Messing With Mac

by Jill Shalvis

  Oh boy. With sheer will power, she concentrated on her phone conversation. “What’s the bad news?”

  Mac set the sledgehammer on the floor. In deference to her call? No, that would mean he had a considerate streak.

  He was probably just done.

  “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Cabot said. “But you lost your bid on that nineteenth-century chandelier.”

  Instantly forgetting about Mac, she gripped the phone. “What do you mean? Who else bid on the chandelier?”

  “You were outbid by…” Papers rustled. “Isabel W. Craftsman.”

  Taylor might have guessed. There was only one person in town who would have coveted that piece as much as she had, and that was her own mother.

  It only had been Taylor’s greatest heart’s desire to own it, but hey, she figured her mother knew that, too. Her mother was highly educated, incredibly brilliant and had eyes in the back of her head. Bottom line, she knew everything, she always had.

  Well, except how to be a mother. Shocking how she’d screwed that up, but maybe Taylor was partly to blame. She’d always resented her mother’s vicious drive, sharp ambition and ability to multitask everything in her world except when it came to her own daughters.

  When Taylor had graduated from college and had moved out of the house, she’d decided to be the grown-up and let it all go. She’d told her mother so, saying she’d forgiven her for all the missed events, the forgotten birthdays, the lack of any physical attention whatsoever. She didn’t know what she expected, but it hadn’t been to be cut off by her mother’s cell phone. Her mother had held up a hand to Taylor, answered the call, dealt with some business problem, then absently kissed the air somewhere near Taylor’s cheek and walked away.

  Having completely forgotten they were in the middle of an important conversation.

  After standing there in seething resentment, Taylor had shrugged and moved on. She’d had to. Not every mother was cut out to be a warm, fuzzy type, and she needed to get over it.

  Then a few years ago Isabel had done the unthinkable, she’d gotten married again, and had dropped everything for one equally ambitious, equally cold-blooded Dr. Edward Craftsman, brain surgeon. Taylor had gone to the wedding, and if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes, she would never have believed it.

  Her mother lived for this man, gushing all over him. Constantly. Kissing, hugging, leaning, more kissing.

  It burned just thinking about it. So did her mother buying this chandelier from beneath her. “Thank you,” Taylor said into the phone. And as if it were no skin off her nose, she dropped the phone back into her pocket. Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it. She’d wanted that chandelier with a ridiculous passion. Served her right, wanting something so badly. Hadn’t she learned that nothing, nothing at all, was worth the heartache?

  She had other things to worry about. Like she had a building in disrepair, and a man was reminding her of things far better forgotten.

  Mac had tossed the sledgehammer aside, but he hadn’t been idle. There was now a shovel in his hand and he was loading debris into a wheelbarrow with the same narrow-minded intensity he’d swung his sledgehammer.

  Eyes narrowed, she set her hands on her hips and tapped her foot. “We never solved the problem of why you’re here a day early.”

  He kept loading until the wheelbarrow was full to bursting. Slowly he straightened, then eyed her with that light brown gaze, completely inscrutable now, without a trace of that intense sexual speculation.

  Had she only imagined it?

  “I didn’t think twenty-four hours would make any difference to you,” he said. Tossing the shovel aside, he grasped the handles of the wheelbarrow and lifted. Muscles strained. Tendons corded.

  Taylor tore her gaze away. “I needed this last day before the hell of the next three months of construction and renovation. You’ve ruined it.”

  He swiped a forearm across his forehead, looking tired, sweaty and temperamental. “I think that phone call ruined it.”

  Deep within her, a pesky lone hormone quivered. “I’d really like you to go and come back tomorrow.”

  That got his attention. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No.”

  “You need to be alone bad enough to disrupt the start of your own renovation?”

  “I do, yes.”

  “Fine.” Dropping the wheelbarrow, he propped his hands on his hips. “Have your way, Princess. Tomorrow it is, but don’t even think about pulling this again. I’m not going to postpone this job further, no matter what kind of day you’re having.”

