by Gina Wilkins
“I would certainly be interested in discussing this with you,” she said, intrigued by the challenge of such a project, even as she hoped she was up to it.
He leaned a forearm against the sales counter. The casual pose brought him a bit closer to her, just enough to make her self-conscious again. His smile was slightly deeper this time, giving her a glimpse of white teeth. The job he offered was looking better and better, she thought, letting herself drift for just a moment in sheer feminine appreciation.
“Maybe we could talk about it over dinner tonight?” he suggested. “The restaurant on West Charles isn’t bad.”
She was on the verge of accepting—just to discuss the project, of course—when she remembered her brother. There were times when she’d left him home by himself for a couple of hours, but she didn’t think it was a good idea tonight. She wouldn’t put it past him to sneak out and go to the party anyway—and she wasn’t going to give him that opportunity. The boy throwing the party was a notorious troublemaker, and Brad was too easily led into mischief. There had already been one occasion when he’d been escorted home by Officer Dodson; she didn’t intend for it to happen again tonight.
“I’m afraid I can’t tonight,” she said.
If Mac was disappointed, he didn’t show it. “When would be a good time for you to meet?”
“I can spare a couple of hours tomorrow afternoon, if you’re free then.”
He straightened away from the counter. “I’ll be out at the site tomorrow meeting with subcontractors. If you want to join me there, we can do a walk-through. It will give you a chance to look the place over, too.”
Definitely intrigued—and more comfortable with the thought of discussing the job at the site rather than over dinner—she nodded. “What time?”
“Two o’clock?”
“I’ll be there.”
He was already moving toward the door. “Until tomorrow then.”
“Mr. Cordero—”
“Mac,” he reminded her over his shoulder.
“I want to thank you again for helping me Friday night.”
He gave her a sudden, full smile that nearly melted the soles of her shoes. He didn’t smile often, apparently, but when he did—wow. “Not necessary. See you tomorrow, Sharon.”
She hadn’t given him permission to use her first name, but it would be churlish to remind him of that now. She wasn’t usually one to insist on formality—but with this man, a little distance might not be such a bad idea.
He was just reaching for the doorknob when the door opened and a plump blonde bustled in, nearly crashing into Mac. “Oh, sorry,” she said, catching herself just in time.
His smile fading into a more somber expression, he nodded politely. “No problem.” And then he let himself out, leaving the two women staring bemusedly after him.
“Who,” Tressie Bearden demanded, “was that?”
Dragging her gaze away from the glass door, through which she could see him walking purposefully away, Sharon cleared her throat and turned to her employee. “That was Mac Cordero.”
Tressie’s eyes widened. “Cordero-the-hero? Oh, man, he’s even better-looking than I’ve heard.”
Sharon frowned. “I wish you wouldn’t call him that. It’s such a silly nickname.”
“Hey, you were the damsel in distress he rescued,” Tressie replied with an impish grin. “I would think you’d consider the nickname appropriate.”
Though she was tempted to argue again that Mac had only assisted her, Sharon resisted the impulse. “How did your doctor’s appointment go? Everything check out okay?”
Glancing again toward the door, Tressie answered absently. “She said I’m a healthy, red-blooded woman in my prime. So I guess it must have been Mac Cordero’s gorgeous dark eyes and delectable bod that made my heart rate go crazy, hmm?”
Since Sharon had been experiencing similar symptoms during the past twenty minutes or so, she couldn’t argue with Tressie’s conclusion. Apparently, they were both healthy, red-blooded women. Now that they’d settled that, it was time to put adolescent foolishness aside and get back to work. “About those wall sconces you ordered…”
Tressie waved a hand impatiently. “We can talk sconces later. What was Mac Cordero doing here? What did he say? What did you say? Did you find out anything interesting about him?”
Tressie was an active participant in local gossip circles and her membership in the Honoria Community League gave her an inside track to the most juicy tidbits. Her gift of gab and easy way with people made her an asset to the shop, but Sharon sometimes found her co-worker’s chatter exasperating. If she told Tressie that Mac had offered her the decorating job, the news would be all over town within the hour, and Sharon hadn’t even given him an answer yet. She settled for half the truth. “He said he wanted to make sure I’d recovered from the incident Friday night.”
“Really? That was nice of him.”
“Yes, it was.”
Tressie’s expression turned speculative. “Do you know if he’s married or anything?”
“No, I don’t know. The subject didn’t come up.” For some reason, Sharon would have bet he was unattached. Educated guess—or wishful thinking? she wondered with a slight wince.
Looking disgusted, Tressie shook her head. “I’d have made sure it came up. Why didn’t you ask him?”
“Because it’s none of my business.” Sharon could only hope the hint got through as she moved across the shop to straighten a display of clearance items. “So why don’t you call and check on those sconces? They should have arrived two days ago.”
Tressie hesitated a moment, reluctant to drop the subject, but then she nodded and moved toward the telephone. As much as she loved to gossip, she was efficient and hardworking, and Sharon was still grateful that Tressie had come to work for her.
