A Crazy Kind of Love (10 page)

He stiffened, clearly offended. Okay, maybe that had come out wrong.

Before he could speak, she interrupted quickly. “I didn’t mean anything by that, so chill out. It’s just that you haven’t met many people and—”

“I’ve been busy,” he reminded her and made a left turn onto Main Street. “Protecting my house. From you.”

“Cute. My point is, that kiss—and okay, it was a beauty—just tells me that maybe you’ve been concentrating on nano stuff too long instead of the
fun
stuff.”

“You’re amazing.”

“Thank you.”

“Not sure it was a compliment.”

“That’s how I’m taking it.”

He shook his head and steered the car into a parking space right alongside her battered truck. He pulled up the brake but didn’t turn off the engine. “Whatever helps.”

“So,” Mike said, as he just sat there, watching her, “I’m thinking maybe Trish Donovan. She’s really nice. How do you feel about redheads?”

“They should be shot.”

“Huh?”

His chin hit his chest. “I don’t feel anything about them.”

“See?” she said. “Not out enough.”

“I’m out
now
.”

“With
me
.”

He lifted his head, pulled off his sunglasses, and hooked them through the neck of his dark green T-shirt. “Look. You want to help? Fine. You can help. I have to go to a fund-raiser for the lab next weekend. It’s at an old estate just outside San Francisco. Come with me.”

“Huh?” Mike wanted to thunk the heel of her hand against her ear, but that probably would look weird. Instead, she repeated, “Huh?”

He scrubbed one hand across his face—something she’d noticed he usually did when she was showing him one of her improvements on his house. A clear sign he was walking a ragged edge. But he was talking again and Mike told herself she’d better listen up.

“It’d be easier on me if I took a . . .”

“Date?” she asked. “Jesus, it
has
been too long. You can’t even say the word.”

“—
date
to this thing.” Frowning, he continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “I go up Saturday morning, come back Sunday afternoon. What do you say?”

What was she supposed to say? She’d planned on fixing him up with someone else. Not herself.

Mike didn’t date fixer-uppers.

But damn it, he was kind of cute.

In a nerd-prince sort of way.

Then she thought about that kiss, damn it. And it had been a long time since she’d been out with anyone who could stir her up like that—even if he was a
Weird Science
guy.

“Separate rooms?” she asked, because hey, you should always check these things out in advance, and if she changed her mind later, well then, she could change her mind. But she’d been out with guys before who figured that springing for a fifty-dollar dinner also entitled them to Mike as dessert.

He frowned at her. “I said a date—not sex.”

There was that insulted look again.

“Fine. Take it easy. Just asking.” She tipped her head
to one side to study him for a long minute. His dark brown eyes met hers steadily and she wished for one moment that she could actually know what he was thinking. Then she remembered he was some sort of genius and she probably wouldn’t understand anything she read in his mind anyway, so what would be the point?

He muttered something else, then said louder, “Do you want to go or not?”

“Sure,” she said before she could say no. “Why not?”

“Okay, then.” He nodded, revved the engine, then glanced at her again. “So. Thanks, I think, for all the ‘help’ today.”

“You’re welcome.” He gunned the engine again and the sleek little convertible roared like a mini Tiger. Apparently, he was expecting her to bail out and get gone. She stayed put and enjoyed the sizzle of frustration on his face. The nerd prince was turning out to be even more surprising than she’d thought.

“Are you just going to sit here the rest of the day?”

She grinned. “I was thinking about it.”

He sighed. “You want some coffee?”

“You buying?” She perked right up at the offer of coffee, and seriously, what red-blooded female wouldn’t?

“Why not?” he grumbled as he shut off the engine. “I bought everything else today.”

“Rocket man, I like your style.”

Both dark eyebrows lifted. “Rocket man?”

“Yeah.” She opened her car door, but paused to smile at him. “Rocket scientist, rocket man, get it?”

He laughed, and God, when his mouth curved, it did some pretty spectacular things to her belly.

“I told you. I’m not a rocket scientist.”

“Yeah, I know,” Mike teased, still smiling at him, “but ‘nano man’ sounds so lame.”

He thought about it and nodded. “True.”

