by Nora Roberts
His lips wanted to twitch, but he overcame the urge. “Shut up.”
“I always knew, if I happened to walk into the room and you and Mama appeared to be kissing, you were really practicing lifesaving techniques. Can’t be too careful.”
“You’re going to need lifesaving techniques in a minute.”
“Until then, let me ask you this. Do you like Brody, as a man?”
“Yes, of course, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to do handsprings of joy when I walk into my kitchen and see…what I saw.”
“Well, there’s a possibility of a motel room on Route 81 in my future.”
“Ah.” Spencer dropped his forehead to hers. “Kate.”
“You and Mom taught me I never had to hide anything from you. My feelings, my actions. I have feelings for Brody. I’m not completely sure what those feelings entail, but my actions are going to reflect them.”
“Your actions have always reflected your feelings, with a stiff dose of logic tossed in.”
“This won’t be any different.”
“What about his feelings?”
“He doesn’t know. We’ll figure it out.”
“Doesn’t know?” His eyes, so like hers, went to smoky slits. “Well, the boy better make up his mind in a hurry, or—”
“Oooh, Daddy.” Kate blinked rapidly, shivered. “Are you going to go beat him up for me? Can I watch?”
“Really going to need those lifesaving techniques,” Spencer muttered.
“I love you.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You raised a child, on your own, for a number of years. You know what it means when you do that, when you love the child, when you’re committed to the child.”
His Freddie. His first baby, now with babies of her own. “Yes, I do.”
“How could I not be attracted to that part of him, Daddy, that I love so much in you?”
“And how am I supposed to argue with that?” He cuddled her closer, sighed. “You can tell Brody I don’t plan to buy a gun. Yet.”
She went down for lunch the next day. Then made a habit of dropping by, taking pastries and coffee, subs or sandwiches, to Brody and his crew.
Some might have called it a bribe. In fact Brody called it exactly that, as the offerings tended to make his men more cooperative when Kate skewered them with questions, or asked for changes to the original plan.
It didn’t stop him from anticipating her visits, or gauging his time so he could spare twenty minutes or a half hour to walk with her around town, or share a cup of coffee with her in the little café up the street.
He knew his men were wiggling their eyebrows or giving each other elbow nudges whenever he walked off with Kate. But since he’d gone to high school with most of them, he took it in the spirit it was meant.
And if he caught one of them, occasionally, checking out her butt or her legs, it only took one hard stare to have that individual getting busy elsewhere.
He still couldn’t figure her. She sauntered down to the job looking, always, like something clipped from the glossy pages of a magazine. Perfect and female. But she poked around the dust and grime of the site as if she were one of the crew, asking pointed questions about things like the wiring.
He’d come across her having a heated debate with one of his men over baseball. And an hour later, he overheard her on her cell phone, chatting away in precise and fluent French.
No, after two weeks of this easy routine, he still couldn’t figure her. But neither could he stop thinking about her.
Now, as she wandered the main studio, he couldn’t stop looking at her.
She wore some soft sweater in deep blue over gray leggings. Her hair was bundled up in some fascinating way that left her nape bare and sexy.
The room was warm thanks to the new heating system. The plaster work was well underway, and he’d brought in the first samples of the woodwork he had molded himself to match the original.
His father had left only a short time before, after putting in six hours on plumbing. A difficult and tense six hours, Brody thought now. It was a pleasure to put that aside and look at Kate.
“The plasterer’s doing a great job,” she said after touring the walls. “I almost feel guilty that we’re going to cover so much up with mirrors.”
“Your glass is on order. It’ll be in middle of February.”
She picked up the sample of woodwork. “This is beautiful, Brody. You’ll never be able to tell it from the original.”
“That’s the idea.”
“Yes, it is.” She set the wood down again. “You’re moving along, right on schedule. Jobwise. But…” She started toward him. “In the personal department, you’re lagging.”
“Takes a while to lay the groundwork.”
