by Rose, Carol
With her straight tied up in a scarf, dressed in clothes most women would burn, she looked incredibly attractive. How did she manage to be sexy when covered in a half inch of dust?
Then again, Colt thought, it might be him.
She'd probably look good to him wearing a ragged chenille robe with curlers in her hair.
What had she meant, she needed this job to survive? There was no way her father had disowned her--his phone call the other day made that clear.
"So," he said casually, before pitching his real reason for interrupting her work. "Would you go with me to look at a finial at an architectural antiques dealer on Westwood Boulevard? I'd like your opinion."
"You mean Scanlon's?" Her voice took on a scoffing note.
"Yes. You know the place?"
"I know the old goat who runs it," she said, her eyes kindling. "He'll try to rob you blind, but then finials are hard to come by."
Colt waited, knowing she was tempted to come and do battle--with him or Scanlon. He couldn't be sure.
CHAPTER FIVE
''I'll drive," Hayley said firmly. "Back in a sec.”
Five minutes later, he gripped the door handle with the devotion of a priest for a rosary, praying that Volvos were as well constructed as rumored. She tossed her day planner in the back seat and started the engine.
Hayley didn't seem to notice his discomfort.
He'd have been grateful for that except she didn't appear to notice much when she was driving. The red sports car she'd almost hit had been small. He had to admit that. But how she could have missed seeing the RV she pulled out in front of was a mystery to him.
"So Skip is an expert," Colt stated, trying to take his mind off his mortality.
"Yes." She looked away from the road as if daring him to suggest otherwise.
"The one thing I hate about experts is their over-confidence, It's as if they can do no wrong," he mentioned blandly.
Hayley's mouth quirked into a disgusted frown at his irony. "Skip just needs to gain a little confidence. He's had a hard life. But he's getting back on track."
He braced himself for her screeching halt at a stop sign. "You do have a tendency to attract strays, don't you?"
"I don't know what you mean." The Volvo sped through another intersection.
"Your painting contractor has the shakes and your specialist in wood repairs is a refugee from the Hell's Angels," he pointed out dryly.
"Don't be ridiculous. Skip needs a little encouragement, but Wolf could get a job anywhere. He's really just doing me a favor helping out with this project. Normally, he'd be moving on by now. Wolf doesn't like roots. "
Did the long-haired, scruffy carpenter's rambling ways have anything to do with Hayley's assurance that they were just friends? Colt wondered. Was she really attracted to the wild looking brute, but holding herself back out of fear of getting hurt? Jealousy wasn't typically one of Colt's personality flaws, but Wolf projected the kind of bad-boy image that women fell for in droves. That fact left Colt a little edgy whenever Wolf's name came up.
"By the way," Hayley raised her voice over the roar of the wind whipping at the open windows. "When we get there, let me do all the talking. Do you understand? I know that goes against your macho self-image to let a mere woman be in charge, but Scanlon is a weasel and I learned how to deal with his type from a master."
If he got out of this car alive, Colt intended to let her do all the talking she wanted.
An hour later, the finial stuck out the back of the Volvo, its miniature spire soon to adorn the gable on the roof of Palmer House. Colt braced the wrought-iron base with one hand as Hayley launched the car out of Scanlon's driveway.
"So, you've done business with him before?" Colt mentioned, his voice teasing.
Hayley grimaced. "I discovered this den of thieves when I was working on my very first job."
"Got burned, did you?"
A smile tugged at her mouth. "Totally smoked, but I learned. That stinker hasn't caught me off guard since."
Colt took advantage of his sideways position in the seat to study her profile as she drove. Her delicate, fair-skinned features were deceptive. She'd been telling the truth when she claimed to have learned the art of negotiation from a master. Henry Haslett would have been proud if he'd seen her handle the old junk dealer with such ease.
Hayley was such a jumble of contradictions.
