THE TEMPTATION OF SEAN MCNEILL

by Virginia Kantra

  "Sorry, Mama. But now that we're here, I can help. We can shift some of those boxes and things into my room until I can go through them."

  "Oh, but…" Myra turned, as she always turned in doubt, to the man in the room. Rachel felt the ground shift beneath her feet.

  "Your daughter should have her room, Mrs. Jordan. I told you I'd be just fine in the garage."

  "But with all you do…"

  "What exactly do you do, Sean?" Rachel interrupted.

  His eyes laughed at her. "Whatever you need."

  "Sean's a carpenter," Myra explained eagerly. "He's working on that new development outside Buchanan."

  "And what is it that you do here?" Rachel persisted.

  "I keep a few things here."

  "He's renting the garage. He came to replace that trim around the window—where it was all rotten, remember? I told you about it on the phone—and he saw all that unused space and asked if I would consider leasing it. So, of course I said yes."

  Sean MacNeill had seen something, all right, Rachel thought worriedly. A vulnerable older woman, unattached, unprotected, only too happy to have a personable man around the place. Of course her mother had said yes.

  She fretted her lower lip with her teeth, remembering the "uncles." Chris and Lindsey had just lost their father. They'd been torn from their home and their friends. Rachel knew from painful experience that the last thing her bereaved children needed was a fly-by-night attachment to another man who wouldn't stick around.

  The oven timer buzzed. Myra bustled to set honey, butter and biscuits on the table. Sean took three.

  Rachel arched her eyebrows. "Bed and board?"

  He grinned at her. "Your mom's a good cook."

  Myra sighed. "It's so nice to have a man with an appetite around."

  Rachel's throat tightened. Oh, Mama.

  He polished off the biscuits and pushed away from the table. "Thanks for breakfast, Mrs. Jordan. Kids up yet?" he asked Rachel. "I need to get my shoes."

  His courtesy disarmed her. "No. I'll get them."

  "They're by the closet. Somewhere on the floor over there, anyway."

  She found them, finally, kicked under the dresser, Sasquatch-size work boots, soles red with clay. Holding them by their laces, she carried them downstairs.

  "Thanks," he said briefly, and bent to do them up. "You want to give me your keys?"

  "What for?"

  He stood. He was tall. She wasn't used to a man she had to look up to. "I've got to move your truck. You're blocking me in."

  "Sorry." She didn't feel sorry. She felt displaced. "I'll move it."

  She led the way outside. "How long have you been renting from my mother?" she asked as soon as they were out of earshot of the kitchen.

  "Not long," he said easily.

  She jingled her keys, hurrying to keep pace with his long stride. "It's going to he awkward, negotiating two cars in the driveway."

  "I can live with it."

  "And there's the problem of space. Bedrooms…"

  "Hey, I'm willing to share."

  She dipped her head, letting her hair swing forward to hide her smile. "Very generous of you," she said dryly. "But it may he…" She swallowed. Go on. Say it. "Maybe now that we're here, it just won't work out."

  He stopped, giving her a long, slow once-over from surprisingly shrewd brown eyes. "Maybe. You might want to take that up with your mom. She doesn't like living alone."

  "She won't be alone. She has her grandchildren now. She has me."

  "Like I said, you should take that up with her." Plucking the keys from her hand, he opened the rental truck's door. His gentlemanly gesture confused her. Put her at a disadvantage. But short of wrestling for the keys, there was nothing she could do.

  He handed them back. "Look, I'm not getting in the middle of some family thing. I've got family enough of my own. As far as I'm concerned, your mom is just a nice lady with an empty garage."

  "And a cozy house."

  That long-boned, laid-back body tensed. "The garage isn't livable yet. I only agreed to stay in the house because your mother said it made her feel safe. But I'm not dogging for anybody to feed me or mother me or keep truck of my comings and goings, and I'm sure not looking for hassles." He took a quick, annoyed breath. "Clear?"

  "Yes," said Rachel, a bit breathless herself at his unexpected vehemence. Could she believe him? "Thank you, that's very clear."

