by Alison Kent
Fingers of sunlight winnowed through the lace covered window at his side, catching strands of blue in the black of his hair. The muted beams brushed his face, highlighting his cheekbones and his renegade’s mouth. When the thick fringe of lashes lifted slowly, Eden found herself looking into a pair of pale blue eyes.
She’d known attractive men in her previous life, had worked with several during her years at Elite Woman Magazine. But none of them had possessed more than a degree of this man’s I-have-what-you-need sensuality. This man’s man. No, she amended privately—this woman’s man.
Enchanted, Eden started to smile. Before she could manage, however, he’d turned, replacing the blanket on the shelf. He wandered the store’s perimeter, studying the molded cornice and the stenciled frieze. He seemed to be admiring the work, or passing judgment. Eden couldn’t decide which.
She released the breath held tight in her lungs and watched his progress over the rim of her glasses. At least she watched until one of the women brought her selection to the counter.
“Will that be all?” Eden asked, annoyed to find that she had to force her mind back to business when business, not a man, should’ve been all she had on her mind.
“It’s not all I’d like to have, but it seems to be all I’ll be leaving with,” the woman answered, leveling a sultry look over her shoulder at the devil who hadn’t once glanced in her direction.
Eden smiled at the woman making the purchase, smiled even more broadly at the woman’s presumption. It was an evil thing to even consider, but... the very devil in question made her do it. She leaned forward and whispered, “Perhaps he bats for the other team.”
“Think so?” The woman raised her chin as if Eden’s remark had stroked her neck rather than her ego. She cast another glance over her shoulder and swung her shopping bag onto her arm. “Well, Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Sexy doesn’t know what he’s missing,” she said and followed her friends out the door.
Oh, somehow I think he does, Eden thought, her gaze returning again to the man. He was sexy. And if he was gay, well... that wasn’t going to stop her from enjoying the show as he approached the counter.
Stalked more aptly described his leggy stride. Long, lithe, and superbly lean, he moved with a predator’s grace, not a move wasted as his moccasins whisked across the hardwood floor.
Threadbare jeans, worn out honestly, fit his thighs like nobody’s business. The black T-shirt, equally thin in the points of most wear, hugged his torso. A most impressive torso, Eden noted, now that he stood but two feet away.
She clasped her hands together on the counter. “Can I help you select something? A baby gift, perhaps?”
“No, thanks. I don’t need a baby gift.”
Hmm. Strike one. “Something for your wife, then?”
“Nope. No wife, either.”
O... kay. She’d try a different tack. “Fine. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“You can tell me if you’re Eden Karr.”
Eden nodded. “I am. And you are?”
“Jace Morgan.” He produced another oh-so-breathtaking smile. “Molly sent me over. Shelves, I think she said.”
“Well, you’re certainly a surprise.” Eden extended a hand over the counter. Jace’s palm was hard and callused; his handshake firm, strong, stable. She hated pulling away.
“A surprise in what way?” he finally asked.
After Molly’s brief description, she’d expected a reclusive old geezer. Not a cross between savage and seraph. She wasn’t about to tell him that, however. What she did tell him was, “I don’t know. I expected someone who looked like a carpenter.”
Jace scratched his whiskered jaw; his palm covered most of his sexy smile. “What exactly does a carpenter look like?”
Eden propped her chin in her fist and pretended to give the question serious thought. “Maybe more sweat and sawdust. Nails clenched between your teeth. A ladder hung over your shoulder. And”—she gestured with one hand—”wearing those pants with hammers and tape measures hung everywhere.”
Jace’s laugh was a low-throated growl. “The sweat’s a job away. So’s the sawdust. The ladder’s in the truck. And the tools...” He patted his pockets, front and rear, finally coming up with a single nail. He balanced it head down on the counter. “Will that do?”
Eden’s gaze traveled from his pockets to the nail to his face. She felt a shiver start bone deep. “Is that your resume?”
“No, ma’am.” He glanced around the room, the pride of a creator in his eyes. “This is my resume.”
