His tone dared her to challenge his claim to his turf. But it never occurred to Hannah to try. As tough as he was, as guarded and combative as he could be, he had come back to claim the only thing in the world that was truly his. That his home mattered to him so much touched her more deeply than she would have imagined possible.
You make a place for yourself. Even if you’re the only one in it.
The laughter of children drifted across the water. Drawn by the sound, Hannah glanced up the dock to see a young family headed for the tour boat. An instant later, her glance jerked to her watch. With a mental moan, she grabbed the sidewall behind her and rose to her feet.
“You’re late,” he concluded.
“Am I ever. I told Brenda I’d be back fifteen minutes ago. She can handle soups, but not the grill. Look,” she said, not quite sure when she’d made the decision she was about to propose. “The space under the café is big and it’s vacant. It used to be a welding shop, remember? If you think it would work, you could rent it for your boat. You don’t have to answer me now,” she told him, holding her hand palm out when his eyebrows jammed together. “Just think about it and get back to me. I’ll talk to you later.” She looked from his livid eye to the scrape on his knuckles as she backed toward the stern. “Take care of yourself. Okay?”
Chapter Five
Hannah pushed the heavy mop across the kitchen floor, throwing her back into the effort and hoping she wouldn’t throw it out in the process. All she wanted was a hot bath, a cup of tea and something to read that didn’t have ingredients listed in it. Ten minutes more and that dream would be hers.
The café was closed for the evening, the salt and pepper shakers refilled, the grill scrubbed. Her secret apple walnut batter sat in the refrigerator waiting to be baked into fresh muffins in the morning, and Eden, who’d served the dinner shift, had taken the leftovers from the day’s special to the church for its shut-in program to save Hannah the trip. The day had been a long one, but it hadn’t been as profitable as the Saturday before. The stream of customers had been slow but steady from noon on, and there’d been no time for a real break since she’d come back from the dock.
The scent of green soap and chlorine bleach annihilated the cooking smells that had earlier filled the room as she attacked a section of institutional beige tile by the double ovens. If her friends in Minneapolis could see her now, they’d never believe it. Hannah Davis, wife and business partner of Chef Gregory Davis, whose artistry with a sauté pan was legendary among the Twin Cities’ movers and shakers, scrubbing the floor. There had been no less than forty people on their staff. Ten on janitorial and back kitchen alone. She had gone from working as a sous-chef in his original restaurant to being the always fashionably attired manager and hostess in the popular establishment they’d owned together. Anyone who’d known her then would take one look at her now and think she’d hit rock bottom.
She pushed a swath of her hair back with the sleeve of her worn sweatshirt and dipped her mop in the bucket. The thought of how appalled those people would be pointed out one of the more glaring differences between herself and what she’d left behind. She didn’t mind scrubbing. And while her ability to present lamb medallions on a bed of sautéed arugula and make the dish look like a flower was totally wasted here, she actually preferred preparing simpler, heartier fare. She was exactly where she wanted to be. If she was missing a few of the dreams she’d once had, she’d just have to learn to get along without them. The only thought in her musings that bothered her at all was that those people really hadn’t been her friends. They’d been Greg’s. Not until they’d parted had she realized how totally his circle had eclipsed hers.
She was still frowning at that thought when she heard the squeak of boards groaning under weight. When the sound came again, the focus of her frown shifted.
In the past few months, she’d become accustomed to the groans of the old building, as comfortable with them as she was her own skin. But what she heard over the classical strains coming from the CD player wasn’t just the creak and moan of wooden beams settling for the night. The distinctive sound came from the back steps. Specifically, the third and fourth steps from the top.
She turned down the volume, still listening, and caught the sharp raps of a double knock. The back entrance was seldom used except for deliveries, and no supplier she did business with made deliveries at ten o’clock on a Saturday night. Had she still be in the city, there’d have been no way she would open that door. Not being there alone as she was. But this was Pine Point, and the odd way her heart was beating had nothing to do with the threat of physical danger. As she moved across the room, still clutching the mop, she had the feeling she knew exactly who was there.