  "Good." He waited until she climbed up into the cab and then closed the driver's side door. "You two talk it over. I'm taking delivery on a new table saw, and I'd kind of like to know where to put it." His wicked grin glimmered. "Don't go jumping in with suggestions, now, beautiful."

  Her laugh sputtered, surprising them both. His smile broadened. Softened. Got personal.

  "That's right," he said, though what he was agreeing to or approving of Rachel couldn't have said.

  Ambling forward a few steps, he stooped to grasp the steel T-handle of the garage door. Rachel watched the muscles flex beneath his shirt, and then the old door screeched and lifted, revealing his truck. His bright, new, shiny truck. Red, with Massachusetts plates and a bumper sticker that read, Women Love Me, Fish Fear Me.

  She shot him a look, trying not to smile.

  He grinned. "A present from my sister-in-law. She has a weird sense of humor."

  The words popped out before she could censor them. "She must, if your brother's anything like you."

  He laughed. "Nah. My brothers are both respectable now."

  He climbed into his candy-apple-red truck. Rachel concentrated on negotiating her rental vehicle backward along the gravel, as cautious and awkward as a pregnant woman on roller skates. She felt the soft bump as her rear tire ran on grass and then the firm, flat road.

  Sean MacNeill gunned his motor. His galvanized, oversize toolbox gleamed as he reversed toward her at twice her speed and cut smoothly onto the road.

  Rachel sighed. She had too much at stake here to risk an attraction to some twenty-something carpenter in tight jeans and a kick-ass truck.

  Whatever his motives, Sean MacNeill was a complication she didn't need and a distraction she couldn't afford.

  Whatever her mother said, he would have to go.

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  «^»

  Don't be a chump, MacNeill.

  Sean punched up the volume on the radio, letting the bass pound away at his frustration. It wasn't his fault Walt Baxley of Baxley Construction was a money-grubbing slimeball. It wasn't Sean's job to bring this project in under budget or up to code. It wasn't his responsibility. But he'd tried, anyway. At least, he'd argued. Definitely chump behavior. Hadn't he learned anything since high school?

  Sean wasn't looking to take on unnecessary obligations. The only three things he should apply himself to now were a hot shower, a cold beer and an agreeable woman to … talk with.

  He checked his rearview mirror and eased down the gas pedal, betting that the under-manned police department wouldn't ticket him doing sixty-eight on this empty stretch of road. It looked like he already had the second two covered. Lori Tucker, who sold houses for Baxley's seven-million-dollar development, had made it clear she'd be waiting for him at Woody's tonight. Sean liked the real estate agent's style, her neat nails and tumbled hair and tight little power suits. Heck, he liked most women, always had, all ages, shapes and temperaments of women. His sincere appreciation usually compelled their liking in return.

  He turned off what passed for the main road, fingers drumming the steering wheel in time to the beat from his custom speakers.

  Rachel Fuller had not liked him. Correction. Did not want to like him. Which was going to make sharing a bathroom with her a little tricky.

  Pulling into Myra Jordan's driveway, he braked. The rental truck was gone. In its place, blocking his entrance to the garage, stood a haphazard pyramid of moving cartons and a green velvet couch with dragon claws. Curled on the center cushion, the dark-haired little girl with th
e sulky mouth scowled at the pile. The boy, a paler copy of his sister, perched on the curb, absently bouncing a tennis ball between his feet.

  The screen door shrieked. Rachel Fuller appeared on the porch, her glossy hair escaping its ponytail and her face pink with heat and exertion. She was dressed like a soldier in khaki shorts and a plain gray T-shirt. Except no army man ever had thighs like hers.

  The day was looking up.

  Grinning, Sean got out of the truck.

  Rachel stood at the top of the porch steps. "Hey, kiddos. We've got a couple more boxes to move upstairs."

  The ball bounced—once, twice—on the hot asphalt. The girl lifted one shoulder and sank deeper into the cushions of the couch.

  Sean paused on his way up the driveway. So, her kids were reluctant to give her a hand. It was none of his business.

  "Chris. Lindsey. Come on, now."