“So, you up for one of Stevie’s cinnamon rolls, too?”

“Are they good?” he asked as he stepped up onto the sidewalk and waited for her.

“Good?” Mike laughed, threaded her arm through his, and promised, “Your mouth is about to get a helluva treat.”

“Another one?”

Her stomach jittered, but her steps didn’t falter and neither did her smile.

Ohboyohboyohboy.

Going away for the weekend with Rocket Man just might be a little more dangerous than she’d figured.

“Your father is the most stubborn man on the face of the planet.”

“Yow!” Startled, Mike jumped, then thunked her head on the elbow joint beneath the sink in the second kitchen at Grace Van Horn’s house. Scooting out from under, she rubbed at the throbbing spot, looked at the woman pacing, and said, “Hi, Grace. What’s new?”

The tiny woman in designer slacks and shirt, not to mention enough gold jewelry to sink a rowboat, huffed out a breath then sucked in another one before speaking again. While she talked, she walked, briskly paced little steps, the heels of her shoes clacking noisily on the Italian tile floor. “It’s your father.”

“I got that much.” Mike pulled her hand away from the knot on her skull and checked for blood. Not that she wasn’t interested in what was going on with Papa, but if she was bleeding, she wanted to know about it in time to keep from dying or something. Nope. No blood. Just mind-numbing pain.

Grumbling a little, she squinted into the afternoon sunlight streaming through the kitchen window. Grace Van Horn, somewhere around the age of sixty, looked
like a white-haired pixie. Her hair was short and stylish, her dark eyes were usually sparkling with good humor, and she pretty much
flitted
from one place to another. But at the moment, she looked like she wanted to slam the toe of her elegant, sling-back heel into someone’s backside.

“It’s at least ninety out there in the sun today.”

Mike stood up and raked a quick look across the compound. Most of the crew had left for the day, but there were a few guys left, tidying up some last-minute jobs.

Last weekend, the weather had been autumnish.

Last weekend.

Saturday.

She’d spent the whole day with Lucas, shopping, talking,
kissing
. Mike blinked and shook the thought away, like a big dog coming out of a lake. Naturally, the thought came skittering right back.

Insidious, really.

She’d been working herself half to death for the last few days, trying to keep her mind off Lucas and The Kiss, which she’d now started thinking of in capital letters—and, God help her, The Date.

Why in the hell had she agreed to go away for the weekend with him? And more importantly, why wasn’t she backing out?

Well, she knew the answer to that one. Mike Marconi never backed down. She’d done all the running she’d ever do back when she was sixteen. And hadn’t
that
ended well?

Nope. She’d go through with the date, suffer through boring speeches and even more boring scientist talk,
then maybe she’d kiss Lucas again and then she’d come home.

No.

Wait a minute.

There would be
no
more kissing.

None whatsoever.

Probably.

“Mike!”

Grace’s voice, set at a pitch designed to make dogs deaf, rattled Mike enough to get her attention.

“The heat?” Grace demanded, staring up into Mike’s eyes impatiently. “Your father? Sunstroke?”

“Right.” Damn. Even when he wasn’t around, Lucas was making life harder.

Grace was right. Last weekend, the weather was nice. Today, summer had apparently decided to charbroil Chandler one last time.

All summer the Marconis had been here, working at Grace’s. She always paid well, but most of the extra money went to buy aspirin. Working with Grace was like working with a millionaire child. She just couldn’t make up her mind—there was always something new that she’d heard of. Or something she wanted to try.

Every year, the construction firms in the area took turns working for Grace; this time the Marconis had been up to bat. But now that the summer of hell was winding down, Mike was feeling relaxed enough—except for her throbbing skull—to actually wonder what the latest fuss was about.

“Yeah, it’s hot, but—”

Grace stepped up closer to her, lifted one hand and pointed through the window. “Everyone with an ounce
of common sense is in the shade. Or inside.”

“Sure, but—”

“But not your father.” Grace stamped one foot against the ground and a tiny cloud of dust rose up from the floor and settled over the toe of her brown leather shoe. Mike winced, glad she wasn’t going to be in charge of cleaning the mess construction left behind.

