Her Man Upstairs (3 page)

“Whoa, get off my foot, you big ox.” She managed to snap on his choke collar while he did his best to trip her up. He'd started barking the minute he saw her, and didn't let up until she opened the front door. Then he nearly pulled her off her feet trying to get outside.

She gave him a full half hour because that was what she'd agreed to do. Not a minute less, but not a minute more this time because she had to have him back by six when the kennel closed for the day. If she missed the deadline she'd have no choice but to take the crazy dog home with her, and that would be disastrous.

There had to be an easier way to earn money. If she were a diver she could drive to Manteo to the aquarium every day and scrub the alligators or maybe floss the sharks' teeth. Unfortunately, her marketable skills weren't all that impressive in a town where, other than flipping hamburgers, jobs were practically handed down from father to son. None of Muddy Landing's farming, fishing and hunting applied to her.

Maybe she and Sasha could start charging for their matchmaking services. Practically everyone in town knew what they were up to, anyway. It was no big secret; they'd been at it too long. They'd been good at it, too—Daisy, Sasha and Marty, with occasional input from Faylene, the housekeeper they'd all shared for years until Marty had gone out of business and Daisy had unexpectedly fallen in love with a good-looking guy who'd come east in search of his roots. A nurse and easily the most sensible of the trio, Daisy had fallen head over heels and ended up marrying Kell and moving to Oklahoma.

Marty and her friends had been good at it, though—all the planning and finagling it took to bring two people together. Three of their most recent matches had actually ended in marriage and two more couples were still involved.

Of course, there'd been a few spectacular failures, too, but it had been great fun. Mostly they'd been forgiven their blunders.

But Sasha was up to her ears in her latest decorating project, so matchmaking was taking a time-out. “And that just leaves me,” Marty panted as she struggled to hang on to the end of the leash. She was wearing out her last pair of cross-trainers trying to keep up with Super Mutt. “Slow down, will you? Let me catch my breath!”

If she hurried, she might get home before he left for the day.

Right. Looking like she'd just finished a five-mile run. That would really impress the heck out of Cole, wouldn't it?

 

By the time Cole got back to the small marina with a take-out supper consisting of barbecue, fries, hush puppies and slaw, the last vestige of daylight had faded. And second thoughts were stacking up fast. Not about the work itself, although it had been a while since he'd done any actual construction work. That wasn't what had him worried.

As he stepped aboard his aged thirty-one-foot cabin cruiser, he waved to Bob Ed, who was outside sorting through a stack of decoys under the mercury-vapor security light.

The friendly guide called across the intervening space, “You see her?”

“I saw her.”

“Ya gonna do it?”

“We're still negotiating,” Cole called back.

Nodding, Bob Ed went back to checking out his canvasbacks. He was a man of few words. Which was just as well, Cole thought, amused, as Bob Ed's better half appeared to be a woman of many. Cole had met her only briefly, but she'd made an indelible impression.

What bothered him, Cole admitted to himself once he was inside, the lights on and his small space heater thawing out the damp cold, was the Owens woman. Or rather, his reaction to her. Before meeting her he would have sworn he was permanently immunized. Trouble was, Marty Owens and Paula Weyrich Stevens, his high-maintenance ex-wife, were two different species. If Paula had ever lifted a hand to do anything more strenuous than polish her nails, he'd missed it. Even for that she usually depended on a manicurist. Paula's idea of a perfect day started at noon with a three-daiquiri lunch at the club, followed by a shopping marathon, followed by dinner out with whatever poor sucker she could reel in to escort her while her poor slob of a husband worked late. Actually, Cole had been consumed those late nights with digging into the mess at Weyrich, Inc.

Marty Owens, on the other hand, varnished bookshelves in her spare time and tried to cover the smell by setting a pan of cinnamon on fire. She walked a friend's dog—at least, Cole assumed she did it for a friend. If she was hard up enough to do it for money, she probably couldn't afford the remodeling job she wanted done.

On the other hand, if she didn't get it done, what would happen to her business? Reading between the lines, he could only conclude that she was pretty close to the edge. And, like a certain ex-builder he could name, looking for the best way to revive a career that had collapsed through no fault of her own.

Not that he could swear to that last, but from what he'd seen so far, Ms. Owens was industrious, intelligent and not afraid to get her hands dirty. The fact that she was also sexy without making a big deal out of it wasn't a factor in any decision he might make. No way.

Definitely
not.

As for the demise of his own career, Cole freely accepted the blame. All he'd had to do was turn a blind eye to what he'd uncovered—the good-old-boy bidding system, the under-the-table payoffs, the shoddy workmanship that had eventually resulted in three deaths and a number of injuries when the second floor of a parking garage collapsed due to insufficient reinforcement.