  The boy stood uncertainly, clutching his tennis ball.

  The girl flopped her head back to squint at her mother. "It's too hot," she complained.

  Sean saw Rachel sigh. "It is hot. Why don't you come inside and Grandma will get you some lemonade?"

  They moved at that, two sets of sandaled feet thumping up the steps, past their mother, for the shaded interior of the house.

  Rachel smiled across the yard at Sean. "You want some, too?" she called.

  "Sure," he said easily.

  He sauntered up the drive. Here it comes, he thought. First the offer of a drink, and then the request for his help. He didn't mind, not really. It wasn't the first time he'd been drafted by Beauty in Distress, and it wouldn't he the last. Okay, so he'd learned to identify the scope of the problem before leaping in, but there was no way Rachel could shift all this stuff with only an elderly woman and two kids to help her. He hitched his thumbs in his pockets and waited.

  Rachel stepped off the porch and squared off with a four-foot wardrobe box. She squatted to lift it. With mild offense, he realized that she wasn't going to ask him for help at all.

  "Need a hand?"

  Her slight smile jabbed his gut like the business end of a two-by-four. She lifted correctly, using those long, smooth legs, and took small steps toward the porch. "I can manage, thanks."

  He gestured toward the couch at his feet, a lady's sofa, long and narrow, with velvet cushions and elegant scrolled arms. It looked ridiculous standing in the driveway.

  "What about this?"

  She puffed. "What about it?"

  He ambled ahead of her to open the door. "Aren't you going to move it in the house?"

  "I can't. There's no room."

  He looked past her into the shadowed living room. She was right. The front room was already packed with Myra's own big easy pieces. Photographs jammed the mantel and covered the walls. Knick-knacky things decorated every available surface. But, still, it looked pretty good, considering that Rachel must have moved in all her stuff that day. He identified a new little piecrust table, crammed into a corner, and a short stack of boxes waiting to go upstairs.

  "Where's the rest?"

  She grunted as the cardboard wardrobe slid through her arms and thumped onto the floor. "Up."

  Sean thought of the completely furnished bedrooms, the already crowded spare room. "No, I meant your furniture and things."

  "There is no furniture. Nothing but the couch." Sean narrowed his eyes. Myra Jordan, in the way of lonely seniors and mothers everywhere, had bragged to him about her widowed daughter's lovely home in Pennsylvania, her daughter's late, successful husband the car dealer. He'd suspected his new landlady might have a rich fantasy life, but still … why would Rachel Fuller abandon a fully furnished, three-bedroom, two-and-a-half-baths to move across four states and live with her mother?

  None of his business, he reminded himself. He had a cold beer and a hot date waiting.

  He cleared his throat to make his excuses and leave, and found himself instead hefting the wardrobe and asking, "Where do you want this?"

  "I… My room. But you don't need—"

  "I'm on my way up to shower, anyway. Through here?"

  "Yes. Thank you."

  "No big deal."

  No big deal. One box, and he was back to his plans for the evening. He shouldered open the door and stopped dead.

  The blue room looked like a warehouse, with cartons everywhere. Sean's own few things—his toiletries and a once-worn pair of jeans, a T-shirt and a picture crayoned by his nephew Jack—were packed and piled in the middle of the neatly made bed. Hell, if these were all Rachel's boxes, no wonder she didn't have room for furniture.

  "Maybe I should put this in the kids' room?"

  "No," she said firmly. "I'll unpack it in here."

  "Whatever." He found a square yard of floor to set the carton down and then gestured toward his kit on the bed. "Mind if I, uh…"

  "Please. Everything's there," she added, as if he was going to count his loose change or something.

  Scooping up his shaving kit, he made for the shower, brushing by her in the doorway. Not on purpose, not really. Her eyes, the color of oiled mahogany, darkened even further.

  He felt the bite of lust and blunted it with a smile. There was no place in his bachelor life for a healthy widow with a matched set of some other man's baggage. "I'll be out of your hair in a minute."

  "The children are downstairs. You can change in their room, if you like."

  Her big eyes watched him, unconsciously inviting.