The glass storm door kept out the cold when she pulled open the inner one. She wouldn’t have noticed the deep chill, anyway. Damon stood on the small landing, a mountain of male skepticism in a black leather jacket. His hooded glance flicked over her frame, the lemony glow of the porch light turning the bruises on his face a sickly shade of charcoal.
She reached for the aluminum handle, flipped the lock and pushed open the glass door.
Damon stayed right where he was.
“Were you serious about that offer this morning?”
Her hand tightened around the mop handle. “I wouldn’t have mentioned it if I hadn’t been.”
Something shifted in his gray eyes, but his tone remained as flat as a fly on a windshield. “Then I need to look at the space. Is this a bad time?”
Anyone else would undoubtedly have told him that the hour was hardly convenient for an impromptu tour. Had he been anyone else, Hannah might have mentioned that herself. But she suspected that Damon had come as late as he had on purpose. It was the only way he could avoid running into the sort of problems he’d encountered there before.
Wondering how often he went out of his way to avoid people, suspecting from the way he’d tried to avoid her and Mr. Lindstrom the day she’d met them that he did it more often than not, she pushed the door open wider. “I’m just finishing here. Come on in while I get rid of this.”
He hesitated a moment, his hooded glance darting over her shoulder as if he were checking to be sure she truly was alone. Seeing no one else, he grabbed the door when she turned and followed her in to close out the cold.
She could feel his silent scrutiny on her back when she dropped her mop in the bucket and headed into her office. She had started out fresh that morning, but she now felt as wilted as old lettuce. Wisps of hair had loosened from the clip at the back of her head and the faded World’s Best Aunt sweatshirt and holey jeans she cleaned in looked like something a street person would reject.
Struck by the thought that she cared more about what Damon thought of her than she would have the people she’d once considered friends, she plucked a key from the corkboard above her fax. The realization that she wanted him to care about her caught her so off guard, she didn’t have time to question it. “You can go ahead and look around downstairs if you want. There’s a light switch about three feet to your right when you first walk in. The switch for the main lights is back by the electric box.”
Damon stood just inside the door, his dark features masked as he glanced around the small, efficiently arranged room. Steam rose from the dishwasher next to him, the machine finally silent now that it had moved into the dry cycle. The white walls looked as if the paint had nearly been scrubbed off of them, and the stainless steel surfaces of the preparation areas and the grill had been scoured and polished until they gleamed as much as their age would allow. The kitchen wasn’t modern by any means, but it contained the equipment she needed and it was clean. Anything that could sparkle, did.
When his glance finally returned to her, she couldn’t help thinking that he looked as if he weren’t sure he should touch anything. Then she caught the tightness in his jaw and she realized why he hung back by the door. He wasn’t venturing any farther inside because he didn’t want to be there in the fir
st place.
The only reason he had come was because he needed a place for his boat. As she eyed the scabbed-over gash above his eyebrow, she wanted to believe that a sense of fairness and practicality was the only reason she’d invited him.
“How’s your headache?”
“Better.”
“How about your ribs?”
“I never said my ribs hurt.”
She eyed him evenly, wondering why men in general and this one in particular regarded pain as an affront to their masculinity. “You hardly had to.” She dangled the brass key in front of him. “You winced every time you took a deep breath this morning. I’d be willing to bet that you’ve either wrenched or bruised your shoulder, too. You didn’t say anything about that, either.”
The firm line of his mouth pinched, but he didn’t deny her observation. He didn’t even seem surprised that she’d noticed as much as she had. Looking as if he just wanted to get his business there over with, he palmed the key and turned to the door. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Take your time,” she told him, and turned to finish her task.
The open space that had once housed a welding shop was as cold as a meat locker. With a scuffed concrete floor and illuminated by banks of fluorescent lights, it was just about as inviting as one, too.
