by Beth Andrews
She shrugged free of his touch. “It’s cleaning products that Mahoney’s into this time. And you and I both know it’s all one big game to you. Always has been. But don’t worry, I’ll do my part. Your part is to keep your hands to yourself.”
“You might change your mind about that. You might discover power tools turn you on.”
Oh, for God’s sake. “You start putting your hands where they don’t belong and I’ll start swinging my hammer. And my aim—” her gaze dropped suggestively “—might leave a lot to be desired.”
“There’s nothing wrong with your aim, slick. The problem has always been your choice of target.”
* * *
ALLISON ZIPPED UP the front of her “uniform” and let loose a laugh that came out sounding disturbingly frantic. What in God’s name had she gotten herself into? The only paint she’d ever applied had been to her fingernails. And any experience with hand tools had almost always ended in bloodshed and bandages.
She grimaced at her pale-faced image in the mirror and thought back to Joe’s earlier comment. By describing himself as a target he’d made it sound like she’d plotted against him a year ago. He didn’t understand she’d been trying to save the company’s reputation. And Joe’s along with it.
You always did put T&P first.
No. She’d done what she had to do. He didn’t remember it right. How could he, considering he’d been in a constant state of drunk at the time?
She bit her lip, turned her back on her reflection and regarded the piles of clothes on the bed. At least she’d found an honest-to-goodness mall, instead of having to do her shopping at a hardware store. When she’d arrived in Castle Creek the day before she’d planned on staying no more than an hour or two. Thank God for company credit cards.
Someone pounded on her door and she jumped.
“Move it, Kincaid. We have work to do.”
This could not be the same guy who’d cuddled a kitten two minutes after the thing had nearly made him break his neck. She’d picked up and already delivered his stupid PVC piping. What more could he want?
But of course, she knew. He wanted to teach her a lesson. She’d invaded his territory. Tried to make him feel guilty. The last place an ad-man wanted to be was on the receiving end of a sales pitch.
She closed her eyes and pulled in a slow breath. Pictured herself sitting behind that Account Executive nameplate, handing a bewildered and infuriated Sammy a stack of cash, wandering around an elegant apartment double the size of the place she lived in now.
Walking her mother into rehab. Again.
More pounding. She squeezed her eyes tighter and pictured a line of fire ants marching toward a trussed up Joe.
“Don’t make me come in there.”
She stalked to the door and yanked it open, bracing herself for a litany of smart-ass comments. Joe looked down at her clunky, sand-colored boots, and with the toe of his own boot nudged the nearest one.
“Show me.”
She hiked her pants leg and he nodded.
“This way.”
She followed him down the sidewalk, admiring the snug fit of his jeans despite herself. He stopped three doors down, in front of #5, and she raised her gaze just in time. Or maybe not, because he shot her an amused look as he searched his pockets for the keycard.
“How’s your room?” he asked idly.
“Fine.” Allison adjusted the clip in her hair and thought back to the soft lemon walls, the cozy tiled bathroom and the down comforter on the bed. She lowered her arms and sighed. “That’s not true, actually.”
She almost missed it—the subtle tightening of his fingers on the card.
“Problem?”
Huh. What she said mattered to him. Or rather, what she said about the motel mattered. Her chest cramped. He’d been a natural at advertising. Reveled in the challenge, expertly wooed his clients, basked in his many successes. But how much had he really cared? How much could he have cared, if he’d been able to walk away from it all?
Well, then. She’d have to make him care.
“Kincaid?” One eyebrow went up. “Problem with your room?”
“No. No problem. Just the opposite. The room is lovely.”
That one eyebrow remained suspended while wariness leaked in to replace the mockery. The fact that he didn’t believe her ticked her off, but she wasn’t going to beg the man to take a compliment. Besides. She’d cured herself of begging him a year ago.
He pushed open the door and stood back to let her in. She stopped on the threshold and stared.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
He’d traded an elegant capital-city condo with a killer location and a doorman for this? For God’s sake. One glimpse and she needed a drink.
The paneling on the walls bore so many scrapes and gashes, there wasn’t a lot of brown left to see. The ceiling sagged. The carpet was stained beyond color recognition—except for the duct tape holding it together. And even with the window wide open, the room smelled like well-used gym shoes.
She could only imagine the condition of the bathroom.
“You turned this—” she tipped her head in the direction of her own room “—into that?”
“First step is pulling up the carpet. I’ll let you handle that while I fix the sink next door. After that we’ll be yanking out paneling.”
“Wouldn’t it have been easier to burn the place down and start over?”
“Maybe in the beginning. Yell if you need anything.”
She backed out the doorway. “No way I’m working in there. Not without a tetanus shot and a hazmat suit.”
“What’s the matter? Afraid you’ll break a nail?”
Yes, as a matter of fact. “More like step on one.”
“That’s what boots are for.” He motioned at the room with his chin. “You don’t go in there, deal’s off.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Yeah. I would.”
Tackett wouldn’t, though. The unspoken words danced like dust motes in the air between them.
“Fine,” she grumbled at last, rolling her eyes and drawing out the word so it came out fiiii-nuh.
