Cara O'Shea's Return (8 page)

Cara scrambled to her feet. “That’s not what I want.”

“Isn’t it?” Maive studied her with keen eyes. “I’ve seen the way you look at him, too, girl. The sparks practically fly.” She cackled a laugh and rose to link her arm with Cara’s, leading her to the front door. “He’s just a man, Cara, albeit a fine looking one. Nothing to be scared of.” She opened the door and gave Cara a gentle shove onto the porch. “Relax and enjoy the ride, girl. And call me if you mess things up again.”

Relax and enjoy the ride? Cara was so nervous, she’d be lucky if she made it to the end of Maple Street without plowing into one of the trees lining the quiet road. Maive noticed the way she looked at Finn? Had anyone else? Had Finn? God, she hoped not. Regardless, it didn’t matter. She wouldn’t be doing anything about the mutual interest obvious to a too perceptive old lady, if no one else.

Cara could measure her knowledge of romantic endeavors in a teacup, while Finn could fill an Olympic swimming pool with his experience with women. A man that skilled in romance would rip her to shreds, and whistle a happy tune as he walked away.

Considering his reputation, she was ten kinds of a fool to even consider signing him on to renovate her studio. But apparently she was okay with being a fool, because here she was, climbing the wide steps to the old Sawyer estate. She passed between the towering white columns of the one hundred-and-ten-year-old Georgian Revival, and pressed her finger to the doorbell.

A fresh coat of paint made the spooky mausoleum she remembered shine like a well-loved home. The glossy, eight-foot oak door gleamed like a large wooden portal, beckoning visitors to come inside and rest.

As she waited, she tugged nervously at her light-weight peach sweater, smoothing it over the waist of her short denim skirt. Her heart pounded erratically in her chest. She shouldn’t have worn this outfit, it was too girly, and she shouldn’t have worn her power heels, but the strappy, white Prada sandals said
I’m a woman of confidence
.
And right now, she needed all the confidence she could muster.

When all remained quiet inside the old house, she heaved a sigh of relief, and turned to leave, happy to put off her apology for another time. The door swinging wide crushed her newly hatched relief and left her staring into Finn’s cool, blue eyes.

Oh yeah, he’s still mad as hell.

Before she could chicken out, she plunged into the apology she owed him. “I’m sorry, Finn. I made an assumption and…I’m sorry.”

He stood silently, a blank expression on his face while his eyes studied her. The moment stretched out until she decided he could stick her sincere apology in any orifice he chose. She was about to suggest just that, when he swung the door wide.

“Come on in,” he invited grudgingly.

She moved passed him and her eyes widened at the truly incredible staircase at the end of the grand foyer. The eight-foot wide flight leading to the second story curved majestically, the intricate carvings of the banister continuing all the way to the top to run along the hallway to the second floor rooms.

The door clicked shut behind her, and she whirled to face him. Swallowing, she held out the six pack of beer she picked up on her way.

“A peace offering.”

He took the package from her hand, and motioned for her to follow, guiding her down a long corridor to the left of the staircase.

“Oh.” She inhaled an admiring gasp as he pushed open a swinging wooden panel, and she stepped into a huge, homey kitchen. Her eyes roamed over the custom cabinets, the wide plank wooden floor, and finally, the built-in breakfast nook below a large bay window.

“This is gorgeous, Finn.” He grunted and pulled two beers from the box, holding one out to her. She shook her head. “I don’t drink beer.”

His eyes narrowed. “You drank wine at the wedding. What’s the matter? Is beer too common for a famous artist like yourself?”

Definitely still mad.

Well, she’d accused him of something pretty nasty. He was entitled to a little retribution. She’d allow him a swipe or two.

“No.” Ignoring his sneer, she glanced around the beautiful kitchen. “I just don’t metabolize beer very well.” He’d never know how true that was. She had learned the hard way on a cool June night years ago.

He replaced the bottle in the empty slot with a shrug. “Would you like a tour?”

“I think I would. Thank you.”

“This is the kitchen.”

His sharp tone told her he hadn’t expected her to accept, and wasn’t happy she had. Too bad. She didn’t mind throwing him a few curves while he got in his swipes.

“It’s beautiful.” The rich wood of the cabinetry reminded her of the built-in shelving in the bookstore. She smiled, recognizing his work. “Did you do the woodwork in here?”

“I’ve done all the renovation around here,” he said in a clipped tone.

He marched ahead of her, hurrying her through the sixteen room, seventy-five hundred square-foot home. Most of the renovation was finished from what she could see. Only two of the six bedrooms on the second floor still had the neglected appearance she expected to find throughout the house, considering how long the place had been vacant.

