin Lassiter was bending over a camera mounted on a tripod. The portion of his anatomy facing her described him perfectly, she concluded.

  “Mr. Lassiter, I suggest you put away your camera and get your ass…ets out of here in a hurry.”

  He straightened and turned, his half smile completely at odds with the crashing waves visible behind him. When he’d checked in two weeks ago, she’d considered his smile and lean good-looks appealing. Today, she had the intense desire to knock that smile right off his face.

  “I didn’t figure you for the melodramatic type,” he said, his gray eyes inexplicably alight with laughter as he surveyed her slicker and boots. “You look like a refugee from the cast of Moby Dick.”

  She tried not to scream at him, but her voice wouldn’t cooperate. “I’m not the melodramatic type! Our lives are in danger and we have to leave the beach!”

  He slipped his hands into the pockets of his white slacks. “I don’t think this qualifies as an emergency, and I don’t have any intention of missing the show.”

  Her jaw dropped at his nonchalance. Her heart was pounding with anxiety, while he was totally relaxed. She blinked, and large drops of water fell from her lashes to her cheeks as she spoke in a hoarse whisper. “You’re crazy.”

  He laughed. “You mean because I ignored all the hullabaloo? Maybe. But I’ve gotten some terrific pictures. Surely the situation isn’t that drastic.”

  Water trickled from her soaked hair and ran down to the tip of her nose, and she wiped it away impatiently. “Mr. Lassiter, I refuse to argue with you. The National Weather Service predicts Hurricane Bruce is the worst storm to hit Long Island Sound in fifty years. We’re going inland to wait it out.”

  He shook his head. “I’ll be fine. I absolve you and Hawks Haven Beach of all liability.”

  She ground her back teeth together. “I’d love to take you up on that, but I can’t. It’s my job to protect ignorant Pittsburgh architects from their own stupidity.”

  His casual pose disappeared, and his chest swelled in anger as he folded his arms over it. The humor was gone and his gray eyes darkened threateningly. “And what if I refuse to go with you, Miss Connecticut Yankee?”

  She measured his long, lean frame with a sweeping glance. At five-eight, she didn’t consider herself short, but she felt that way now. The top of her head would easily fit under his stubbornly jutting jaw. Well, she could match him in that trait. “Obviously I can’t throw you over my shoulder, so I’d have to leave without you. But I’d call for a helicopter. I assure you by the time they arrived, you’d be on the roof waiting—if there’s a roof left, that is.”

  She faced the storm brewing in his eyes and wondered why she didn’t just leave him. Even now they might have trouble getting out. She was risking her life for a stranger who challenged her judgment and had no good sense of his own. He glowered at her, and she glared back with equal ferocity. You fool, she cursed him silently.

  She didn’t move as the first wave grazed the porch and sprayed them with a salty mist, but Colin swung to face the water. He lifted his head and took the thrust of the wind as if reveling in its power. Sydney watched him as the second wave hit the cottage with more strength and the floor under them trembled.

  “Hell,” Colin said softly. “I think you’ve got a point.”

  His voice broke the spell, and she was galvanized into action. “Damn right I do, mister. Let’s go.” She whirled and
headed for the back door.

  “My camera.”

  “Takes too long to pack it up!” she called, walking briskly through the kitchen.

  * * *

  Frantically Colin glanced around the living room as he followed her. His computer! He snatched it off the kitchen table as another wave buffeted the porch and the cottage shuddered. He also grabbed the backup drive and tucked it in his pocket. His sneakers sat just inside the back door where he’d taken them off. The rain reached under the back-porch overhang as he stepped outside, and he dropped his shoes to take off his shirt and wrap it around the laptop.

  As if she sensed he wasn’t behind her, Sydney turned when she was halfway to the truck. “Come on!” she cried.

  “I’ll take the car!”

  “Water’s too high!” she shouted above the sound of the waves. “Come with me!”

