by Teddy Hester
“Do you want that story?”
“Yes, of course. You know I do.”
“This is what I’m offering. It’s all I have time for, Jilly,” I add with enough sincerity that she deflates, giving up the fight. She doesn’t need to know this is the best way I can think of to keep seeing her while I’m in Texas, yet keep her at a safe distance, since I won’t allow myself to mess with her while she’s in my employ.
“Couldn’t I just visit down at the site, mill around, talk to some of the guys when they take a break or something?” she counters hopefully.
I’m losing patience. She either needs to piss or get off the pot. “Security won’t let anyone through the inner gates without a badge. And only employees, who’ve gone through all the vetting, get badges.”
I can see another suggestion forming in her fertile brain. Not happening. This ends now.
“Jilly, either you hire on with AmerItalia, or you’ll have to find another subject to write about for your blog.” I stand, holding out my hand.
She rises to shake it, those pretty lips pinched in frustration. “I suppose I would be able to get good first-hand information for the article this way.”
“Absolutely,” I agree, holding onto her hand. “It won’t be what you’re used to--”
She jerks her hand out of my grasp. “Don’t worry about what you think I might or might not be used to, Mr. DePaul. I’m pretty adaptable.”
Maybe that’s true. Maybe with two older brothers, she’s used to being around working men. We’ll see.
She picks up the leather case she brought with her. “If you’ll direct me to personnel, I’ll get this ball rolling.”
I stride toward the door. Reaching for the knob, I swivel my head at her, brow raised. “You’ve decided this is what you want, right?”
“Right.” Her head bobs, stubborn chin jutting.
I study her for another heart-stopping second, then smile as I watch her approach in those damn four-inch heels.
“Riiight,” I drawl, closing the door behind us.
CHAPTER THREE
Nine Days to Deadline
Why in the world did I let myself walk straight into that man’s trap yesterday? Sure, I want a story for my blog, but I have other important responsibilities that need time and attention, too. Organic grapefruit groves don’t harvest themselves.
And yet here I am, my rattiest pair of jeans tucked into my favorite steel-toed cowboy boots, toting a sack lunch I’ll presumably eat at midnight, on a job I know next to nothing about, have no skills for, working for a man I just met, who’s quiet to the point of surly, and whose relentless assertiveness is both a caution and a turn-on.
Yeah, and what’s that about? The man is a sexy drink of water, no two ways about it. Just the sight of him makes the world fall away, everything hanging in suspended animation, dangerously calm, like the Earth taking a big breath right before a tornado strikes. Mmm, what would it be like to kiss him?
Get a grip, girl! It’s one thing to want to roll around in the hay with him, and quite another to end up working for him. I’m still not sure how that happened. One minute I’m seeing red because he’s treating me like an empty-headed child, and the next I’m signing on to his crew, assuring him I can handle anything he dishes out.
And I better be able to, because I don’t think Aunt Bink was too pleased when I told her what I’d be doing for the next couple of weeks. We had other things planned that now I don’t know if I can fit into my schedule. Things that are particularly important this year, since I’m taking over the harvest for the first time.
The security building looms, and I make sure my badges are prominently displayed. What the hell am I doing on a construction site, pulling all-nighters for the next ten days? The last time I pulled an all-nighter was finals week, senior year of college. I shake my head at myself and pull open the heavy glass door.
“Hey, Red!”
A voice like chocolate syrup pulls me out of my self-flagellation. Looking around to find the face that goes with the greeting, I spot a girl I knew in high school. “Nola?”
She grins and waves from the other side of the full-body scanner. An armed guard puts my name badge through a machine while I lay my brief case on the conveyor belt and step through the scanner.
When the guard hands back my badge, I clip it onto my lanyard. “You are Nola De La Garza, right?”
“I sure am. Good memory. Nice to see you. I couldn’t believe it when I found out you were going to be working for AI during wrap-up.”