  Ah, what the hell. He'd never been good at resisting temptation.

  "Can I give you a call if I need help? You know, scrubbing my back, buttoning my… No?"

  She raised her chin at his teasing. "You look old enough to manage on your own."

  "Yeah, that's what my mother said before she kicked me out of the house."

  She winced slightly. "Well, then, just think of me as your mother."

  "Precocious, were you?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "Unless you started having babies at five, beautiful, I can't see you as my mother."

  She smiled, deepening the creases at the corners of her eyes. "Try again. I'm thirty-four."

  "Got it in one. I'm twenty-nine. Do I get to pick my prize?"

  Poker-faced, she said, "No, but if you stop now, I might not run the washing machine while you're in the shower."

  He laughed, giving her the point, and moseyed down the hall. The door to the spare bedroom stood open.

  There were boxes, here, too, two taped cartons on each of the twin beds. But that was all. Her mother's clutter had been hauled out, the evidence of the move tidied away.

  Sean stopped in the doorway. Rachel must have slaved all day. Matching blue bedspreads echoed the colors of the lamp and curtains. Books were aligned in the shelves under the window. She'd even hung posters, Sammy Sosa over the boy's bed, a field of flowers over the girl's. She was living in a sea of cardboard, and her kids' room looked like Decorating on a Budget in some women's magazine.

  God, it took him back. Establishing base camp, Sergeant Major John MacNeill had called it. Sean had a sudden, unsettling memory of the transfer to Beaufort Air Base—or was it Parris Island?—and his mother laughing as she unwrapped six old crayons swathed in tissue and his father hauling boxes from the car.

  Who had helped Rachel Fuller? Not that precious pair downstairs, that was obvious.

  Oh, hell. Shaking his head, Sean dropped his shaving kit on the toilet seat in the tiny bathroom and went back downstairs.

  "Where are you going?" Rachel asked, surprise in her voice.

  "To get another box."

  There wasn't a lot, he told himself. It was no big deal. If he hustled, he could still be at Woody's by seven. Pretty Lori would wait that long.

  At six forty-nine, the pyramid in the driveway was gone, and the pile at the foot of the stairs was gone, and Sean had pulled the kid, Rachel's son, from in front of the TV to help him lug cardboard boxes out to the garbage.

  "Hold on." Sean stopped the sullen child before
he staggered down the stairs. Pulling out his pocketknife, he slit the tape that held the box together. "You do it like this, and then you can break out the bottom. See?" He demonstrated, folding the carton so that it would stack.

  Interest flicked in the boy's closed face. "Cool. Is that yours?"

  "Yeah."

  "Could I…?"

  Sean shrugged. "Sure." Used to brothers, he collapsed the little knife and offered it to the boy. "You've got to hold it with the blade facing down, okay? Keep your fingers—"

  "Oh, no." Rachel Fuller appeared around the bend in the stairs, a tall glass of lemonade sweating in her hand. "Chris, give that back. Now."

  The boy dropped the knife as if the metal were red-hot. It bounced once on the edge of the carpet and then slithered across the wood floor to Sean's feet. He scooped it up and returned it to his pocket, smiling up at Rachel's indignant eyes and red cheeks.

  "Guess I should have asked."

  "I guess you should have." Stiffly, she proffered the lemonade.

  He took it, her schoolteacher's tone snapping against his good intentions like a rubber band. So far he'd missed his shower, his dinner and his beer, not to mention an hour of the agreeable Lori Tucker. His loss, Sean figured. His choice. But that didn't mean he had to stick around while Rachel Fuller scowled at him.

  He drained the glass. grateful for any cold liquid to hit the back of his throat, and gave it back. "We're almost done, anyway. You want a hand with that couch before I go?"

  She wanted to refuse. He could see it in the way she stuck out that pouty lower lip.

  And then she ducked her head, her cheeks pinking. "I… Yes, please. It really can't stay outside."

  He clomped down the steps behind her. "You should have left it on the truck."

  "I would have, but the rental place said I needed to return the truck today." She deposited his empty glass—on a coaster, he noticed, amused by her care—in the living room.