“Depends what you’re planning on building, Brody.” She laid her hands on his shoulder. “I want a date.”
“We had lunch.”
“A grown-up date. The sort reasonable, unattached adults indulge in from time to time. Dinner, O’Connell. Maybe a movie. You may not be aware, but many restaurants stay open after the lunch shift.”
“I’ve heard that. Look, Kate.” He backed up, but she moved forward with him. “There’s Jack, and school nights, and complications.”
“Yes, there’s Jack. I enjoy spending time with him, but I’d like a little one-on-one with Jack’s father. I don’t think your son will be scarred for life if you go out one evening. In fact, here’s what we’re going to do. You, me, Friday night. Dinner. I’ll make the arrangements. Pick me up at seven. You, me, Jack, Saturday afternoon. Movies. My treat. I’ll pick you both up at one. Settled.”
“It’s not that simple. There’s the whole baby-sitter deal. I don’t know who I’d—”
He turned, desperately relieved when the door jangled open.
“Dad!” And the man of the hour shot in like a bullet. “We saw your truck, so Mrs. Skully said we could stop. Hi, Kate.” He dumped his Star Wars backpack on the floor, grinned. “Listen, it echoes. Hi, Kate!”
She had to laugh, and even before Brody could, scooped Jack off his feet. “Hi, Handsome Jack. Ready to kiss me?”
“Nah.” But it was obvious he was half hoping she’d kiss him again.
“That’s a real problem with the men in your family.” She put him on his feet as a woman, a boy and a girl came through the door. The woman blew spiky bangs out of her eyes.
“Brody, saw your truck. I thought I’d drop Jack off, save you a trip. Unless you want me to take him home awhile yet.”
“No, this is great, thanks. Ah, Beth Skully, Kate Kimball.”
“Kate and I sort of know each other. Rod, no running in here. You probably don’t remember me,” she continued without missing a beat. “My sister JoBeth was friends with your sister Freddie.”
“JoBeth, of course. How is she?”
“She’s great. She and her family live in Michigan. She’s a nurse-practitioner. I hope you don’t mind me dropping in with the troops this way. I’ve been wondering what you’re doing in this old place.”
“Mom.” The little girl, blond and big-eyed tugged on sleeve.
“All right, Carrie, just a minute.”
“I’ll give you a tour,” Kate offered. “If you can stand it.”
“Actually, I’d love it, but we’re still on the run. Having kids turns you into a bus driver. I guess you don’t know, right yet, when you’ll be opening your dance school?”
“I hope to start taking afternoon and evening students in April.” She glanced down at Carrie, recognized the hope in those big eyes. “Are you interested in ballet, Carrie?”
“I want to be a ballerina.”
“Ballerinas are sissies.” Her brother sneered.
“Mom!” Carrie wailed.
“Rod, you just hush. I’m sorry about my little moron here, Kate.”
“No, don’t apologize. Sissies?” she said, turning to Rod, who looked pleased with himself.
“Yeah, uh-huh, ’cause they wear dopey clothes and go
around like this.” Rod boosted himself on tiptoe and took several small, rather mincing steps.
The result had his sister wailing for her mother yet again.
Before Beth could speak, Kate smiled and shook her head. “That’s interesting. How many sissies do you know who can do this?”
Kate brought her leg up, braced a hand on her thigh and bringing her leg tight against the side of her body, pointed her toe at the ceiling.
Oh, my God, was the single thought that tumbled around in Brody’s mind.
“Bet I can.” Challenged, Rod grabbed his ankle, tried to pull his leg up, lost his balance and tumbled onto his butt.
“Rod, you’ll snap yourself like a turkey wishbone,” his mother warned, and with an arm around Carrie’s shoulder smiled at Kate. “Doesn’t that hurt?”
“Only if you think about it.” She lowered her foot to the floor. “How old are you, Carrie?”
“I’m five. I can touch my toes.”