Hannah wondered what Damon thought of the area when she entered it five minutes later. She’d used the inside stairway rather than the outer one he’d taken, and she’d found him near the back of that large, empty space. He had his hands planted on his lean hips and was looking from the large white freezer on the end wall to the long glass box on the table under the back window. He didn’t look terribly pleased.
“I had the freezer brought down here so there’d be more room in the kitchen,” she said, speaking quietly so her voice wouldn’t echo. “And those are my herbs,” she added, since his attention had settled on the portable greenhouse. “I like to use fresh ones, so I grow my own. If they won’t be in your way, I’d like to leave them down here. This side of the building gets the afternoon sun.”
“They won’t be in the way.”
Damon’s attention slid from the table-size glass structure with its profusion of green and silvery-leafed plants. He hadn’t a clue what any of them were. But they clearly thrived under her care.
“Do you think this would be big enough for you?”
It wasn’t the size of the place that had him concerned. Though a higher ceiling would have been nice, the space would suit his purpose quite nicely. The previous occupant had obviously worked on large equipment and installed the double, barn-type doors by the entry door that would make access with his boat possible. The steel bracing at the ceiling would be perfect for his hoist. The lighting was even better than he’d expected. What bothered him was the woman who owned it.
He didn’t know what to make of her. Unlike everyone else, she simply refused to cut him a wide berth. And when he tried to push her away, she simply pushed back. Her didn’t quite understand her physical response to him, either. She hadn’t pulled away from him that day in the café, but she’d seemed almost confused by the electricity between them. He could still picture the awareness that had been in her eyes, could still feel the way she’d unconsciously turned into his hand when he’d touched her face. The pull between them was as strong as currents in a flood. And those silent, eddying currents held the potential to be just as dangerous.
“Why are you willing to rent to me?”
Her eyes darted from his, her stance becoming protective when she crossed her arms over the jacket she’d pulled on over her cleaning clothes. “You know that winter business is slow here. I can make it through to summer if it doesn’t drop off much further, but I could be in trouble if it does. Or if something breaks down and has to be repaired or replaced.” Her shoulder lifted in a shrug that wasn’t anywhere near as dismissive as it could have been. “I can use the money.”
He wasn’t sure what he’d thought he’d hear. He’d just hoped that her offer hadn’t had anything to do with pity, or that principle she felt so compelled to defend. He didn’t want it to be personal.
“How much do you want?”
“I have no idea what boat space goes for. You’ll have to tell me.”
She trusted him to do right by her. Determined to do just that, for his own sake as well as hers, he gave her the figure he’d paid last year, then told her he’d double it because he was getting so much more space then he’d had. He’d also pay whatever extra it cost to heat the area.
She was fine with the utility arrangement. It was the rest of his offer she protested.
“That brings it to more than what that During person wanted you to pay. You can just pay me the rent you paid last year.”
He mimicked her frown. “You’re a landlord,” he reminded her, annoyed further by the fact that the expression pulled at his eyebrow and made the cut above it sting. “You’re not supposed to turn down rent.”
“Well, I’m not going to take double. How about paying what you paid, plus twenty-five percent?”
“It’s not just that he was going to jack up my rent,” Damon explained, since she’d obviously missed the main reason he’d been so ticked at During. “He was going to cut my space so I couldn’t work on my boat. That was a bigger deal to me than the money.”
“Thirty percent?”
“Keep going.”
“I’m trying to be fair here, Damon. I don’t know how much it costs to remodel a boat, but it’s bound to cost...”
“Refit.”
“What?”
“You remodel a house. You refit a boat.”
People who understood nautical terminology apparently had little tolerance for those who didn’t. Damon sounded as tutorish as Mr. Lindstrom had when she’d called Damon a boss instead of a skipper. “Refit a boat,” she repeated, fighting exasperation. She was trying to make a point here. She was also trying to be fair. He wasn’t making either very easy. “As I was saying, it’s bound to cost you a bundle. This area was just going to sit here empty, so I really think adding thirty percent is fine.”
