“Have a seat, Tess.” Geneva crossed to a cabinet. “This won’t take long.”
Tess perched on the edge of one of the delicate chairs near Geneva’s desk. Neatly stacked on the desk’s surface were correspondence and newsletters, no doubt from the Historical Society, the Garden Club, the Ladies’ League, the University Foundation Committee. As one of the Cove’s leading citizens, Geneva liked to keep a finger in every social pie in the county.
“I know it’s a bit early for this,” she said as she dribbled sherry into two dainty goblets, “but I think we can indulge ourselves just this once.”
Tess hesitated before taking the glass. She rarely drank—her mother had done enough of that for everyone in the family. She stared at the golden liquid in the elaborately etched crystal and told herself there was no harm in it, just this once. She sipped and braced for the burn along her throat, and then she lowered the drink to her lap and waited for her grandmother to explain the reason for her summons.
“I spoke with Arlie Ratliff again today.” Geneva settled in one of the high-backed chairs flanking the fireplace and regarded Tess over the rim of her glass. “He’s had a change of heart.”
Tess clutched the arm of her chair. The city councilman had been on the fence about changing the zoning of Geneva’s waterfront property to allow for commercial development. “Would this change have anything to do with Tidewaters?”
“Yes. He assures me he’ll vote for rezoning at tonight’s council meeting.”
“And we’ll have the building permit in hand by tomorrow afternoon.” Elated, Tess raised her glass in a toast. “You did it.”
“Arlie owed me a favor or two.” Geneva swirled the sherry in her glass with a sly smile. “I simply had to jog his memory a bit. And then promise him I’d forget all about it myself.”
Tess held up a hand. “Whatever it was, I don’t want to hear it.”
“Are you sure?” Geneva’s smile widened. “It would make for some excellent lunch conversation before it gets wiped from my memory for good.”
“Geneva Chandler, you can be one hell of a scary lady.”
“Thank you, dear.”
Tess rose and paced the room, unable to sit still. “I can’t believe it. Tidewaters—it’s actually going to happen. I’m going to build it.”
“Yes.” Geneva lowered her glass to the piecrust table beside her chair. “In a manner of speaking.”
“It’s going to be gorgeous. Fabulous.”
“Tess…”
“I know you’ve seen the model often enough—and I did a fabulous job on that, too, if I do say so myself, but—”
“Tess.” Geneva raised a hand. “Please. Sit down.”
Something in the tone of her grandmother’s voice had Tess’s stomach jackknifing to her knees. “What is it?” she asked as she sank back into her chair.
“It’s about the contractor I’ve chosen for the project.”
“You’ve chosen—” Tess took a deep breath, slamming a lid on her temper and her anxiety. “You promised to consult with me on that. I explained how important it was to find someone who could work with me to implement my vision. Our vision.”
“Well, yes, I did. But that was before my meeting with Arlie.”
“I see.” Tess set her glass on the desk. “Someone else helped him change his mind.”
“It’s not what you’re thinking.” Geneva twisted her fingers through her pearls.
“You couldn’t possibly know what I’m thinking.” Or what I’m feeling. Tess sucked in another long breath and ordered herself, again, to stay calm. “This is someone I’ll be working with so closely it’ll be as if we’re the same person. Someone who’ll have to practically read my mind and help fashion what’s inside me.”
“I’m sure you two will figure things out as you go.”
Tess narrowed her eyes. “Who is it?”
“Quinn.”
“Quinn.” The name was like a physical blow.
“Arlie says he’s very good.”
“He wasn’t so good a few years ago.” Quinn had skipped town after an accident on a job site had put one of his crew in the hospital. “And he’s an alcoholic.”
“Recovered.”
Tess knew all about “recovered” alcoholics. Those in her experience had never managed to stay recovered for long, no matter how much the people who loved them might beg. She rose from her seat to prowl around the room, swamped with ghostlike reactions, trapped in a never-ending loop of helplessness and resentment, tempted to gnaw a fingernail as she used to. But the moment she’d raise her hand toward her mouth, Grandmère would click her tongue and shake her head. That, too, was part of the old patterns.
Geneva picked up her sherry and took another sip. “I’m convinced Quinn’s the right man for the job.”
“Because you have so much experience with this sort of thing.”
“Because I have a great deal of experience reading people, yes.” The woman in pastel pink straightened her spine and leveled a severe look at Tess. “Quinn has assured me he can complete this job on time and on budget. And I believe him.”
“You’ve met with him?” A dull pain layered over the shock of betrayal. Her grandmother had done this without consulting her, knowing how much this project meant to her. Knowing how many dreams she’d poured into her sketches and plans.
“Yes.”
“I see.” Tess stared out the window, watching the waves beating against the rocks. “It’s decided, then.”
“I’ve offered him the contract. I expect his answer by the end of the day.”
“I’m sure you’ll get the answer you want.” A job this size would provide steady employment through the entire building season—and plenty of corners to cut to pad the contractor’s profit.
She turned to face her tough-as-nails grandmother. “You always do, Mémère.”