With the faintest trace of a smirk, Joe pointed to a five-gallon bucket just inside the door. A mask and a pair of leather gloves lay on the carpet beside it, and from the bucket’s rim hung a well-used hammer.
“Use the claw side to pry the carpeting free of the tack strips along the walls. Then start rolling.”
He made it sound so easy. But she’d almost rather accept Sammy’s sickening proposition than crawl around in the filth at her feet. She shuddered. She’d have to go out and buy herself a loofah. Or twenty.
Joe swept out an arm, as if offering paradise. “I’ll leave you to it.”
“Thank you so much.” Her hands tangled as she stared at the ruined carpet. “What if there’s something under there?”
“There is. It’s called a floor.”
An hour later, Allison had called Joe Gallahan every dirty name she could think of. She’d hoped to have the entire carpet up before he came back, just to show she could, but pulling the thing up had proved to be a lot harder than she’d imagined. It was heavy and thick with dirt, and kept sticking to the floor. Finally she’d resolved herself to cutting it free, inch by disgusting inch.
A mixture of sweat and dust coated her face and the back of her neck. It trickled down her spine and soaked into the waistband of her panties. Her skin crawled and she wondered if Joe had another pair of coveralls because she couldn’t help fantasizing about burning the pair she was wearing. Hell, she might as well burn her entire outfit.
How did he do this all day? Her knees and lower back were killing her.
With a groan she sat back on her heels and surveyed the section
of floor she’d uncovered. She’d never thought of herself as a complainer. But here, in a run-down motel, amidst cigarette butts and mouse droppings, she wanted nothing more than to indulge in a good cry. When her throat thickened in automatic response she pushed her mask up off her face and grabbed her water bottle. A few deep swigs and the tightness eased.
A mouse scurried across the floor, inches from her knees. Allison shrieked and jolted to her feet. The water bottle went flying and slammed against the wall with a sloshing thud. She was almost at the door when Joe appeared, a wrench in his hand and concern on his face. Sweat formed a dark V on the front of his T-shirt and slicked his muscled arms. All that moisture her body had been producing nonstop over the past hour? Apparently she’d used it all up, because her throat chose that particular moment to go bottom-of-the-well dry.
CHAPTER THREE
JOE’S GAZE WHISKED over her, as if checking for blood, then scanned the room. “What happened?”
“I um, saw a, um...mouse.”
His shoulders relaxed and he leaned against the doorjamb. She could see he was trying not to smile.
“It’s not funny. They’re...unhygienic.”
“Is that even a word?” She glared and he shrugged. “I’ve had an exterminator out here but the suckers are persistent.” He released the smile. “My guess is they’re all female.”
That smile took indecent liberties with her insides. When his mouth took on that playful curve, it reminded her of less-hostile times. Of blissful, sultry, between-the-sheets times.
Easy, Allie.
Her cell rang and she tugged off her gloves. Got a good look at what was left of her manicure and bit back a whimper. She plucked her phone from her pocket and peered at the incoming number.
“I should take this.”
Something flickered across his face and he jerked a nod. “I have to go, anyway. A friend of mine needs help. Why don’t you knock off for the day? Try the diner in town if you’re hungry, and I guess I’ll see you in the morning.” He glanced at the lopsided roll of carpet on the floor behind her, then at the phone in her hand. “Good job, Kincaid.”
She continued to stare at the doorway long after he’d left. He was as distant as he could be. Calling her by her last name, keeping himself busy with other projects so they wouldn’t have to work together. Exactly what she needed him to do, if they were going to make it through the next few weeks without any messy conversations, let alone power tool mishaps.
So why did she feel slighted?
It was almost as if the effort involved in yanking carpet and refitting pipes had chipped away at the bitterness they shared. Well, it had to stop. She needed her bitterness. She and her bitterness were BFFs.
When her cell started a second series of rings she closed her eyes and pressed the phone to her ear. “Hi, Mom.”
“You talked to Sammy.”
Fine, Mom, thanks. And how are you?
Allison exhaled. “You and I agreed you wouldn’t see him, and he and I agreed he wouldn’t loan you more money. But you did, and he did, and I got a threatening phone call. I had to do something.”
“He cut me off.” As usual, Beryl Kincaid’s words were muffled—she did most of her talking around a mouthful of butterscotch candies.
“Mom. We’ve been over this. What happens if you can’t pay your rent and Carlotta kicks you out?”
The moment she asked the question she’d have given anything to take it back. She’d already had to make it clear—more than once—that she wouldn’t sacrifice her privacy. Not on top of everything else.
“I’m working on that,” her mother said, and Allison sagged against the nearest wall. “I wouldn’t mind a roommate who’s a little more appreciative. I made the cleverest centerpiece for the dining room table and you know what Carlotta said? She said it was tacky.’”
A crinkling sound. Her mother had popped another candy into her mouth.
“Tacky. Can you imagine? I spent hours on that piece. I put a little stuffed bear in a doll’s chair with a curved back—you know, kind of like a throne?—gave him a jar and a honey dipper and drizzled wood glue all over him. I wish you could have seen him, he looked so adorably messy. Oh, and I glued a bee to his nose and put a tiara on his head.” She paused, and sucked on her candy. “Maybe I should say her head. Anyway, I think the tiara glows in the dark.”