Five, Kate thought. The bones were still soft. The body still able to learn to do the unnatural. “If you and your mama decide you should come to my school next spring, I’ll teach you to dance. And you’ll show your brother that ballet isn’t for sissies.”
She winked at Carrie, then let her body flow back into a smooth back-bend. She kicked her legs gracefully to the ceiling, held there a moment, then simply flowed upright again.
“Wow,” Rod whispered to Jack. “She’s cool.”
Brody said nothing. Saliva had pooled in his mouth.
“Ballet is for athletes.” Tossing back her hair, she angled her head at Rod. “A number of professional football players take rudimentary ballet, to help them move fast and smooth on the field.”
“No way,” Rod said.
“Way. Come with your sister a few times, Rod. I’ll show you.”
“Now, that’s asking for a headache.” With a laugh, Beth signaled her son. “Come on, trouble.”
Brody slapped himself out of a particularly detailed fantasy that involved that stupendously flexible body. “Thanks for seeing to Jack, Beth.”
“Oh, you know it’s no bother. Happy to have old Jack anytime.”
“Really?” Kate murmured, sending Brody a long look.
“Sure, he’s…” Beth shifted her eyes between Brody and Kate, then bit down on a grin. Well, well, well. It was about damn time the man started looking past his nose. “He’s a pure pleasure,” Beth went on. “In fact, I was thinking about cooking up a big pot of spaghetti one night this week and seeing if Jack wanted to have dinner with Rod.”
“Friday’s a great night for spaghetti,” Kate said sweetly. “Don’t you think, Brody?”
“I don’t know. I—”
“You know, Friday’s just perfect.” Thrilled to help Kate execute the squeeze play, Beth nudged her kids to the door. “We’ll count on that then. Jack’ll just come over after school, and stay for dinner. He and the kids can watch a video after. Maybe you should plan on him spending the night. That’ll work out. Just send him to school Friday with a change of clothes. Nice to see you again, Kate.”
“Very nice seeing you.”
“I get to have a sleep-over at Rod’s.” Thrilled, Jack plopped down to do some somersaults. “Thanks, Dad.”
“Yeah.” Kate trailed a finger down Brody’s chest, chuckled at his shell-shocked expression. “Thanks, Dad.”
Chapter Six
Friday was not turning out to be a terrific cap to the work week. One of his men called in sick, felled by the flu that was gleefully making the rounds. Brody sent another man home at noon who was too sick to be out of bed much less swinging a hammer.
Since the other half of his four-man crew was finishing up a trim job across the river in Maryland, that left Brody to deal with the plumbing inspector, to hang the drywall for the partition between Kate’s office and the school’s kitchen, and to finish stripping the woodwork in those two areas.
Most of all, and most stressful, was that it left him alone on the job with his father for the best part of the day.
Bob O’Connell was under the sink to his waist. His ancient work boots had had their soles glued back in place countless times. He’d staple them back on, Brody thought, before he’d spring for another pair.
Don’t need what I don’t need, the old man would say. About every damn thing.
His business, his way, Brody reminded himself and wished he could stop digging up reasons to be resentful.
They rubbed each other raw. Always had.
Bob clanged pipes. Brody measured drywall.
“Turn that damn noise off,” Bob ordered. “How’s a man supposed to work with that crap ringing in his ears?”
Saying nothing, Brody stepped over and snapped off the portable stereo. Whatever music he’d listened to was considered noise to his father’s ear.
Bob swore and muttered while he worked. Which was, Brody thought, exactly why he’d had the music on.
“Damn stupid idea, cutting this kitchen up this-a-way. Waste of time and money. Office space, my ass. What’s anybody need office space for to teach a buncha twinkle-toes?”
Brody had put off working on the kitchen side of the partition as long as possible. Now he hefted the drywall section he’d measured and cut, set it into place. “I’ve got the time,” he said and plucked a drywall nail out of his pouch. “The client’s got the money.”
“Yeah, the Kimballs got plenty of money. No point in tossing it away, though, is there? You shoulda oughta told her she’s making a mistake sectioning this kitchen off.”