She was always a nice girl, friendly, easy to be around. I grab my briefcase and join her. “AI? Oh, AmerItalia, got it. How’d you hear about it? It just happened yesterday.”
Leading the way down a hall to another glass door, she shrugs a shoulder under a bright orange t-shirt highlighting her smooth tan. “Your boss called my boss, asking for somebody on the night shift to show you around.”
My boss. Jack. Mr. Tall, Dark, Handsome. A bad boy who likes to curl into you on the dance floor. A mental slideshow begins and my body quickens before I ruthlessly shut them both down. “And here we are. Do you work in the office, too?”
“No, I’m a painter.”
“That sounds interesting. When you finish here, the main building conference room could use a new coat of paint. Something other than sandy beige would be nice, I think.”
Her laugh is throaty and contagious. “I know, yeah? It’s the worst. A cross between newborn poop and Desert Storm.”
“Yep, that’s just about right. But I’m guessing that’s not the kind of painting you do.”
“Only in my own house. Here I get to paint rust inhibiting stuff that smells like burned rubber mixed with alcohol.”
“Lucky you. Sounds dangerous.”
“Can be. We wear masks and suit up to paint. But it is a construction site. Almost everything is dangerous around here. But it’s a decent living.”
“That’s good, assuming you get to keep your life.”
She laughs again, and I grin back at her. “We follow lots of safety rules, so it’s not that big a deal. You’ll see.”
I hadn’t thought about it, but if I’m going to interview the guys, I need to see what they do, how they handle things. The best way for me to get a feel for their lives is for me to live it. Even if it means suiting up and exposing myself to the same dangers.
“I’ll show you where I’ll most likely be in case you need to come ask a question or something. Here, let’s get going.” Nola pushes open the door and holds it for me.
Yeah, the Boss Man wouldn’t like it if I were late on my first day—er, night—of work. But it might be entertaining to see what anger looks like on him.
We step out into the evening heat again, onto a gravel path leading to the work site. My heartbeat picks up from excitement of the unknown.
Nola’s dark ponytail swings jauntily as she gobbles up the distance. Considering how much shorter she is than I am, her pace is impressive. People pass us coming away from the site, looking dusty and tired, but nobody going our direction catches up to us.
“By the way, I met your boss yesterday.” She glances over at me and waggles her brows. “You’re a lucky woman. He’s finer’n my daddy’s prize stallion.”
I control my snort. “He’s easy on the eyes, all right. Don’t know what kind of boss he’ll be, though.”
“Too soon for me to tell. He doesn’t say much. But he stays right in the thick of things with the crews. I like that. And his crew seems to like him.”
Good things to know. Something to make note of for the article.
In spite of the pace, Nola’s not finished interviewing me. “What will you be working on? Are you normally part of his crew?”
The plant is expanding in perspective with every step closer. I had no idea how large the old refinery was. “Administrivia, I think. And, no, I’m not part of the regular AI crew.”
“Felix is glad you’re here. He even switched to nights.”
Nola’s nose crinkles when she grins. “For you.”
Wonderful. The last thing I need is Felix acting like an excited puppy, interfering with my talking to the AmerItalia crew. “Naw, that can’t be right. He’s the pipefitter supervisor, right? Maybe he’s needed on a project that’s better done at night.” Boy, that didn’t come out right.
She winks. “That’s all I wanted to know.”
“Huh?”
“He’s always had a thing for you, but if you don’t feel the same about him, then he’s fair game.”
No way am I getting involved with any of my brothers’ friends, even if I liked one that way. My family’s already too intrusive on my life. “Totally fair game. Go for it.”
“And you’ll be taking care of the fine Mr. DePaul?”
Her look is open, playful, but my gut suddenly feels like I swallowed a rock. “Is that what you think?”
“Is it true?”
Oh, this isn’t good. “Nola, I’m here to do a job. That’s all.”