Oh, yeah, he'd blown the whistle on Joshua Weyrich, but by that time his marriage to Paula was washed up anyway. Looking back, about the only thing he and Paula had ever had in common was a serious case of raging hormones. Once that had died a natural death, there'd been nothing left to sustain a relationship. The only reason they'd stayed together as long as they had was that breaking up required more time and energy than either of them was willing to spend.

But once he'd blown the whistle on her father, détente had ended. He had gladly ceded to Paula the showy house they'd been given as a wedding present, plus all furnishings, including the baby grand piano she didn't play, the art collection she never bothered to look at and a bunch of custom-made furniture designed not for comfort but to impress.

With the help of a good lawyer, Cole had managed to keep his boat, his old Guild guitar, his fishing gear and roughly half his investments—which was all he really needed. He considered himself damn lucky to walk away with that much.

Now he looked around for a place to set his supper. The fold-down table was covered with fishing tackle. He made room for the take-out plate and a cold beer, shucked off his shoes and slid onto the bench. To say his living quarters were compact was putting it generously, but then, he didn't
need much space. The wet slip, utilities included, cost a lot less than he'd been paying at his old place on the Chesapeake Bay.

He turned on the twelve-inch TV and caught up on the news while he ate. When the talking heads turned to the latest celebrity trial, Cole's thoughts drifted back to the woman he'd just met. After hearing about the job prospect from Bob Ed and his lady, Ms. Beasley—mostly from the lady—he hadn't known what to expect. Julia Roberts with big gray eyes and a brown squirrel's nest dripping down her back didn't fit the image he'd conjured up when he'd spoken with her briefly on the phone.

When she'd asked to see his references, he'd mentioned Bob Ed.

“Any reason why I should trust your word?” she'd asked.

The answer, of course, was that she shouldn't—but if she didn't know it, he wasn't about to tell her. If he'd learned one thing from the mess he'd been involved in over the past eighteen months, it was to listen to his instincts.

And right now his internal weather vane was telling him there was more at stake here than just a chance to see if he could still do the work. Without bothering to think further, he grabbed a paper napkin and started listing the tools he'd need to buy.

Halfway through the list his mind began to wander, distracted by thoughts of a pair of gray eyes, and the way they could go so quickly from suspicion to amusement to…interest?

S
asha showed up for breakfast with a box of Krispy Kremes and a copy of
Architectural Digest.
“Check out page sixty-eight and think about the color scheme for your front room. I'm headed to Norfolk—just thought I'd stop by on my way.” Her cheeks were pink from exposure to the damp, cold air, her eyes avid for anything that even hinted at romance.

While Marty was still trying to nudge her brain awake, her early morning visitor planted beringed fists on her rounded hips and said, “Let's hear it. Start from the first and don't leave out anything. If he's as prime as Faylene says he is, we might want to add him to our list. Is he taller than five-ten? Because Lily Sullivan over on Chelsea Circle is at least that. She towers over me, even in my new green Jimmys. I'm thinking of finding someone shorter to do my taxes. It's bad enough to be intimidated by the IRA
without—” She blinked a battery of fake lashes and said plaintively, “Wha-a-at? Oh, Lord, you're still sleepwalking, aren't you.”

Still wading through her usual morning fog, Marty refused to be intimidated by the five-foot-three-inch steamroller. “Look, I've got a date with a dog, so make this fast. Exactly what do you mean by ‘prime,' and what difference does it make what he looks like?”

“Actually, none, I guess. We just thought—that is, Faye said—and I was thinking that if he was going to be hanging around long enough to destroy your second floor and put it back together again, he might like to join in a few social activities. You know what they say, ‘all work and no play'?”

Marty sighed. “It bugs you, doesn't it? The fact that somewhere in three counties there's a competent, independent woman who gets along perfectly without the benefit of a man. Did it ever occur to you that some of us like our lives just fine the way they are?”

The redheaded interior designer tried looking innocent and gave it up as a lost cause. “You're talking like you never did any matchmaking. How about Clarice and Eddie? How about Sadie Glover down at the ice-cream parlor and—”

“How about stuffing a doughnut in it?” Marty poured coffee, adding half-and-half—which her guest called diet cream—to both mugs. “Mutt's waiting, so eat fast.”

“Gross. Do you have one of those scoopy things in case he does his business in somebody's yard?”

Marty rolled her eyes. “Sash, I really need to get this job done in record time, and once y'all start messing around with my carpenter, you're going to scare him off—so quit
it, okay? Just knock it off. At least wait until I'm finished with him.”

Sasha began licking the sugar coating off another doughnut. “Just thinking about poor lonesome Lily, that's all. I ran into her at the post office the other day and she happened to mention that she hadn't had a date since last summer.”