Brody hammered wall to stud. Told himself to keep his mouth shut. But the words just wouldn’t stay down. “I don’t think she’s making a mistake. She doesn’t need a kitchen this size down here. It was designed to cook up bar food. What’s a dance school going to do with a small restaurant kitchen?”
“Dance school.” Bob made a sound of disgust. “Open and close inside a month. Then how’s she going to sell this place all cut up like this? Kid-height sinks in the bathrooms. Just have to pull them out again. Surprised the plumbing inspector didn’t bust his gut laughing at the rough-in.”
“When you teach kids, you have to have accommodations for kids.”
“We got the elementary school for that, don’t we?”
“Last I heard they weren’t teaching ballet at the elementary school.”
“Ought to tell you something,” Bob muttered, rankled by his son’s tone.
Bob told himself to keep his mouth shut, to mind his own business. But, like Brody, the words just wouldn’t stay down. “You’re supposed to do more than take a customer’s money, boy. You’re supposed to know enough to point them in the right direction.”
“As long as it’s your direction.”
Bob wormed out from under the sink. His faded blue gimme cap sat askew on a head topped with short, grizzled gray hair. His face was square and lined deep. It had once been sternly handsome. His eyes were as green as his son’s.
At times they seemed to be the only thing father and son shared.
“You want to watch that mouth of yours, boy.”
“Ever think about watching yours?” Brody felt the band tightening around his head. A temper headache. A Bob O’Connell headache.
Bob tossed down his wrench, got to his feet. He was a big man, but had never run to fat. Even at sixty he was mostly muscle and grit. “When you got the years I got of living and working in the trade, you can say your piece as you please.”
“Really.” Brody muscled another sheet of drywall onto the sawhorses, marked his measuring cuts. “You’ve been saying the same damn thing to me since I was eight. I’d say I’ve got enough years behind me by now. This is my job—sited, designed, bid and contracted. It goes the way I say it goes.”
He picked up his scoring knife, lifted his gaze to meet his father’s. “The client gets what the client wants. And as long as she’s satisfied there’s nothing to discuss.”
“From what I hear you’re doing a lot more
than satisfying your client on the job.”
He hadn’t meant to say that. Holy God, he hadn’t meant to say that. But the words were out. Damn it, the boy always riled him so.
Brody’s hand clenched on the knife. For a moment, too long a moment, he wanted to punch his fist into that hard, unyielding face. “What’s between me and Kate Kimball is my business.”
“I live in this town, too, and so does your ma. People talk about my blood, it washes over on me. You got a kid to raise, and no business running around with some fancy woman stirring gossip.”
“Don’t you bring Jack into this. Don’t bring my son into this.”
“Jack’s my kin, too. Nothing’s going to change that. You kept him down in the city all that time so you could do your running around and God knows, but you’re here now. My home. I’m not having you shame me and that boy in my own front yard.”
Running around, Brody thought. To doctors, hospitals, specialists. Then running around, trying to outrace your own grief and do what was right for a motherless two-year-old.
“You don’t know anything about me. What I’ve done, what I do. What I am.” Determined to hold his temper, he began to score the drywall along his mark. “But you’ve sure always managed to find the worst of it and rub it in my face.”
“If I’d’ve rubbed it harder, maybe you wouldn’t be raising a kid without his ma.”
Brody’s hand jerked on the knife, bore down and sliced it over his own hand.
Bob let out an oath over the bright gush of blood and grabbed for his bandanna. His shocked concern came out in hot disapproval. “Don’t you know better’n to watch what you’re doing with tools?”
“Get the hell away from me.” Clamping a hand over the gash, Brody stepped back. He couldn’t trust himself now. Wasn’t sure what he might do. “Get your tools and get off my job.”
“You get on out in my truck. You’re gonna need stitches.”
“I said get off my job. You’re fired.” The rapid beat of his own heart pumped blood through his fingers. “Pack up your tools and get out.”