  Princess? Had he just called her Princess? She’d show him princess! Reaching up, she yanked off her wide-brimmed hat, which once upon a time had cost her—make that her grandfather—a bundle. She’d die before explaining that her fair skin required she protect it from the harsh summer sun, especially since he seemed like a man to mock such a weakness. “Tomorrow will be just fine,” she said through her teeth, hat in her fist.

  Mac stretched his shoulders, which put a strain on his T-shirt, not that she was noticing, and rubbed his eyes. “Good. I’m outta here. But since I am, and since steam is still coming out your ears, why don’t you do both of us a favor.” Retrieving the sledgehammer, he held it out. “Start pounding walls. Consider it anger management.”

  She stared down at the tool, having never in her life so much as lifted a screwdriver. She might have blamed her uptight, pretentious family for that, though she’d been on her own for awhile now, and could have made the effort to learn such things.

  Should have, because it would feel good to swing the thing with authority and knowledge, surprising that smirk off his face.

  He wriggled the sledgehammer enticingly.

  Odd how a little part of her tingled to touch it, hoist it over her head and let loose. Barbaric, yes, and suddenly very appealing.

  “You know you want to,” Mac said in a low, husky dare. “Touch it.”

  She cocked a brow and looked at him from beneath lowered lashes. “So…are they all the same size?”

  His eyes sparked, heated and flamed.

  And one question was answered…she had most definitely not imagined that intense sexual speculation.

  “I thought size didn’t matter to a woman.”

  She lifted a shoulder. “That’s just the story some woman started in order to appease her poor husband who didn’t have…the right equipment.”

  “Hmm.” He lifted the sledgehammer again, his eyes amused now. “The right equipment, huh?”

  “That’s right.”

  He looked at the sledgehammer with a new light, then back into her eyes. “Seeing as I have the right equipment, are you going to go for it?”

  Oh yeah, she was. For the sledgehammer, anyway.

  What could it hurt? She had aggression coming out her ears; for her grandfather, who was probably sitting on a cloud laughing down at her right this very minute, for her mother, who would rather do anything than be a mother, for her dwindling bank account, for the chandelier she’d lost out on…for being alone in all this.

  For just about every damn thing in her entire life, she needed that sledgehammer.

  Mac held it out.

  Her fingers itched.

  His eyes sizzled with the dare, and a potent, heady male heat.

  “Fine.” She set her hat back on her head, snatched the tool from him, then swore in a very unladylike way as the thing jerked both her arms down with its weight, slamming the heavy sledgehammer to the floor.

  Mac tsked. “Sorry, I thought you were stronger than that.”

  2

  TAYLOR’S ACCUSING EYES speared Mac, and he had to bite back his grin as he lifted an innocent shoulder.

  She let out a rude sound, and with determination and aggression blaring out her eyes, she hoisted the sledgehammer up…and nearly fell to her very finely dressed ass. Stumbling back a step, she spread her legs out a little for balance, then sent him a triumphant smile.

  It stopped his heart.
>
  Funny, that, since he’d have sworn the organ in question had dried up from abuse and misuse.

  Taylor turned her back on him and with all her might, swung the sledgehammer into the wall. When drywall fell and dust rose, she let out a cocky laugh, whirling back to make sure he was looking.

  Oh, he was looking. He’d been looking since she’d first sauntered into the room, just as he had a feeling men always looked at Taylor Wellington.

  He’d bet his last dollar that she knew it as well. She was a pricey number, all fancy labels and perfect grooming. Stunning, too, with her blond hair, see-through green eyes and a body meant to bring a grown man right to his knees. She had long, willowy curves, outlined in mouthwatering detail beneath the silky sundress that made his hands itch to mess her up. It was crazy, but he had the most inane urge to toss off her hat, sink his fingers into her hair and shake a little, to eat off her carefully applied lipstick that smelled like peaches and cream, to run his hands over that cobalt silk and see if she looked as good undone as she looked done.