“The man has a head like rock, Mike.”

She had to smile. How often had she heard her own mother make the same complaint? Until, of course, the ugly year. The year when Mama had gotten sick then slowly withered away until the only thing recognizable about her was her smile.

Mike lifted one shoulder, easing that memory away, and looked through the window toward her father. Hank Marconi wasn’t a tall man. But his short body was muscular, even for a man of sixty-five. His shoulders were broad, his hands huge and work worn, and his full, gray beard neatly trimmed. Some of the kids in Chandler were absolutely convinced that Papa Marconi was actually Santa Claus. Which delighted Papa no end.

But as Mike watched him now, she noticed that his features were bright red, sweat ran down his face, and he seemed to be breathing heavily.

“I told him to come inside and have some tea, but he refuses to quit until he’s finished that ridiculous gate for the goat shed.” Grace was furious, but Mike caught the undercurrent of concern in her voice.

Shifting position uncomfortably, Mike winced as the memory of what Sam had said about Grace and
Papa reared to life in her brain. Oh, man. She so didn’t want to think about that.

“Don’t worry, Grace,” she said quickly, before a vision of Grace and Papa caught in a lip-lock could invade her mind. “Papa knows what he’s doing.”

Though even as she said it, she wondered.

“A man his age, standing around in the afternoon sun, working himself half to death over a ridiculous goat gate,” Grace muttered.

It
was
ridiculous. But Mike hesitated to point out that the stupid gate was Grace’s fault. It had been one of the older woman’s many “changes” to the plans. Scrolled woodwork lined the top of the gate and had to be fastened to the solid oak doors with dozens of finishing screws. Why Grace’s cashmere and angora goats needed a decorative gate in the first place was beyond Mike.

But she knew her father was stubborn enough to stand in the sun until he dropped rather than admit that he was uncomfortable.

“I’ll talk to him.”

“Good luck to you.”

Grace marched off and Mike shrugged as she dropped her wrench into the toolbox and left the kitchen through the side door. “Trouble in paradise, I guess,” she murmured as she stepped into the blast of afternoon heat.

Waving to a couple of the guys as they packed up the equipment, Mike felt concern spike inside her. The closer she walked to her father, the more worried she was. He really didn’t look well at all. His blue eyes were glassy and his hands shook as he wielded the power drill.

“Papa—”

Instantly, he shut off the tool, let his arms drop to his sides, and looked around at her. Forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, he said, “Almost finished.”

That about covered it, Mike thought guiltily. She should have been paying more attention to him. He wasn’t a young man anymore and it had been unusually hot today. Hardly a breath of air stirred the trees around them—and standing directly in the sun made it seem even hotter. “Papa, why don’t you let me finish that?”

“What?” His gaze snapped to hers. “Since when do you do my work?”

“Since I’m finished and it’s really hot and you look—”

“What?” he argued, throwing his shoulders back and lifting his chin. “I look what?”

“Tired?”

He scowled at her, and just for a moment, Mike was sixteen again. That niggling curl of dread settled in the pit of her stomach just as it used to when he gave her a look that said he was both furious and disappointed.

“Grace sent you out here, didn’t she?”

Mike nodded and reminded herself she wasn’t sixteen anymore and Papa knew it. “She’s worried.”

“She doesn’t have to be. I’m fine.”

“Yeah,” Mike said dryly, “I can see that.”

“Don’t you be smart, Michaela.” He shook the electric drill at her as if it were a pointer. “I’m still the papa around here.”

Male egos. Touchy. In this situation, Sam would back down, tell Papa that he was worrying
her
. Jo would
work Papa with a few wisely chosen words, figuring out a way to make him think that quitting was
his
idea.

Mike, though, worked differently. Always had. For better or worse, she just jumped in with both feet, and to hell with the consequences. “Yes, you’re the papa and you should know better than to stand in the hot sun without even wearing a hat, for God’s sake. You’d never let
us
get away with that.”

He scowled at her and she was glad of the beard. It hid the fact that his lips were no doubt thinned into a razor slash of disapproval.

“Papa,” she said, “you look crappy and it’s really hot out here. Would it kill you to go sit in the shade for a few minutes and cool down?”