Feeling a little guilty for not telling Tressie about the decorating offer, Sharon went back to work, herself, her thoughts divided between details of her business, worry about her brother and anticipation of her next meeting with Mac Cordero.
THE MAN in the gutted-out kitchen with Mac was young—no more than twenty-six—golden-blond, blue-eyed with glasses and a little on the thin side. Picturing his own solid build, black hair, dark eyes and brown skin, Mac was well aware that he and Trent McBride could not have looked more different. No one could have guessed from looking at them that they shared a blood relationship—and no one but Mac knew about that relationship. Even he didn’t know exactly how close the connection was.
“So you want a state-of-the-art modern kitchen concealed behind solidly built, period-appropriate woodwork,” Trent summed up with a comprehensive glance around the large, shadowy room. The electricity wasn’t turned on yet, so the only light came through the filthy windows and from the two battery-powered lanterns Mac had brought with him.
The house had been empty for years, and the deterioration was pervasive—so much that there were some who openly doubted the renovation was worth the time and expense. With his experience, Mac knew better. He’d taken on more daunting projects, and the results had been both satisfying and profitable. There were plenty of people who were willing to pay for history and quality. Of course, Mac’s previous jobs had been in areas with a bigger money base and more historical interest—Atlanta, Savannah, Charleston, Birmingham. It might take a bit longer to find a buyer here. But he wasn’t too worried about it. He’d come to Honoria for reasons that were far more personal than professional.
Even if it cost him every dime he’d managed to accumulate in the past few years, he would consider it money well spent if he finally got some answers to the questions that had haunted him all his life.
Because Trent was still waiting for a response, Mac nodded. “I want every modern convenience, but I don’t want it to look like a restaurant kitchen. We’ll use appliance garages and custom cabinetry to camouflage the equipment.”
Trent seemed to approve. Mac could tell the younger man was picturing the end resul
t as he looked around the cavernous room with its big windows and massive stone fireplace at one end. “It’s going to be expensive.”
Mac shrugged. “Quality costs. Of course, I’ll be keeping a close eye on expenses, making sure I’m paying fair prices and spending no more than necessary.”
Trent didn’t seem concerned about the prospect of close supervision. “I’ll work up a detailed cost analysis for you,” he offered. “If anything unexpected comes up, we’ll discuss then how to handle it.”
“That’s the way I prefer to do business. I’m not crazy about surprises.”
Trent smiled a little at that. “I could have guessed that from the few meetings we’ve had.”
Mac wondered how Trent felt about surprises. He could give him a whopper of one right now, if he wanted. But he would wait until the time was right—until he had his answers—before he decided how, or whether, to break his news to the McBrides.
A woman’s voice came from somewhere in the front of the house. “Mr. Cordero?”
Mac swiveled toward the sound, then wondered why his pulse had suddenly quickened in response to Sharon Henderson’s voice. A decorator, he reminded himself. That was all she was to him. All he intended for her to be. And this was his chance to find out just how friendly she was with the McBride family.
CHAPTER THREE
MAC FOUND SHARON waiting just inside the front door, which he had left open. In marked contrast to the dull, colorless surroundings of the run-down entryway, she looked fresh and pretty, dressed in clean, bright colors. She was studying the broken, curved staircase, her expression thoughtful. “I’ve never been in here before,” she said when he joined her. “I didn’t know what to expect.”
He found it annoyingly necessary to remind himself that he was only interested in her because of her interior-decorating skills and her friendship with the McBrides—not because she was the first woman he’d been attracted to in months. Dragging his gaze away from her, he glanced around the entryway. “Most of the damage is cosmetic. This place was built to last, and it has, despite the neglect.”
“It’s really worth saving?”
He rested a hand on an intricately turned newel post. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think it was.”
Wearing the same contemplative look he’d just seen on Trent, she glanced slowly around the big entryway and then through an arched doorway into a room that had probably served as a front parlor. “It must have been beautiful once.”
“And it will be again. Let me show you around downstairs. I’d rather save the upstairs until the staircase and upper floors have been reinforced.”
She glanced up the stairs, as if she was reluctant to miss anything in the tour he’d promised. But then she turned away from the staircase to follow him along the lower floor.
He led her through the parlor, the single downstairs bedroom, what might have once been a sitting room or music room, and a long, narrow dining room. Without lights, the rooms looked even more shabby and ramshackle than they actually were. The sunlight that managed to penetrate the dirty windows turned gray and dusty inside. But Mac saw the still-intact crown moldings, the repairable plaster-work, the solid-wood paneling and hardwood flooring, and he knew the house could be spectacular again. He wondered if Sharon shared his vision.
She murmured something he didn’t quite catch. “I beg your pardon?”
Looking at him with an air of distraction, she motioned to the long, fanlight-topped window at the end of the dining room. “Beveled leaded glass,” she said. “And look at the detail of that crown molding. You don’t see work like that anymore.”
Her comments pleased him, as did the expression on her face. Oh, yeah, she was seeing what could be, rather than what was. Just as he did when he looked at this place.
She stepped closer to the window to examine the framing. “The woodwork is in good shape all through the house? No dry rot? Termite damage?”