Her gaze followed his. “Then you’re hired.”
He slowly turned back to face her, one brow lifted. “Just like that? No references? No Better Business Bureau report?”
“Molly Hansen is all the reference I need.”
Pacing an aisle, Jace stopped and fingered a brightly woven shawl. “Like the man said, ‘I may not be cheap, but I can be had.’ ”
“Quality is never cheap.” And if he could be had... She wouldn’t think about that. She would not think about that. “I don’t mind the cost, as long as I get what I pay for.”
“You’ll get it.” Jace studied the floor between his feet for a second before his gaze fastened on hers. “But I won’t sign a contract under any terms but my own. Even if it means no deal. What I do takes time. I don’t have a problem with deadlines unless it means my work will suffer.”
Eden wondered how this man’s work could ever suffer. His arrogance—and by now she’d decided it was exactly that—was that of a consummate artist. And that very same arrogance convinced her that he was the man for the job. She’d seen the sparkle in his eyes as he surveyed his craftsmanship.
“What exactly are your terms?”
“I supply materials at cost. But it’s the only break you get.” Strolling from one side of the store to the other, he examined the existing shelf space with a critical eye. “What time do you close?”
“Five o’clock. Why?”
“I’ll be back then.” He started for the door and added, “With tape measure in hand. You can show me exactly what you have in mind and I’ll work up an estimate.”
“Fine.” Laying her glasses on the register, Eden eased off the stool and skirted the counter just as Jace stepped out the front door. He ran his hand over the gingerbread cornice tucked into the corner of the covered porch, frowning when he noticed a chip in the wood.
Oh yes, this man was exactly what she needed. “I’ll see you around five, then.”
He turned, stopping mid-step. The hand he offered froze, then dropped to his side.
Eden glanced up. An undefined emotion flashed through his eyes—eyes focused on her stomach. She took a protective step in retreat, wrapped her arms over her middle, and held her breath.
His gaze crawled over the bulge of her belly to her face. “Hell, woman. You’re pregnant.”
Chapter Three
OH, BOY.
Tension ebbed between them, as thick as road tar. As thick as Molly Hansen’s peach jam. As thick as Eden’s waistline.
She took a retreating, slow-motion step. The defensive move lifted her off the sidewalk, into the doorway of the store and put her at eye level with Jace. She took full advantage.
“Yes. I am.” Her mouth drew tight. “Is that a problem?”
Jace cut her off with a quick shake of his head. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, then let the locks fall, his black brows two slashes of indecision, or confusion, or both.
“It’s not a problem. Just a... surprise. I’ll see you this evening.” Backing down the walk, he finally produced a hint of his devil’s smile. And then he was gone.
Eden stepped into the safety of the shop, closed the door and leaned back. Dizziness swirled behind her eyes in multicolored hues. Blood pounded in her hands and feet. Breathing seemed more effort than it was worth.
Okay. He’d made a comment What he’d said was nothing to get worked up over, especially when Jace Morgan was a stranger whose opinion of her condit
ion meant nothing in the grand scheme of things.
Not like the opinion that had mattered most and had crushed her like a bug beneath a shoe. Nate Armstrong had made her an offer—a monetary settlement in exchange for her silence in the matter of her children’s paternity.
“Think about it, Eden,” the Manhattan attorney had argued, after confessing that he’d been married for the past eleven years. “If this gets out, I’ll be ruined.”
“Sounds like a personal problem to me,” she’d replied, holding onto enough pride to keep her voice even, her chin high.
The rest of her pride she’d had to work to rebuild; not an easy feat after her blindly stupid error in judgment. How could an educated, savvy, contemporary woman be so naive? If she could pull that rabbit out of her hat, maybe she’d better understand how she’d been duped by Nate’s illusion.
After three years of stolen weekends and romantic getaways and enough of his things left at her place that he never went home when she was in town, Eden had thought she and Nate had a future.
She supposed he had loved her in his own twisted way. But Nate Armstrong’s twisted love was one thing she’d had no trouble leaving behind. Others were not so cut and dried.