She holds up her hands in surrender. “Just kidding. When the rumor mill starts grinding, don’t worry, I’ll straighten ‘em out.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“But, just in case, be careful. Remember that in this tight, little world, eyes are always watching, and ears are always listening.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Still Nine Days to Deadline
A double dose of excitement, sittin’ on a pile of dread, attacks my chest as I stride through Security on my way to the pumphouse.
I’m looking for good news from Frank on what the day crew accomplished while I was sleeping. We’ve got two days of work to catch up if we have any chance of bringing in this contract on time.
We made some progress yesterday, but not nearly enough. I’ve given shitloads of promises. Stuck AmerItalia’s neck way out. If we don’t deliver, a lot of guys’ll go down with me. And depending on the damage, we might not bounce back.
But if we do this right, AmerItalia will be golden. We’ll have our pick of contracts. A chance to work for the best on the most exciting projects.
The rewards will have been worth the risk.
Which leads me to Jilly.
I just found out from Human Resources my new secretary made it through all the county, state, and federal entities overseeing energy projects in the U.S. and clocked in at 6 PM for her first 12-hour night shift.
The fact that I’m spending any brain power on her means that for me, she’s gonna be trouble with a capital T. Tangling with a beautiful, headstrong female journalist in addition to the other pressures I’m currently handling is just sheer insanity.
My mind’s still not on the job as I hit the path’s middle stretch, barely acknowledging anybody passing the other direction.
Christ. JT Vickers has certainly been one hell of a surprise. Before the interview, all my faculties had been prepared for a male journalist, probably hard-core, seasoned, kind of like the reporter Clark Gable plays in an old black-and-white Doris Day movie I love. But the Clark I’m ending up with isn’t Clark Gable. I’m getting...Lois Clark.
Hell.
In my mind’s eye, I can still see a vivid imprint of my first impression of professional Ms. Jillian Theodora Vickers as she stood in front of the windows when I’d opened that conference room door. She’d been alluring enough at a barbecue. But wearing her business armor? My palms sweat right now just thinking about it.
I glance up and take stock of where I am, quickly calculating how much farther I have to go before I can bury myself back under the piles of work Frank’s waiting to hand off to me at the pumphouse.
In the meantime, I’ll just have to make sure I keep my mind on the job at hand—the construction job, that is—and not on any part of Jilly Vickers.
I’m irritatingly hungry to feel her hair again, running my fingers through the thick mass of medium auburn shot with beams of sunshine. Makes me think of a particularly fine strain of Texas longhorns I saw roaming the countryside. I shake my head and almost laugh out loud, imagining the outrage in Jilly’s brilliant turquoise eyes if she knew I’d just compared her to a heifer. Even a fine, well-bred one like the Santa Gertrudis.
A society girl in the hot, Texas desert, going to work on my construction site. Ludicrous. She’ll never make it, and I’ll end up giving her too much of my critical time.
The pumphouse looms into view, thank goodness. With a sigh, I welcome the mundane details of my career. Instantly, I’m calm and sure once again, comfortable in the familiar, hectic routines of supervising budgets, blueprints, good people, and heavy machinery.
Drawing close, I’m hearing a lot more commotion than there should be. Men are buzzing in and out of the tired, old pumphouse like bees in and out of a hive. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out who the queen bee is, agitating my pack of drones.
I step inside the ramshackle building and stand to one side, where I can see up the hallway to my office. There, behind the big metal desk, Ms. Jilly Vickers is sitting in my tufted-leather rolling chair—the one luxury I allow myself on the long, demanding hours, days, and weeks of a construction project.
The guys are giving her some grief. Subtle confusion flits across her clear, ivory features. She’s throwing some back, though, which gives me an odd little rush of satisfaction. It's the only way to survive. I doubt Ms. Jillian Theodora Vickers has been raised to fight too many of her own battles.
I don't know anything more about her than what appears on the employment application she filled out yesterday afternoon at Personnel, but I know deep in my soul that she's been sheltered. Probably by her Daddy first, then by a man, or men—my stomach knots at that image—has carefully shielded her from life's uglier moments. I’m so certain because, if she were mine, that's exactly what I'd do. What I'm fighting the nearly overpowering urge to go do right now.