  “The rental company’s going to love this,” he muttered, ducking his head and bounding down the steps. He splashed through the swirling water towards her. Maybe she was right about the hurricane. And if she’d judged this situation correctly, he owed her one.

  “That better be important.” She pointed to the shirt-wrapped bundle under his arm.

  “It is.”

  She eyed the bundle suspiciously before turning to wade toward the battered truck, where puffs of exhaust from the rusty tailpipe signaled the road to safety. Just before she reached the road, a surge of water caught her in mid-step, and she stumbled. He grabbed her upper arm and swore as the shirt-cover computer dipped into the water.

  He jerked both the bundle and his disgruntled rescuer upright, and tried not to think of the damage that might have already been done. “This computer is my life,” he snapped when he saw the look on her face.

  “To hell with your computer,” she retorted. “You’re going to be lucky to escape with your skin, you crazy architect!”

  “And stop calling me that,” he muttered, tightening his grip. “Name’s Colin.”

  “I can think of a few names more appropriate right now.” She wrenched away and sloshed toward the truck.

  “I’ll drive.” He closed his fingers over her wrist as she reached for the door handle.

  “Like hell you will.” She shook him off. “Get in the other side. This is my truck and I know the roads.”

  “And I have ten years more bad-weather driving experience.”

  Rain dripped from her chin and venom from her voice as she smiled up at him. “Then you can advise me as we go along, oh ancient one.” Without waiting for a response, she hauled herself into the front seat of the truck.

  * * *

  Water squished inside her boots, her jeans felt as though she’d put them on right out of the washing machine and her throat was raw from shouting. But worse than that was the infuriating man beside her.

  “I’m not that old,” Colin mumbled as he slammed the passenger door. “Just because I have a little gray here and there doesn’t mean I’m two steps from the rest home.”

  Sydney glanced at him in surprise. She’d wounded his vanity! Men. She pressed her lips together and put the truck in gear. Navigating the turnaround at the end of the road required most of her concentration, but she couldn’t resist another quick assessment of her disturbing passenger. Now that he mentioned it, she noticed that his brown hair, darkened by the rain, was also frosted with gray.

  His attention remained focused on the thundering water. “Magnificent,” he said almost reverently, as the waves pounded the wooden cottages.

  She glanced briefly at the foaming sea. “Yep.” Trouble was, she understood his desire to witness this spectacle of nature on a rampage. But she had to get them both out of here. Too much time had been wasted already.

  A trash can rolled across the road, and she braked to avoid smashing into it. The damp brake linings were weak, but they gave enough resistance to stop short of the rolling can. The wind pushed the metal container into the swamp on the other side of the road, and she wondered how much more of Hawks Haven would be in the swamp by nightfall.

  “Sydney, I’m sorry.”

  Her head swiveled. She didn’t think he knew her first name.

  “It must be rough wondering if you’ll lose your cottages, without dealing with a belligerent tenant, as well.”

  She considered his apology. Maybe if they stopped yelling at each other they could have a civilized conversation.

  “But I still don’t think we had to leave.”

  Or maybe not. “So help me, if you don’t —”

  “But I believe you think we did.”

  She managed to control the urge to shout at him again. No point in arguing with an idiot. “We’d better drop the subject,” she said with deliberate care.

  He must have gotten the message because he made no attempt at more conversation as she directed the truck onto the road leading away from the beach. On her left was her winter cottage, built of stone on higher ground and far enough away from the waterfront that it should survive the hurricane. She’d need a place to stay during the rebuilding.

  * * *

  Colin still thought Sydney was overreacting, but whether she was or not, he was stuck in a situation where he had no control, and he didn’t like that much. “Where are we going?”

  “To Grandmother’s house.”

  “Over the river and through the woods?”

  She glanced at the swaying trees lining the road. “I’m afraid it’s over the turnpike and through the woods, and the way that wind’s blowing, I hope no weak trees decide to keel over in our path.”