Her wealthy background and her fascination with Corinne's fairy tale didn't seem to mix with the hard-nosed bargaining style and the principled adherence to her independence. Any experienced contractor looking at her ragtag construction crew would seriously doubt her abilities. It was a mistake Colt had already made, and one he wouldn't be making again.
She was stubborn, argumentative, and much too much trouble. He found himself lying awake nights trying to figure out a way through her defenses, unable to forget the lush feeling of her in his arms, and unwilling to dismiss her any longer as a little rich girl playing at restoration.
Something drove Hayley. A need for validation? A determination to prove herself? He wasn't sure. But backing off from the desires she roused in him didn't seem possible.
Did she harbor romantic feelings for Wolf?
Colt kept wanting to dismiss the thought, yet the possibility still nagged.
The Volvo pulled into the driveway, heaving over a rut before it came to a stop in front of Palmer House. Colt loosened his grip on the finial, his eyes on the woman behind the wheel.
"Hayley, tell me something."
She glanced at him, their gazes tangling. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before he spoke. "If we weren't both angling for this contract, would you let this thing between us happen?"
Time slowed, and the air between them seemed to thicken with possibilities. Colt felt the thrum of his heart racing in time with the slight pulse visible in her neck.
Hayley hesitated, a parade of emotion flashing across her expressive face. "I...I don't know."
Would she let herself fall for Colt if it weren't for the Palmer House contract? Hayley brushed the thought aside, reminding herself to concentrate on her work. She didn't have time to figure out her emotions today.
Morning sunlight warmed her back as she hurried across the lawn. A group of six waited for her, standing clustered around the compressor that would be used to power wash the house. In addition to Skip, three of her usual paint crew were here today. The other two workers were from Colt's crew.
"Okay, guys." She skidded to a halt beside the compressor. "We've apparently had a mix-up in the scaffolding order. They only delivered part of what we need."
''I'm sure I gave them the right amount," Skip interjected as he nervously shoved his painter's cap back on his head.
''I'm sure you did, too," Hayley said, her voice reassuring. "But things get messed up sometimes. It's no big deal. You can still go ahead and get started," she went on. "Have the guys set up the scaffolding that we do have around the front. You know to make sure the windows are shut and sealed."
Skip nodded with anxious certainty.
"We want to get going on the power wash so we can prime the surface and see what woodwork still has to be replaced. Okay?" Hayley glanced at Colt's workers. "Bill, if you and Rick will work with Skip, he'll teach you how to handle the spray gun."
"Good," Bill agreed.
"Great." Hayley dug in her pocket for her car keys. "Then, I'll leave you in charge, Skip. I have to go see what happened with the rest of the scaffolding order.”
"Yes, ma'am. Don't you worry. We'll get this going." Skip turned back to the crew with confidence.
It only took ten minutes to reach the rental company she did business with. After double-checking the order, the owner agreed that there had been a mix-up at his end.
Leaving him with a wave and a smile, Hayley scooted into the Volvo and started the car. She could hardly wait to get back to the house. They were finally getting into the good stuff. The old Palmer House would come to life a
s they painted, each new hue bringing out the remarkable intricacy of its trim.
She might be unsure of herself in many ways, but Hayley knew this work better than she knew herself. It gave her great satisfaction to see her crew working under her direction like a well-oiled machine.
That Colt hadn’t chosen to be a part of the initial paint crew was a relief to her. Her confidence in her work wouldn't have been shaken by his presence, but the questions in his eyes unnerved her. It had been several days since that moment in the Volvo, and she still couldn't shake the sizzle between them.
And she still couldn't answer his question.
She had a lingering suspicion, however, that if she'd met Colt Granger in any other circumstance, she'd have been just as cautious.
It wasn't just the contract. They might have gotten past that, but how could she allow herself to love a man who had the habit of command?
For twenty years, she'd lived the secure, pampered life of a rich man's daughter, struggling against the conviction of her own inabilities. Many women would have killed for her dilemma, Hayley knew. From the outside, her existence looked charmed, with no worries about money.