The woman is magnificent.
My jaw clenches against the impulse to clear my office and be alone with her. I want to hear what's being said that's making Jilly's intense eyes flash with little turquoise lightning bolts. I want them to flash that way for me.
The itch I wanted her to scratch two nights ago at the party is back, full force.
How am I going to get any work done?
Wait. I’m mistaken; the guys aren't exactly giving her grief.
Good Lord. They're vying for her.
Outdoing each other for her attention in the manner of besotted males since the dawn of time. My big, tough men who have a major deadline to meet are telling stories —whoppers—about themselves, trying to impress the new girl with their various types of prowess. And, damn the woman's eyes, she's egging them on, asking questions and taking notes, scribbling furiously in the little notepad hastily dragged out of her voluminous navy bag.
Harry Weiss, a middle-aged pipefitter who looks like he shaves with a rusty blade, is telling her something. "So, there I was—remember, Joe?—hanging from that rickety ol' scaffolding with one hand, trying to solder a mother of a pipe, with hot steam scalding my face.”
"What happened?" Her voice is all breathy.
I roll my eyes. Why was I worried about her surviving amongst this rough crew? I should have known the men would be as taken with her on first sight as—
I slam that thought down in a big hurry.
"Well, it was nip and tuck, I'm telling ya—remember, Joe?" That one grunts assent, and Harry keeps rolling. "I had to hold the soldering compound in my teeth as I worked. Whew! Thought I'd never get that leak closed up. But I knew I had to, and I had to do it before anyone else got hurt like me," he adds with a quick glance at his avid listener, probably hoping she'll ask him about his grave injuries. I cross my arms and lean back to sit on the edge of a desk just outside my office. She doesn't disappoint.
"Oh, Harry, were you hurt really badly?" Jillian asks. It sounds like there's actual sincerity in her tone.
"Ah, not t
oo bad," Harry scoffs with a roll of his stout shoulders. My brow raises; that's the first unexaggerated grain of truth the man has uttered. "The nurse just sprayed some stuff on my face and neck. After a few days, I was okay."
Concern pours out of her. "But you went to the hospital for your burns."
"Hell, no!" Harry denies. "We were on a deadline. Nobody had time for any hospital run!"
"But you were seriously hurt—don't bother denying it, Harry," she adds as he starts to interrupt. There's a savvy twinkle in his eyes as he lets himself be overridden. "You were seriously hurt, scalded with second- or third-degree burns, while on the job. You were entitled to have your injury tended to by a physician." She scribbles some more in her notepad.
Harry's burly chest puffs out a few more inches, but before he can get in another word, someone else starts giving his story to the beautiful newcomer.
Once more, I have to admit that I've been mistaken. It isn't confusion I read on Jilly's face earlier; she's overwhelmed. And it isn't anger causing those appealing little bolts of lightning to dart from her expressive eyes; it's high interest.
She wanted human stories from the crew, and she's getting them. Faster than she can write them down. I can almost see her trying to sort out what she's hearing, determined not to miss a detail, while she figures out where to pigeon-hole all the information and impressions in her sharp, journalistic brain for later use.
Yeah, enough.
I grit my teeth against rising anger and push myself off the desk, intent upon damming the motherlode hemorrhage I'm witnessing. "Speaking of deadlines, you men got someplace else you need to be?"
In spite of the noisy chaos in the pumphouse, my softly-spoken words penetrate. Grown men half-blush at being caught by me while telling their tales to the new-hire. They scatter instantly with mumbled apologies.
Jillian looks up from her note-taking, amazed to discover the crowd has melted to nothing like ice on a salted sidewalk. One minute she'd been fighting to catch her breath, the next, no one, nothing, all gone. She shakes her head, a little dazed, and puts away her writing materials.