“That sounds...creative.” Poor Carlotta.
Her mother gasped. “Next time I’ll paint hearts on the jar and I’ll have the perfect Valentine’s Day gift. I could make a fortune, don’t you think? And ruffles. I should add ruffles.” Allison could hear her mom scribbling on a piece of paper. “Anyway, after all the time I put into the centerpiece, Carlotta didn’t want it. So I gave it to Sammy. He was thrilled. Well, not at first, but when I told him to give it to his girlfriend he perked right up.”
Allison turned and rapped her forehead against the wall. “You need to stay away from Sammy. He’s not your friend, Mom.”
“He’s a better friend than Carlotta.”
Allison sighed. “Aren’t your craft projects and your job at the mall enough to keep you away from the tables?”
“I get bored easily. You know I do. And when money’s at stake, hours go by like seconds.”
“Money has been at stake for as long as I can remember. The tables are killing you, Mom. They’re killing me. I can’t stand by while you dig yourself in deeper and deeper with that creep. One way or another, you’re going to end up in the hospital.”
“Now you’re being ridiculous. Sammy would never hurt me.”
“We stop paying and that’s exactly what he’ll do.” She pushed away from the wall and surveyed the room. As messy as it was, it couldn’t compare to the wreckage that was her life. But she was a daughter, with a mother who’d once risked everything to protect her.
She had to ask. “You making your meetings okay?”
“Of course I am,” her mother snapped. “And I wish you wouldn’t feel the need to ask every time we talk.”
“I care about you. I want you to get better.”
“You mean you want me to stop being a burden.”
“Mom—”
“But I think I’ve found a way to fix that.”
Oh, God. Oh, no. “What do you mean?”
“You’ll find out. How long will you be away?”
“Two weeks.” Because Joe Gallahan was determined to be an ass. “Mom. No more gambling. Promise me.”
“It’s not a gamble when it’s a sure bet.”
“Mom?”
“Trust me, Allie girl.”
“Mom.”
She’d disconnected.
Allison gritted her teeth and glared down at the phone. She really should have chucked the damn thing into the lake.
* * *
AN HOUR LATER she was combing her damp hair and trying to convince her empty stomach it could survive until morning when she remembered the packet of M&M’s she’d stashed in the glove compartment. She might be too tired and achy to check out the diner Joe had mentioned, but she could certainly limp as far as her car. When there was chocolate at stake, she’d crawl if she had to.
She shimmied into a pair of jeans and a black, short-sleeved shirt, wishing she’d had the chance to wash her new clothes. But at least she didn’t have to climb back into those grime-encrusted coveralls. Not yet, anyway.
After scooping up her keys she walked barefoot to her car. A sleepy gray haze had crept into the summer evening, heralding dusk. Cool air, crisp as a Granny Smith apple, had her thinking of porch swings, oversize sweatshirts and glasses of red wine. On second thought, scratch the wine.
She forced her mind away from the thought of alcohol and what it could do to a person—to a couple—and looked around. Crumbling asphalt, exterior wal
ls that looked like someone had painted them with mashed-up peas, flowerbeds sporting more weeds than blooms, a construction Dumpster that was no doubt as practical as it was unsightly. But there was also a brand-new professional sign towering over her car, a gracious lobby and...her room. A room that had been more than renovated—it had been lovingly decorated.
By a woman? She hadn’t considered that before. That Joe might be involved. But why should she consider it? And why should she care?
She glanced again at the sign. Sleep at Joe’s. Clever. And something that two days ago she was certain she’d never do again.
The ball of her foot landed on a sharp-edged rock. She hissed in a breath, her limp more pronounced as she approached her car. Suddenly she caught a whiff of something fruity and her stomach perked up. She and Joe hadn’t talked about meals—they hadn’t really talked logistics at all. His earlier recommendation of the diner probably meant she was on her own, food-wise.
Though judging by today, she might be on her own. Period.
Supposedly Joe was looking for payback, but he hadn’t seemed to get much of a kick out of Allison on her hands and knees in filth. And she’d thought for sure he’d enjoy mocking her reaction to the mouse. Instead he’d taken it in stride. Well, mostly.
With a frown, she rummaged through the glove compartment. Nothing edible. She sighed. Next on the agenda? Find a supermarket. And put M&M’s at the top of her list. She needed all the help she could get dealing with not only Tackett and Joe, but her mother’s pleas for money.
And the next time Beryl Kincaid called, Allison would let voice mail do its thing. She might get more sleep that way. Because she knew that if her mother had her way, they’d both be living out of Allison’s car.
She shut the car door just as a dusty blue oversize pickup pulled into the lot and parked beside her. Joe. Allison curled her toes into the pavement, feeling suddenly naked. He rounded the hood of his truck, a mouthwatering package of muscle, denim and shadowed jaw. Considering he had eyes only for her Toyota, she obviously didn’t have the same pulse-pounding effect on him.