  But he recognized a spoiled socialite when he saw one. Oh yeah, he did. He’d been there, bought the T-shirt, and because of it, he wasn’t tempted.

  Well, maybe a little tempted, but he wasn’t an idiot. She was upset because of some silly little bid she’d lost for a damn light fixture, when Mac had his entire future riding on a bid as well. A bid with South Village’s town council to get in on the area’s renovation and preservation acts. South Village wasn’t some prefab pedestrian neighborhood like Universal’s City Walk, but a genuine historical district in the middle of extensive restoration. He had bid on several of the upcoming jobs that would hopefully set up his business and reputation. Now that was something to get a little excited over, and he was trying not to think about how badly he wanted to be awarded those bids.

  Taylor lifted the sledgehammer again, and with all her might, gave it everything she had. Not a strand of hair fell out of place beneath her hat, and nary a wrinkle appeared on those fine clothes. More interesting, he sensed she wasn’t just humoring him here, but was genuinely striving to work off steam. Her mouth was grim, her eyes quite focused on the task, as if she was imagining someone’s face right where the sledgehammer fell.

  It shocked him, the barely restrained violence pouring out of her, but what really shocked him was how arousing it was to watch her go at it. With every swing, her perfect, palm-sized breasts jiggled, her hips wriggled, her ass shimmied and shook.

  And damn, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. “Remind me to never piss you off,” he said, and she let out a rough sound of agreement as she swung again.

  She was going to get blisters if she kept it up, which she appeared to intend to do. He hadn’t expected her to be able to lift the sledgehammer, much less swing it. “Uh…Princess? Don’t you think that’s probably enough?”

  Ignoring him, she swung again, but it took a huge effort.

  Figuring she had to be nearing exhaustion, he shifted closer, thinking he should grab the sledge-hammer before she hurt herself. That’s all he needed, was to maim the boss before she paid him.

  Blocking him with an elbow, she growled, “Back off.”

  Torn between annoyance and amusement, he did. “Okay, maybe I was wrong, maybe anger management classes would have been more effective for you.”

  “No.” Heave. Smash. Heave. Smash. “You were right, this is good. And…” Heave. Smash. “Cheap, too.”

  She paused, gasping for breath.

  “You could always just ask Daddy for more money,” he suggested.

  She went utterly still. Then carefully and purposely set down the sledgehammer before turning to him, eyes suddenly cold as ice. “You know, I think I’m finished after all. Thank you,” she added politely, and then cool as he pleased, walked past him and quietly shut the door behind her.

  Shaking his head, he let out a low whistle. Classy down to the last millimeter, when what she’d obviously wanted was to tear into his hide. Still in that state of amused annoyance, he let himself out of the unit as well, figuring he’d give in on this, her need to have the rest of the day to herself.

  Only because it suited him.

  Mac got into his truck and drove east. He didn’t live in the high-class, high-rent district of South Village. Nor with the middle class in their gated condo developments and upscale houses that all mirrored each other. He didn’t live with the wannabes on the outskirts either.

  He lived exactly where he wanted to, and damn expectations. He lived in the area known as The Tracks, which before the Town Council and Historical Society had gotten a hold of it meant that he lived on the wrong side of the tracks.

  He appreciated the irony of it.

  In ten minutes he was walking into his own little house, little being the key word here. The first thing he did was toss his mail—unread—on the table, where it knocked over the existing pile of unpaid bills.

  Didn’t matter. No matter how big that stack got, he was still free. Free of his family’s obligations, well-meaning but smothering nonetheless. Free of his ex-wife—whom he had to thank for all those un paid bills.

  He’d refused to let her live off his very generous family and their money, refused to make her the socialite she wanted to be. As a result, she’d taken everything he owned and then some before purposely and completely destroying him in the only way she could.

  By aborting his child.

  But he wasn’t going there, not tonight. He stripped, hunted up a pair of beat-up old shorts and headed back out for his own anger management class.