CHAPTER TWO
QUINN SLUMPED against the toolbox wedged in one side of his pickup bed, legs hanging over the edge of the open tailgate, and scanned three acres of weed-covered ground studded with refuse. From the cracked curb on the Front Street boundary to the gap-toothed riprap edging the foot of a disintegrating dock, the ground rose and fell in random, jagged waves.
Tomorrow he’d haul in an office trailer and set up shop. In one week, he’d have this place scraped clean and the footings ready to dig. By the end of the month he’d have gravel spread and neat piles of form boards and rebar placed and ready for the foundation work. And before the end of the year he’d be putting the finishing details on the finest building Carnelian Cove had seen erected in over fifty years.
He inhaled deeply, enjoying the cool blend of trampled Scotch broom, sea-salted air and the rich tang of tobacco smoke from the cigarette dangling between his fingers. And then he braced while a sharp-taloned need clawed its way through him. His personal battle with his alcohol addiction was a day-by-day siege, but nothing was proving as difficult as trying to deny his craving for tobacco.
Denial—a daily exercise and a constant companion of late. The tamped-down disappointments and regrets, the low-grade itching and yearning for something—for anything—better than what he had, colored his existence and kept him moving in the right direction. That and the daughter waiting for him at home.
Rosie wanted him to quit smoking, and he’d do it for her. He’d do anything for her—anything within reason. She needed that from him right now, needed his reassurance as much as his steadiness. She’d lost so much lately—hell, she’d lost just about everything she had to lose during her short life. He had so much to make up to her.
He studied the thin stream of smoke curling from the cigarette. Rosie had been five when his drinking had driven his ex-wife away, and Nancy had taken their daughter with her to Oregon. He’d never forget the way Rosie had clung to his pant leg that last night, sobbing, promising to be good, promising to remember to feed her turtle if only she could stay in her room, stay in her new school with her new friends. Begging him to
come with them when it was time to go.
He’d promised to feed her turtle for her. But he’d been too wrapped up in his own misery, too drunk to remember, and he’d let her pet die. His daughter’s dry-eyed acceptance of this betrayal had been the turning point. He hadn’t had a drink since the turtle’s funeral.
Now Rosie’s mom had a new man in her life, a guy who didn’t want a ten-year-old cramping his style. And since his ex had never been the kind of woman who could function for long without a man, she’d sent her daughter packing, back to her father. Just for a while, Nancy had told him, just until this new relationship settled into something permanent. In the meantime, it was Quinn’s turn to deal with Rosie.
So he’d deal.
He’d had her four months now. Four long, difficult months of figuring out a new routine, of learning how to balance the long hours on the job with the responsibilities of a full-time parent. Of watching Rosie struggling with another start in a new school and the uncertain business of making new friends. Trying to deal with him.
Four long months to decide he wanted his own new relationship to be permanent, too. He was going to keep Rosie here, with him.
He sighed and fingered the cigarette in his hand, fighting the urge to raise it to his lips for just one puff, and then a streak of scarlet roared past and slowed near the end of the block. He narrowed his eyes as a familiar BMW Z4 roadster bumped over the gap in the curb at the entrance to the construction site and edged onto a patch of rough gravel.
Tess Roussel, architect. The nominal head of this project, though they both knew she couldn’t make a move without him.
The driver-side door swung open and one long, slim, short-skirted leg stretched toward the ground. Nice. Too bad it was attached at the hip to a harpy with an agenda.
She rose, slowly, and slammed the door behind her, pausing to glare at him across the ruins. He knew her eyes were the color of bourbon and every bit as seductive, that her scent could make his mouth water and send his system into overdrive. And the fact that he’d wanted her the moment he’d set eyes on her didn’t mean spit. He’d been controlling far more serious thirsts for years.
She strode toward him on her ridiculous shoes, risking injury to one of her shapely ankles with every wobble of those skyscraper heels. The breeze off the bay tossed her short black hair across her forehead, and she lifted an elegant, long-fingered hand to brush it back into place. She wore a no-nonsense gray suit, the kind of suit a woman wore when she wanted to look like a man. The kind of suit that clung to lush, womanly curves and accentuated the fact that she was a female.
She halted in front of him and raised one of her perfectly arched brows. “Quinn.”
“Roussel.”
She lowered her gaze to his cigarette and slowly lifted it again to meet his. “Smoking on the job site?” she asked.
He brought the cigarette to his lips just to watch those whiskey-colored eyes darken with displeasure. “Against the rules?”
“Are you asking for a clarification?”
“Figured that’s why you’re here.” He squinted at her through the smoke. “To set things straight,” he said.
“Plenty of time for that later.” She slipped her hands into her jacket pockets and turned toward the bay. “It’s a great site.”
“Best in town.”
“It will be.”
She angled her face in his direction, waiting for him to comment, but he simply met and held her stare.
God, she was a looker. He’d mostly seen her in passing, striding down Main Street as if she owned the strip, or crossing those long legs on a tall stool at one of the waterfront bars. And he’d noticed the way men’s gazes followed her, tracked her, undressed her, coveted her. A real heartbreaker. A real ball-buster, too. The kind of woman who enjoyed the attention, as long as it was on her terms.