“How did you ever survive in the city? Or manage to run a business, for that matter?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m really curious to know,” he added, though he sounded more critical than anything else. “You’re not supposed to negotiate a price down when you’re the one with the property.”
“I wouldn’t criticize my business practices if I were you. You’re the one trying to negotiate the rent up. So,” she continued before their disagreement could get any more ridiculous, “do we have a deal, or not?”
His eyes narrowed, his exasperation with her as vivid as the bruises on his face.
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“Do you always get your way?”
“Rarely.”
“Why don’t I believe that?”
She smiled sweetly. “Maybe you’re not the trusting sort.”
“You got that right,” he muttered. He wanted no favors from her. If she’d let him pay what the space was worth, then he wouldn’t feel like she was doing him one.
“Do we have a deal?” she asked, holding out her hand.
He should have been pleased to find the space, but Hannah saw little beyond resignation in Damon’s bruised and brooding features before he finally reached out and engulfed her hand in his. Had he not needed the space so badly, she’d have thought he was weighing whether or not to take it in the moments before he caved in. But she knew he had little choice.
It occurred to her that the lack of choice itself could well be what bothered him. But it was also entirely possible that he simply didn’t like the idea of renting from her. The thought would have had her pulling back had Damon not just tightened his grip. She could feel the calluses below his fingers, the roughness of his skin. She could feel his heat seeping into her skin, her blood.
The sensations tightened her stomach and drew her glance to his scrap
ed knuckles. A small white scar curved like a frown over his thumb. Another, fainter and silvery against his weather-tanned skin, angled the tip of his index finger. Both were old, evidence of dangerous work, or dangerous play. His hands defined him, she thought. Strong, callused and scarred. Yet, she felt a compelling sort of security in that strength—and unbelievable sensuality in the way his thumb slowly slipped over the delicate veins in her wrist.
Her pulse leapt at the contact. His touch was featherlight, as if he knew the nerves were sensitive there, though she’d never been aware that her wrist was sensitive at all. He moved his thumb slowly as he turned her hand, creating a sensation that was more warmth than heat, more promise than actual caress. The thought of what he might do if he ever got serious about touching her doubled her heart rate. But the tantalizing movement suddenly stopped, and she realized he was only turning her hand over so he could check the abrasions at the base of her hand.
The rashlike strip where the board had raked her skin was nearly gone. But he said nothing. Looking as if he hadn’t meant to care whether the thing was better or not, he slipped his hand from hers.
“I won’t move the boat in for another week,” he said, his voice harder than it had been moments ago, “but I’ll pay you now to hold the shop for me.”
“You don’t have to—”
The look in his eyes cut her off even before he spoke. “I’ll give you the first month’s rent now. If you want any other deposits or the last month’s rent, too, I’ll have to bring the money by tomorrow. I don’t have that much on me.”
She nodded, hating that he probably knew her heart was beating like a hummingbird’s. “How long do you think you’ll need it?”
“Four, maybe five months.”
“Then one month in advance will be fine.”
He pulled his wallet from his back pocket. Taking out several bills, he handed them over.
Quietly thanking him, she folded the money into her palm and crossed her arms. The motion was clearly protective. She told herself it was only because she was cold. “There’s no hurry for the rest. Just bring me a check when you move your things in. You can start bringing your tools or whatever over anytime. I’ll leave you a key for that door.” She nodded behind her to indicate the door she’d come through earlier. “That’s an interior stairway that leads to the café and on up to my apartment.” She smiled, wanting badly to ease the strain filling the cavernous space. “Once the snow and ice settle in, it would be better if you’d use that instead of the backstairs if you need me for anything. I’d just as soon you didn’t slip and bruise anything else.”
Hannah And The Hellion (Silhouette Treasury 90s) Page 10