But she'd had no purpose, either. No sense of herself. No accomplishments. She'd tried to find her balance after college, working for one of his companies for a year, then allowing her father to buy her a dress boutique she didn't want and running it into the ground.
And waking up every day more frightened and more convinced that she couldn't stand on her own two feet.
Getting out was her only option. Her father still didn't understand, still felt hurt and unappreciated. He did love her, that she knew.
She only wished he understood her need for independence.
Which was why letting herself fall for Colt would feel like surrender. She had to make it on her own. If she allowed him into her heart, she'd be a step away from dependence again.
Turning the Volvo on to Oak Street, Hayley felt an eager smile slip to her face, anticipating the scurrying of activity around the face of Palmer House. As she slowed down to turn in the drive, her eagerness turned to puzzlement.
The compressor stood abandoned in the front yard, with no webbing of scaffold set up around the front. From this angle the house looked deserted.
Coming to a full stop, Hayley got out of the car. Had something happened to the compressor? Even so, the crew should have been setting up the scaffolding.
Hayley heard voices as she walked alongside the house, the clang of metal against brick. As she rounded the corner to the back of the house, she was surprised to see her crew assisting several of Colt's workers. They were helping with the leveling of the porte-cochere, a covered drive at the back of the house.
Skip stood, his arms wrapped around a wooden column, his face straining.
"That's good. You can let go," one of the workers said.
Hayley came to a stop, disbelieving her eyes.
"Skip, what's going on here?"
A sheepish, anxious expression immediately covered his face. "Uh, Mr. Granger..." he trailed off.
"Yes?" She kept her voice level. Whatever had happened, she'd bet it wasn't Skip's doing.
"Well, Mr. Granger came by and was worried that our compressor wouldn't do a good enough job for the power wash."
"What?"
"I know," Skip said, miserably. "I told him we always use it, but he sent a couple of the crew over to his shop to get a bigger compressor. He said the rest of us could help back here until they got back."
Fury boiled up in Hayley like the rising of a thunderstorm. "We have scaffolding to set up. Did you mention that to Mr. Granger?"
"Yes," Skip said, looking even more miserable. "He said this wouldn't take long and that we could get back to the scaffolding after it was done."
"Would you know where I could find Mr. Granger?" she asked, her voice nearly cracking under the effort to stay calm.
"I believe I heard him tell one of his men he'd be up on the third floor checking the gable window." Skip wiped his damp brow with a handkerchief. "We'll get right back to that scaffolding."
"Thank you." Hayley pivoted and strode around to the front of the house, the drumbeat of anger pounding in her head. So much for Colt's promises. She'd insisted on directing this one aspect of the job, and he couldn't bear to keep his nose out of it.
The soles of her tennis shoes squeaked against the treads of the main staircase. How dare he, she fumed. From the first, he'd tried to sabotage her, sweet-talking Mrs. Latham into having them compete for the same contract. She hadn't even wanted to do this house with him!
Hayley stomped her way up the second flight of stairs, her anger rising with each step.
The sound of whistling drifted down the stairs, a contented sound that stoked the fire under her temper.
She'd worked hard to earn respect in her business, lived hand-to-mouth so she could buy used equipment for her fledgling company. Convincing construction workers to have faith in a woman hadn't been a picnic.
Now, Colt Granger was making her look like a fool, trashing her authority with her own crew. She'd chew a hole in him.
"Colt!" Hayley burst out of the stairwell onto the third floor.
Framed in the opening of the front gable window, he turned to greet her, a lazy smile on his face.
She stopped abruptly inside the doorway, a sudden rush of memories clogging her brain. If it hadn't been for him, you'd have fallen. The thought streaked through her. Maybe she had anyway.
"Good morning," he murmured, the warmth in his eyes stealing out to weaken her. "Excited to get started on the power wash?"
His question galvanized her. Well, she had been excited until he'd cut the ground out from beneath her feet.