  A long, punishing run.

  AT THE CRACK OF DAWN the next morning, Mac drove back to Taylor’s building. He had a soft spot for this hour, before the sun had fully risen on the horizon, as no one had yet screwed up his day.

  Today he’d have a crew working on the demolition, tearing out drywall down to the wood studs, then stripping old electrical and plumbing lines. Yesterday had been just for him, a way to burn off some accumulated steam. And he’d had plenty of it. There’d been that call from his mother, who in spite of her own life and full-time, very demanding job, was warm and loving and more than a little certain he was wasting away without her home cooking, and when was he going to come home for a Sunday meal?

  Then had come the call from his old captain, wanting him back on the police force, which he’d left at the same time as his divorce four years ago. Much as Mac had loved being a cop, he loved rebuilding and renovating more, and always had. He’d been building things, working with his hands, ever since he could remember, and his love of doing so hadn’t changed.

  But his purpose had. Life was too damn short, as he’d learned the hard way, and he intended to spend the rest of it doing what he loved. And what he loved was taking old, decrepit, run-down historical buildings and restoring them to their former glory. He’d been doing just that since getting off the force and had never looked back. He’d started out working for a friend of the family, learning the trade. For two years now, he’d been on his own doing mostly single rooms within existing buildings until this last year when he’d taken on whole buildings for the first time.

  He’d found his calling. Taylor was his biggest client to date, his biggest job and his stepping stone to the next level.

  He hoped. Thanks to Ariel, who’d dragged him through the coals financially, morally and every other way possible, he couldn’t afford to renovate his own place, not yet. Fine. He’d do it for someone else and work his way up. He had no problem with that.

  And with that single-mindedness, he parked right in front of Taylor’s building—a miracle given the deplorable parking in South Village—and fervently hoped she’d made herself scarce. He had a crew to think about, and he wanted their minds on work, not on a beautiful woman, no matter how good she’d looked swinging a sledgehammer in all her finery.

  His crew was waiting for him, just standing on the front steps, which made no sense. They knew better than to stand around wasting time.

/>   But they weren’t just standing, they were smiling and nodding like little puppets to…surprise, surprise…Taylor.

  “It came from Russia,” she was saying, holding up some sort of vase as he strode up the walk, annoyance already starting to simmer.

  Taylor stroked perfectly manicured fingers over the smooth, porcelain surface of the vase as she talked, caressing the thing like she would a lover, and Mac’s blood began to beat thick, and not with just annoyance now. An ache, purely sexual, began to spread through his belly.

  Which proved it, he was insane.

  “It’s worth a small fortune,” Taylor said, seeming lost in the delicate etching on the vase, sighing over the beauty of it as she touched.

  The sound of her soft sigh didn’t help Mac’s inner ache, and he spent a moment brooding over the fact he hadn’t been with a woman in a good long while. He hadn’t wanted to, not since Ariel and her cruel betrayal.

  But not having a sexual urge wasn’t the same as ignoring one. He looked at the vase in Taylor’s hands and concentrated on her words.

  Worth a fortune, she’d said.

  Enough to cover the wasted labor for however long she stood there occupying his men’s every thought?

  But what did she care how much money he lost in wages unearned? Mac wasn’t exactly sure what had happened yesterday, why she’d momentarily drawn him, given who and what she was—that being a woman too close to Ariel’s type to make him comfortable. But whatever it was, whatever little spark or electrical current of attraction he’d felt in spite of himself, he wouldn’t feel again.

  She wore a pair of pale blue capris with a matching short, little cropped jacket, looking like she should be getting ready to walk down the runway instead of standing on the step of her ugly building.

  Her hair was pulled back in a careful twist and she wore more of that peach lip-gloss from yesterday.

  She was a long, cool drink of water, and even knowing it, even having prepared himself to see her again, he was suddenly dying of thirst, and couldn’t seem to tear his eyes off her.