Painted white and trimmed in midnight blue, the gabled house she now called home was a far cry from the Soho loft she’d shared with Nate on the days and nights she’d spent in New York between the stories that sent her out on the road.
Now, instead of a sunken Jacuzzi, she soaked away the stress of the day in a claw-foot tub. When she tumbled out of bed each morning, her feet met hardwood floor rather than Oriental rug. Her kitchen was no longer state-of-the-art, but a functional work of art; her antiques more serviceable than valuable.
Turning her back on editorial meetings, temperamental models, last-minute rescheduling of stories and photo spreads—not to mention the man who’d rejected her marriage proposal because he’d been married to another—she’d been driven to her new life by memories of the past, of growing up in a close-knit, loving household.
The life she’d lived in the early years before she’d succumbed to the lure of the Paris runways, was exactly the life she wished to give her children. And she couldn’t provide that carefree existence when she lived in a whirlwind of spur-of-the-moment travel and seventy-hour work weeks.
Returning to her roots seemed the obvious place to begin her quest. She’d grown up in Dallas, in a family who believed wholeheartedly in summer vacations. She’d first seen Arbor Glen when she was fourteen. And she’d been touched, even at that young age, by the wholesomeness of the town. Dorky for a kid to think that but the contrast from her urban home had struck a lingering chord.
She’d always wondered what it must be like to live in such serenity, but since her move, she’d yet to find it, or true peace of mind. She’d settle for a sign that the choices she made were right... or wise. After all, the decision had been one made in a hurry, much like the whirlwind beginning of her relationship with Nate—and look what that lack of exercised judgment had wrought.
She hoped that confidence and personal fulfillment would come. With time. With patience. And with a little help from her friends.
With a deep, cleansing breath, Eden pushed away from the door and headed back to the counter. Before she made it all the way, the door chime tolled. Hands full, Chloe Angelino burst into the shop, bumping the door shut with one hip.
“Hello, Chloe,” Eden said as the girl fairly floated across the room.
Chloe’s peasant skirt of lemon-colored gauze hovered inches over her bare toes. Tendrils of blond hair rebelled at her topknot and hung in wisps around her gamine face. Brown doe eyes, at odds with her aura of light, added to her other-worldly presence.
Only her half-laced camisole gave a clue to the budding woman disguised as a waif of sixteen.
Eden rounded the counter just as Chloe dropped a half ream of colored papers next to the register. White dust rose in puffs around the stack.
The teen frowned and glanced at her chalky hands. “Guess I should have come here straight from the print shop instead of stopping by the studio.”
“No problem. What’s a little chalk dust between friends?” Eden waved her hand to clear the air.
“I knew you’d understand.” Chloe leaned forward, pressed a chalky palm to her heart. The silver bells between her breasts tinkled. “This morning in history we studied the Trail of Tears. I saw a wise and ancient Cherokee squaw. She called to the blood of her people flowing in my soul, so I had to stop by the studio and sketch her.”
Eden looked the girl square in the eye. “You’re Greek, Chloe. Not Cherokee.”
Chloe straightened. “My father, Nicholas, is Greek. I am of the earth.” She spun a circle where she stood, then propped both elbows on the counter and released a gust of breath. “Anyway, yours was my last delivery.”
Eden picked a sheet off the stack. “So, what is it exactly that you’ve brought me?”
“Freedom Advertising printed flyers for the Spring Fest. It’s my design, you know.”
“No. I didn’t.” But now that she looked closely, Eden saw a bit of Chloe’s whimsy in the ad. “You did a great job.”
Chloe eyed the paper, then skirted the counter and sidled closer to Eden. She stared at her fingernails when she spoke. “Can I talk to you a sec?”
Eden looked from the paper to the girl. “Sure, honey. What’s wrong?”
“It’s my dad.” Chloe shifted from one foot to the other, gestured with her hands. “He’s like... sick.”
“Has he gone to the doctor?”