“Some, but minimal. There are a few places where we’ll have to do some reproduction work, but not many.”
She moved close to a wall to peer at the darkened wallpaper that had once been a bright sunflower design, more indicative of the 1970s than the early 1900s. “I bet there are at least a half-dozen layers of wallpaper on these walls. Homeowners often used to paper right on top of existing patterns. If that’s the case, I should be able to re-create original decor by studying the earliest layers.”
“I counted six layers in the master bedroom. Five in the kitchen.” He’d dug through all that in his initial examination of the house’s condition.
“Were the early patterns distinguishable?”
“In places, yes. You’ll probably want to see it, though I’m not interested in an exact reproduction of the original decor. Just a look that’s appropriate for the period.”
“The townspeople have always referred to this place as a Victorian mansion, but it isn’t strictly Victorian, is it? More a combination of Queen Anne, Italianate, and even a little Early American craftsman influence. Sort of a hodgepodge, but it works. It must have been spectacular.”
Despite her disclaimers that she wasn’t a professional decorator, he was satisfied with the observations she’d made thus far. He had seen examples of her work, having learned that she’d decorated several of the businesses he’d visited in town, and he knew she had a flair for color and proportion. Now he was even more confident that he hadn’t made a mistake approaching her about this project.
Her friendship with the McBrides might be useful to him later, but it was her decorating expertise that interested him at the moment. At least, that was what he told himself, though he was all too keenly aware of how nice she looked in her pale blue spring-weight sweater and fluidly tailored gray slacks that emphasized the slender waist his hands had spanned so easily.
He reminded himself again that he didn’t have time for that sort of distraction now. He might notice her blue-green eyes and sweetly curved mouth, the shallow dimple in her left cheek, the graceful line of her throat or the feminine curve of her breasts beneath the soft knit sweater she wore, but that was as far as he intended to take it. He had a job to do—and the Garrett place was only a part of it.
Though his voice was casual, he was watching Sharon closely when he led her into the next room. “This,” he said, “is the kitchen.”
The smile that lit her face when she saw who was waiting there was full, warm and beautiful. Mac couldn’t help wondering how it would feel to be on the receiving end of a smile like that from her. “Trent,” she said, and even her voice was warmer now. “What a nice surprise.”
Though Mac had summed Trent up as a somber, even brooding, type, the smile he gave Sharon held a natural charm with a hint of mischief. Having heard through the local rumor mills that Trent had been involved in a near-fatal plane crash that had left him with both physical and emotional scars, Mac suspected he was seeing an echo of the cocky young ladies’ man Trent was reported to have been before the crash.
“Hi, Sharon. It’s good to see you again.” Trent kissed her cheek with the ease of long acquaintance.
Mac found himself frowning as he watched Trent’s casual touch against Sharon’s smooth cheek. He cleared his expression immediately, forcing himself to study the pair objectively.
“It’s good to see you, too,” Sharon said. “You look great.”
“So do you. I was glad to hear you weren’t seriously injured Friday night.”
“Only a few bruises. I was lucky. So how are the wedding plans coming along?”
A glow of satisfaction warmed Trent’s usually cool blue eyes. “Everything’s on schedule. Annie and I will be married the last Saturday in August.”
“I know your mother is looking forward to having another wedding in the family.”
Trent grimaced. “Oh, yeah. She loves a big fuss—any excuse to get the family all together.”
Mac stuck his hands in his pockets.
Sharon and Trent exchanged a few more pleasantries and
then the conversation turned to the project at hand. “What do you think of the house?” Trent asked.
“I have to confess, I’ve always wanted to come inside and look around this place.” Sharon made a slow circle to study the kitchen, her attention lingering on the huge fireplace. “It’s something, isn’t it?”
“It definitely has potential. You’re doing the decorating?”
“Mr. Cordero and I are discussing that possibility.”
It was beginning to irk Mac that she continued to call him Mr. Cordero in that prim, rather prissy way. It couldn’t be more opposite to the warm and informal manner in which she spoke to Trent. “Mac,” he reminded her, deciding it was time for him to do a little fishing. “I take it you two know each other?”
Trent chuckled. “You might say that. Sharon and I went to the prom together.”
Sharon’s smile turned a few watts brighter. “Trent was a senior, I was a junior. He had already been accepted into the Air Force Academy. I was so impressed, I spent the whole evening looking at him and giggling like an idiot.”
“I don’t remember it quite that way,” Trent said gallantly.
Mac told himself he should be pleased to hear this. After all, her connection to the McBrides was one of the reasons he was interested in her. Right? And yet he still found himself changing the subject rather more abruptly than he had intended. “Yes, well, perhaps we should talk about the renovation project now.”
He stepped smoothly between them and opened the briefcase he’d left on a rough-surfaced counter. “I have some blueprints and sketches here…”
Sharon and Trent moved closer on either side of him to study the paperwork in the yellow light of the battery-powered lanterns. It annoyed Mac that he had to make such an effort to concentrate on the job instead of Sharon’s spicy-floral scent.
This wasn’t working out exactly as he had planned.