“Just happened to mention it, huh? Like you didn't pry it out of her with a crowbar?”

“Would I do that? Anyway, we're running short of bachelors and I thought I'd get your take on whatshisname, your new carpenter. So? What's he like? Faylene says he's a hunk.”

“Dreadlocks, whiskers, ragged Brooks Brothers shirt, worn-out L.L. Bean shoes and no calluses. Which probably means he buys his clothes at a thrift shop using money he stole instead of working for it.”

“You jest.” Sasha licked her fingers, showing off inch-long nails and a glittering array of jewelry.

“I jest not. I might exaggerate now and then—I might even occasionally speculate—but please, Sash, don't go trying to distract my carpenter. He's my last chance.”

“No problem, hon, he's all yours during business hours. Did you say he was tall?”

“Let's just say he's taller than you are.”

“Everybody over the age of twelve is taller than I am. Is he good looking?” She wriggled her generous curves. “Faye says—”

Marty hesitated just a second too long, and Sasha pounced. “He is! Admit it, you're hot for him and you don't want him exposed to Lily until you've had time to make an impression on him yourself.”

“Will you
stop it?
It's nothing like that! He's supposed to come by to give me an estimate early this morning, and I've got to walk Mutt first and get back here—so if you don't mind, you need to leave now and so do I. Five minutes ago, in fact.”

Sasha grinned, her eyes sparkling like faceted gemstones. Today they were aquamarine. Tomorrow, they might be topaz or sapphire. The woman had never met an artifice she didn't adore, regardless of the time of day.

Marty, on the other hand, was barely able to find her mouth with a toothbrush, even after she'd stood under the shower for five minutes. A morning person she was not. The time had long since come and gone when she could stay up half the night reading and wake up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at the crack of dawn.

“Look, just let me get him on the hook and then you and Faye can have your way with him. All I want is his skills.”

“What else is there?” the redhead murmured.

“His carpentry skills!” Marty all but shouted.

“Shh, calm down, honey—no need to get all excited. You can have him during working hours, but Faylene and I want whatever's left over for Lily. She needs a little R 'n' R before the tax rush starts. We tried Egbert on her, but it didn't work out.”

In the middle of a jaw-cracking yawn, Marty had to laugh. She edged her best friend toward the front door. “No kidding. I wonder why?”

“Hey, when you're wired for one-ten, you don't go fooling around with two-twenty. I learned that from husband number two, the electrical engineer.”

“I thought number two was the con man.”

“Aren't they all?” Sasha called cheerfully over her shoulder.

Marty watched her friend sashay down the flagstone walk hitting about every third flagstone, not even bothering to look where she was going. That was Sasha—stiletto heels, red leggings and faux fur at a quarter of eight on a cold, gray Monday morning, leaving in her wake a trail of Nettie Rosenstein's Odalisque. She might look purely ornamental, but when she was on a job, she worked harder than any woman Marty knew—including Faylene, Muddy Landing's unchallenged queen of housecleaning.

As soon as the red Lexus convertible disappeared around the corner, Marty grabbed a coat and a pair of gloves. Cole had said he'd be here between eight-thirty and nine, which barely gave her enough time for Mutt's half-hour gallop.

“You'll make it, easy,” she assured herself as she waited for her cold engine to turn over. “Think positive,” that was her motto. It had to be, because any negative thinking might send her into a serious decline.

There were several doughnuts left in the box. Still breathless from the dog walk—or in Mutt's case, dog gallop—Marty left them on the table as she hurriedly washed the mugs and turned them down in the dish drainer. A moment later she heard the truck pull into the driveway behind her minivan, which meant she'd run out of time. Her hair was a wild, windblown tangle, her nose and cheeks red from the cold, and there was no time to dash upstairs for a quick fix.

Probably just as well. No point in giving him the wrong impression. Inhaling deeply of the air that now smelled
only faintly of varnish and burnt spice, she braced herself for bad news. It was called hedging her bets. Deliberately not getting her hopes up. If so-and-so happens, she always reasoned, I can always do such-and-such, and if that doesn't work out, I'll just fall back on my contingency plan.

What contingency plan? This
was
her contingency plan.

She opened the front door before he could knock. “Good morning, have you had breakfast?”

He raised his eyebrows. They were almost, but not quite black. Thick, but not unkempt. “Did I misunderstand? I thought—”

Oh, shoot. She'd told him to come by for breakfast. “The bacon's ready to pop in the frying pan, the eggs ready to scramble and there's doughnuts to start with. Toss your coat on the bench or hang it on the rack and come on into the kitchen.”

Oh, my mercy, he looked even better than she remembered! She was no expert, but after two husbands and several near misses, she'd learned a few things about men. For instance, she knew the really handsome ones were about as deep as your average oil slick, having spent a lifetime getting by on their looks. Cole Stevens wasn't that handsome. Whatever it was that made him stand out from all the men she'd ever met, it was far more potent than a pleasant arrangement of features.