"Did you countermand my orders to my crew?" Her words carne out crisply, cutting through the haze of warmth, the sizzle of energy building up between them.
Colt's eyes narrowed, a considering expression replacing his smile. ''I'm not sure what you mean,” he responded slowly.
"Did you or did you not give my men different orders from the ones I left this morning?"
"Are you upset about the compressor?" A mixture of disbelief and disgust gave the question its thrust.
"No," she snapped. ''I'm furious that you waltzed in here and challenged my authority with my own crew after you specifically agreed that I would direct the paint work."
"I did not challenge your authority," Colt replied, exasperation edging his tone. "All I did was offer a better compressor for the job."
"You did more than offer. You commanded.
Then, instead of my crew setting up the scaffolding, you had them work on one of your jobs. And you did it deliberately," Hayley stabbed the air with an indignant finger, "because Skip told you that my compressor is more than adequate."
"That compressor can't put out more than 2,500 psi. Mine holds pressure up to 3,500 psi--"
Hayley interrupted him. "Which is too much. If you use more, you force water into the wood." She gulped in a breath, willing herself not to cry in her fury and disappointment.
"And I only asked your guys to help out a few minutes to level the porte-cochere."
"It just doesn't occur to you that I know what I'm doing, does it?" she challenged. "From the very beginning, you've dismissed me as an airhead with nothing more than big dreams."
"I never thought you were an airhead," Colt denied vehemently. "And I didn't have the guys get my compressor to run some kind of power play on you." He shoved a frustrated hand through his hair. "Did it ever occur to you that I might have been trying to help?"
"I don't need your kind of help." Her voice shook as she fought a trembling weakness inside of her. Why wouldn't he understand? "You gave my crew orders that directly contradicted mine. And you knew it because Skip told you so."
Colt made a disgusted sound. "Hayley, Skip stutters every time he talks to me. The only thing I heard him say was something about your compressor being 'okay'. I thought the idiot was afraid
he'd mess my compressor up."
"If you'd listen to us 'idiots' sometimes," she retorted, furiously, "you might actually get the picture."
"Oh, I'm getting the picture okay," he shot back, his neck reddening. "And what I'm seeing is a woman who's so hung up on her independence and so insecure in her own abilities that she sees threats where they don't exist. "
Hayley jerked back as if she'd been slapped.
"How dare you," she breathed, her voice stunned. "You don't have any idea what threats I've had to conquer, how long and hard I've fought to get where I am."
"Maybe I don't," said Colt, his voice flat now. "But I'm damned tired of being cast as the villain. It's time you learned that no one can steal authority and respect from you. If you lose it, you do that on your own."
He half-turned and then swung back to face her. "And one more thing. I've taken it upon myself to report our progress to Mrs. Latham. I suppose that's taking your authority, too."
"You went to the president of the Preservation Society without even telling me?" she demanded incredulously.
"Yes," replied Colt. "I picked up the phone and reported everything factually. Pretty damn subversive of me, wasn't it?"
She watched in angry disbelief as Colt turned and strode down the stairs.
CHAPTER SIX
Colt parked the Suburban at the curb in front of Palmer House and killed the purring engine. He stared into the dark night, his mind overloaded with frustration and self-reproach.
No way in hell was he going to sleep at this point, so he might as well check the day's progress. He'd intended to come by the house after his confrontation with Hayley, but it had taken all of the afternoon and most of the evening for him to calm down.
Colt got out of the Suburban, taking his flashlight but not turning it on, as he walked up the long cracked sidewalk. Palmer House stood silent and ghostlike in the moonlight, its gardens alive with night insects and the whispering breeze. Dodging the overgrown shrubs and rose bushes that encroached the walk, Colt paused by the gazebo.
Images of Hayley flooded his mind; the memory of her in his arms seduced him with the power of fantasy. If he let himself, he could remember the taste of her, the sweet scent of her skin. Colt turned, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to release the sudden tightness.