  “You’re right—it’s kicking up pretty good out there.” The wind whipping the branches against one another built to a roar that rivaled the sound of the ocean, and gusts buffeted the truck as it pushed through sheets of rain. Covertly, he studied her tense face and followed a drop of water as it slipped down the column of her neck to the tiny vein pulsing in the hollow of her throat. Lovely, he mused.

  His architect’s eye approved the symmetry of her profile—deep-set eyes, aristocratic nose, full mouth, strong chin—all poised on the most graceful neck he’d seen in ages. His gaze dropped lower, and although the yellow slicker hid the rest of her, his memory filled in the details from scattered glimpses of her on the beach. He’d noticed how her cardinal-red suit dipped low enough to show off the fullness of her breasts and high enough to reveal a long stretch of tanned thigh.

  Ah, yes, he’d noticed. But he’d been working. He was not working now, and her tantalizing nearness stirred his senses. If the plans on the computer resting on his lap hadn’t been worth the effort he’d put into them, he might have regretted the two weeks he’d spent at the kitchen table drafting instead of making her acquaintance on the beach. But the plans were good. Better than he could have done in Pittsburgh, and he needed that satisfaction. Especially now.

  A soft sigh from Sydney brought him back to the present. “Worried about the cottages?” he asked.

  “Yes and no. They’ve been there all my life, and I’d hate to see them destroyed, but I could use the insurance money.”

  He raised an eyebrow at her matter-of-fact appraisal. Use it for what? He didn’t feel comfortable asking her, so he tried a different tack. “Are you always this practical?”

  She looked his way for a moment. “Generally.” She glanced at his bare chest. “Aren’t you cold?”

  “Yes, but the shirt’s wet.”

  “Oh.” She returned her attention to the slick road. “You don’t have much of a tan for being here two weeks.”

  “I know. I was hoping to get some sun during my second two weeks, after I finished these plans.” He gestured to the computer in his lap.

  She grimaced. “Do you think the computer’s ruined?”

  “I doubt if it’s ruined. Perhaps just damaged. I’ll check it out when we get to your grandmother’s. I also have the backup drive in my pocket. I’d hate to start from scratch at this stage. In fact, it would be impossible.”

  “What are they fo
r?”

  “My company’s bidding on a large arts complex in Pittsburgh on Monday, the sixteenth. I had hoped to send the plans today, but then the storm hit before I finished.” He shook his head. “I should have realized with a Friday the thirteenth thrown in, I’d have problems.”

  “Today’s the thirteenth? You’re right! Oh, but that’s a lot of baloney, you know. There’s nothing lucky or unlucky about any day.”

  He laughed. “Rationally I accept that view, but I swear I’m the most unlucky man I know. Murphy took lessons from me. True to Lassiter’s Law, I invariably pick the wrong lines in supermarkets, flights that get canceled, cars that are recalled. When I decide to vacation on Long Island Sound, the beach is hit by the worst hurricane in fifty years. What would you call that?”

  “Logical. September’s hurricane month. Didn’t anyone tell you?”

  “Well, yes,” he admitted. “But I thought you folks were prepared for this sort of thing. I didn’t know I’d have to evacuate, risk life and limb.”

  She shot him a dark look. “It’s pretty hard to build a waterfront cottage and guarantee it won’t blow over in a hurricane.”

  “I could.”

  Her jaw tightened. “With your vast knowledge of beach cottages?”

  “I don’t need to know about beach cottages. I understand stress.”

  “Well, you’re teaching me a lot about it today.”

  So she was still angry with him. Maybe silence was golden, after all. Besides, she needed to concentrate on her driving. No trees blew down in front of them, but the wind and rain whipped against the truck and she had to zigzag down a country road strewn with branches.

  Eventually she turned into a winding drive that led to a two-story house with white clapboard siding. “And here’s Grandmother’s house,” she said.