“Do you have a phone where I can reach you if I need to?” she asked.

He gave her his cell phone number and she hastily scratched it down on the bottom of a grocery list. Then he followed her into the kitchen.

“Warming up out there,” he said. It wasn't.

“Spring's on the way,” she replied. It wasn't. “Where are you staying, in case something comes up and I need to reach you?”

“At this place down by the river. Bob Ed's. I thought I mentioned it yesterday—I'm living aboard my boat at the moment.”

Right. Bob Ed and Faylene had sent him, after all. There'd been a few distractions yesterday, including the man himself.

“Isn't it cold?”

“Yep.”

And that was the end of that…unless she wanted to invite him to move into her warm, insulated house, which wasn't even a distant possibility.

Back to business. “How long do you think it will take to tear out what needs tearing out and turn my upstairs hall into a kitchen?” She placed three strips of bacon in a frying pan and turned on the burner. At the first whiff of smoke she remembered to turn on the fan. The cover and batteries for her smoke detector were still on the counter where she'd left them.

Spotting them, Cole replaced the batteries and clicked the cover in place.

Marty smiled her thanks. “I was just getting ready to do that,” she lied.

“As to the tear-down, it shouldn't take more than a day or two.”

Was that a yes, he'd do it, or an answer to a rhetorical question? Forcing herself not to sound too eager, she said, “That sounds great.”

He stood beside the table staring out the window, his hands tucked halfway into the hip pockets of his jeans as the tantalizing aroma of frying bacon filled the room.

“Forecast is calling for more rain,” he said.

Marty glanced over her shoulder.
Oh my, honey, I hate to tell you this, but those jeans are a little overcrowded.
“It'll be February in a few more days, and after that, March—that's when spring starts for real. Of course, we get those Hatteras Lows that can hang around for days, beating the devil out of any blossom that dares show its face.”

“Mmm-hmm,” he murmured.

Mr. Enigma. The fact that Marty tried not to look at him again didn't mean she wasn't aware of him with every cell in her undernourished body.

She took up the bacon and placed the strips on a folded paper towel. Whipping a dab of
salsa con queso
into the eggs, she tried to focus her mind on the estimate and not on the man. The fact that he'd showed up meant he was ready to talk business. Whether or not she could afford him without taking out a loan remained to be seen.

“Have a seat. D'you need to wash up first? The bathroom's upstairs—but you know that, of course. Or you can use the sink down here if you'd rather. The hand towel's clean—or there's paper.”

Excuse me and my big, blathering mouth, I always talk like this when I'm on the verge of losing my mind.

A few minutes later, Marty popped two slices of bread in the toaster and filled two plates. Cole had excused himself and gone upstairs, either to wash up or to take another look at the job before committing himself. Thank goodness she'd made her bed as soon as she'd crawled out of it. Was her gown hanging behind the bathroom door? Had she put the cap back on the toothpaste?

Well, shoot, did it matter? At least she was wearing
shoes and socks today. He had no way of knowing she just happened to be wearing the only pair of jeans she'd ever owned that cost more than a hundred bucks. She'd bought them on sale two years ago, just to prove something or other to Sasha—she'd forgotten now what it was.

“I've got strawberry jam, marmalade and homemade fig preserves,” she told her guest when he came back downstairs. “Help yourself.”

Hope for the best, prepare for the worst, that was her motto. He would hardly eat her food if he intended to turn down the job, now would he? Or price himself out of the market. Unless he was broke and hungry or totally lacking in ethics.

He might be broke, and he was certainly hungry, judging by the way he was packing away his breakfast—but she'd be willing to bet on his ethics. Something about the way he looked her square in the eye told her that much.

Right. And Beau hadn't looked her in the eye and lied like a rug?

A few minutes later he laid his knife and fork across the top of his plate, poured himself another half cup of coffee and then held the pot over her cup. “It looks feasible.”

Not wanting to have to excuse herself and race to the bathroom, Marty declined the coffee. They were finally getting down to brass tacks. “Feasible?” she prompted.

He nodded. “That wall you want removed—I think I mentioned yesterday it's a weight-bearing wall. Structurally, you need it, but I can work around it and still get your basic needs taken care of if you're willing to compromise.”

“Compromise is my middle name.”

Her basic needs? If he had the slightest idea of what
her basic needs were at this moment, he'd hit the road running. She hadn't even realized she had any basic needs until he'd shown up on her doorstep yesterday—or rather, when he'd burst into her house, yelling for a fire extinguisher.

Forget the fire extinguisher; bring on the cold shower.

“Does this mean you're going to do it?” she ventured.