She shook her head, straw-colored wisps of hair catching on her lashes. “Not that kind of sick. He’s not running a fever or anything. He just doesn’t talk. He stays in the shop and works all the time. He won’t come home. He never sleeps.”
This wasn’t like Nick Angelino at all. Eden knew he’d lost his wife a few months ago, but he’d remained an attentive father. Or so it had appeared.
Eden tempered her worry with a gentle smile. “Chloe, your dad gets involved with his work. When he’s intent on a sculpture or a painting, he barely comes up for air for days.”
Chloe’s eyes grew wide, and her mouth quivered. “It’s not like that. I’m afraid he’s gonna get real bad again. Like... when my mom died.”
“Tell you what,” Eden began, swallowing hard, uncertain she was equipped to offer what Chloe needed. “I’m fixing a pot of shrimp Creole tonight. Why don’t you come by around six-thirty and I’ll send some home for you and your dad?” She thought a moment more, then smiled. “He won’t be able to say no if you tell him Eden said he needed to eat.”
Chloe nodded, tears glimmering. She sniffed, rubbed her palm over her nose. Then the troubled teen transformed into the town’s fey sprite. She thrust her chin in the air. “I must go.”
“Not so fast,” Eden ordered as Chloe quickly donned her mask. “I want to talk to you about working for me.”
“I work for Nicholas. I work for Freedom Advertising. I have no more time.” She took a step toward the door.
“This wouldn’t be full-time. Just a special project. An art project.” Eden aligned the flyers and scooted them next to her register. “I’m sure your father wouldn’t mind.”
“I must go.” Chloe’s sigh was huge and theatrical. She regarded the glare Eden threw over the rims of her glasses. “But I will appear at dusk,” she added, disappearing out the door in a tangle of yellow gauze and silver chains.
Eden watched the girl go, feeling a reverse sense of déjà vu. Sixteen years from now, Bethany would be that age. Between now and then, Eden was going to have to figure out this mothering thing.
Food was a comfort, but not a long-term solution. And the distraction of work only lasted until the project was complete. How well Eden knew the latter.
Chloe’s dramatic personality was a costume, her theatrics a prop she used to keep others at a distance. Eden recognized the ruse.
Since leaving New York, she’
d done much the same thing. Molly had been the first new friend to find a place in Eden’s heart. And then had come Chloe.
Eden wasn’t as blindly trusting of people as she’d been before Nate. Especially now that she had two other lives to consider. But she and Chloe had both been hurt, each in their own way. Perhaps they’d been thrown together to be healed.
AT A QUARTER TO FIVE that evening, Jace guided his truck down the rutted drive connecting his property to Highway 37. As he made the turn onto the blacktop strip that led to Arbor Glen, he tried to figure out which one of his big feet he’d stuck in his big mouth this afternoon in front of Eden Karr, and how to get it out.
She was a pregnant customer. A pregnant paying customer. It wasn’t like he had anything against expectant women. Hey, if his mother hadn’t gotten pregnant, where would he be today? It was just that seeing a woman in Eden’s condition reminded him of his bad behavior toward one of the most important people in his life.
He knew his reaction to her pregnancy, even if he were to explain the reasons behind it, would never have made sense to her. It hardly made sense to him, but it was what it was, and the accompanying guilt well-deserved. It was a guilt he doubted he’d ever get over, and that had him thinking back three years to the time when he’d let his aspirations get so out of hand.
Along with Jace, his friends Kevin Nelson, Robert Scott, and Jimmy “Marv” Marvin had chased one another’s accomplishments since they’d hooked up in junior high. The Race, a competition born after a spring break keg party during their senior year at Texas A & M, had put a formal, and admittedly ferocious, spin on a rivalry that had spanned half their lifetimes. Cars, jobs, women—nothing was exempt from the game.
Kevin had married a few months after graduation. He and Terri then tried for years to start a family. When Terri finally became pregnant, Kevin was the first to drop out of “the race,” swearing nothing would keep him from being there for his kid. He was through with twelve-to fourteen-hour days and left a career in aeronautics to teach calculus at a high school in Terri’s Colorado hometown.