He’d never had the chance to study her like this, up close. Right now, with the sun sinking over her shoulder and setting the highlights in her hair aflame, with her sculpted chin tipped up in challenge and those thick, sooty lashes drifting low over her wide-set eyes, she was even more of a looker than he’d realized.
Her gaze settled on the six-pack nestled in a rope coil on the truck bed behind him, and her glossy red lips thinned in disapproval.
Beer for the crew, a small celebration for the big job ahead. She needn’t worry—he had no intention of joining them in the drinking part of the festivities. Not that it was any of her business. “Something bothering you?” he asked.
“Yeah.” She shifted her stance and narrowed her eyes. “Plenty.”
“Same goes.”
“Oh, I doubt that.” Her mouth turned up at the corners in a catlike smile. “I don’t think it’s the same kind of bother at all.”
He slid to the ground and moved in close, close enough to note the slight flutter of her lashes and hear the sharp and sudden intake of her breath. His blood heated with something more than the basic tension between them. In her heels, she was nearly eye to eye with him, and he wondered how she’d fit alongside him if he snaked an arm around her narrow waist and hauled her to him. “No harm in a little creative thinking,” he said.
“Is that so?”
He dropped his gaze to her mouth, testing her. Testing himself. He wanted this job, damn it. He’d just signed a contract saying he’d take it on. He wanted to earn a chunk of money so he wouldn’t have to worry about his ex’s first legal maneuver in the inevitable custody war. He wanted his daughter to be proud of the work he was doing, even if that work was going to mean long hours away from home, away from her. The last thing he needed was another battle on his hands with another woman who could pile on the guilt of his past failures.
A woman who could give him one more thing to crave.
He looked Tess straight in the eye. “Yeah.”
“All right, then.” She turned to go, tossing a wicked smile over her shoulder. “See you around, Quinn.”
He dropped the cigarette and crushed it into the ground. “I’ll be here.”
LATER THAT EVENING, after she’d changed into her most comfortable jeans, her softest designer loafers and dined on a frisée salad with her special raspberry vinaigrette dressing, Tess drove toward Driftwood. The residential area south of the town center offered a certain rustic charm, particularly where the streetlights thinned and the pavement faded to crunchy gravel roads, where lacy-branched redwoods crowded the shoreline and cast their long shadows over wave-splashed rocks. The neighborhoods she passed wore a jumble of styles, and the houses perching in the open spaces among the trees often reflected the personalities of their owners rather than the period of their construction.
Normally Tess enjoyed a trip through Driftwood at this time of night, when the amber glow of early-evening lamplight provided glimpses of prairie-style mantelpieces, paneled doors, arching doorways and coved ceilings before the home owners drew their curtains to shut out the dark. She might have enjoyed restoring one of the vintage houses in this part of town, but she’d found a place that suited her along the river, a more practical house that wouldn’t require messy repairs or put a dent in her budget making them.
Tonight she wasn’t in the mood to notice much more than the widening pothole on Daylily Lane and her own negative attitude. Her chat with Quinn had siphoned most of the joy from what was supposed to be the first triumph of her professional career.
All she’d wanted was some time alone on the site to look at the place and to know—to truly believe—that what was in her imagination was actually, finally going to appear. A few minutes to let her imagination loose, to fill that space with all the possibilities she held inside. Her very own creation, her very own miracle—hers and hers alone, for the first and last time.
Only it hadn’t been hers, because she hadn’t been alone. She’d been forced to share it with Quinn. Just as she would be forced to share every step of its creation with him for the next nine months, to maintain her vision through his interpretation and consult
with him on its progress. To share the end result, too: her design, his construction.
Quinn Construction. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel. He had a lot riding on this project, too. He was rehabbing his professional reputation as well as his personal life. If he pulled off this job—the largest in the Cove at the moment—without a hitch, he’d be well on his way to establishing himself as a competent builder, not to mention banking a sizable profit.
And in order to maximize that profit, he’d want to complete the job as quickly and as cheaply as possible. Which meant they’d argue over the specs. Contractors always tried to shave their costs by changing the specs—after they’d used those same specs to draw up their bids for the project in the first place. She wanted Tidewaters to be spectacular; he’d want it to be finished.
If only he weren’t so…so…so damned attractive. Those craggy, lived-in looks, that haunted, stoic air. Thick black hair layered in unruly waves, sensuous lips above a dented chin. Yum. Even the intense gaze he aimed at her with those shockingly blue, deep-set eyes could send tiny shivers skittering up her spine at the same time it ratcheted up her annoyance. She’d always been a sucker for a bad boy, and Quinn was as bad as they came.
Beyond bad. A disaster, considering his problem with drinking and her problem with drinkers.
Besides, lusting after a business partner couldn’t be good for a working relationship, especially one that was so important to them both. Especially when that relationship threatened to be antagonistic. Although she didn’t intend to be antagonistic…not at first, anyway. She’d be generous and let him make the first wrong move.
Smiling grimly in anticipation of the coming battles, she pulled into the narrow gravel drive beside Charlie Keene’s tiny bungalow and plucked a dog biscuit from the box tucked behind her seat. Then she climbed from her car, lifting a pink bakery bag high above her head.
A Small-Town Homecoming Page 2