The seven fireplaces throughout the home were each more impressive than the last, the mantels amazing. He said the spiral staircase he’d seen was a work of art, but he was an artist himself.

He grunted noncommittally when she told him so. Did he think she was using flattery to soften him up so he’d accept her apology? She shrugged inwardly. That was fine with her. It allowed her to praise him in a way she would have been reluctant to do under normal circumstances. The warm, stunning showcase of a home he had created reinforced her belief he should do the work in her studio.

To that end, she took Maive’s advice when he ended the tour a few short minutes later, staring at her like a not-so-polite stranger at the open front door.

“I wish you’d reconsider taking on the work I need done at the studio. You’ve done beautiful work here, Finn. I want the same attention to detail for my own home.”

Hard blue eyes pinned her to the spot. “Gillespie is a harmless grandfather and a passable carpenter. He’ll give you what you want without making you freeze up like a frightened little girl.”

The insult stung like a cold slap. Wow! That hurt. Okay, she’d just given him his last damn swipe.

The bastard.

She met his angry gaze with the lift of her chin. “Maybe you’re right.” She turned away and walked out onto the porch before she gave in to the urge to belt him. “Thanks for the tour, Finnegan.”

She was half way down the steps when he growled. “I’ll be there at eight on Monday morning.”

She wished she could laugh at his capitulation—her esteem for Maive’s predictive abilities shooting up several points—but she was still smarting from his cutting remark. So, instead of grinning and claiming victory, she kept right on walking, without looking back.

“I’ll expect you at seven. Don’t be late.”

****

The three inch heels of her sexy sandals clacked against the flagstone walkway like rifle shots, but her angry stride did nothing to mar the seductive view. Above the mile of tanned, gut-wrenching legs, her shapely ass swished beneath the denim excuse for a skirt she wore. He frowned, unable to tear his gaze away until she climbed into her vehicle. The woman was driving him crazy.

Uttering a raw curse, he slammed the door with a thud. She had placed him in the same cheating husband category as her father, and though he understood how she could have come to that conclusion, he didn’t deserve her disdain.

When she threw her infuriating accusation in his face, it had been all he could do not to shake her, he’d been so angry. He’d been faithful to Andrea, damn it, even when their long-troubled marriage started to go to shit.

His ex-wife’s calm announcement, that he had lost his appeal once his pro career ended, ripped at his pride, leaving what little was left in tatters. The memory still had the ability to make him fume.

He spent the last four years burning his way through a series of utterly forgettable women, proving his ex-wife wrong, but the victory had been hollow. When it came to women, he’d been living life in the fast lane. Hell, more like the sexual equivalent of the autobahn. After racing down that road for so long, he red-lined, and finally, spun out.

Ultimately, none of the women, no matter how beautiful, were able to heal the shards of desperation piercing his soul. His failure to hold Andrea’s interest was always at the back of his mind, and none of the beauties sharing his bed had been important enough to allow him to overcome his failure. After four years, he’d lost all interest in trying.

His physical awareness of Cara O’Shea was the first tickle of real attraction he had experienced for a woman in months, and she seemed to be the only person on the planet who didn’t know the facts surrounding his divorce.

Well, she knew now. The question was, would it make any difference? She’d said she wasn’t interested, when the truth of the matter was, she didn’t want to be. Because she thought he was like her father? Would that change now that she knew the truth, or was there some other reason for her apprehension whenever he was around?

Instant guilt had slashed through him at the hurt flashing in her eyes when he blasted her with that frightened little girl insult, but she’d pissed him off, damn it. And a frightened little girl was exactly what she resembled when she ran back inside her studio.

He all but imploded during that heated embrace, despite it being obvious she didn’t have a clue what she was doing in the kissing department. How the hell did a woman who looked the way she did have little to no experience kissing a man? Despite her bunny-of-the-month body, the average high school girl had more experience than Cara O’Shea.

Not that her lack of knowledge mattered a bit at the time. The moment he held her flush against him, his mind ceased to function. If she hadn’t gone stiff in his arms, he didn’t know what would have happened. Dragging her down onto the lawn and not letting her up until they both lost all reason, and found paradise, had been a distinct possibility considering the way he’d been feeling…until she turned into a spitting cat.

When he broke the kiss and stared into her eyes, he found anger there, anger that didn’t quite conceal the same fear he’d seen in her expressive eyes several times before.

If she hadn’t been responding to him, he would have understood her reaction. Having a man’s tongue halfway down your throat would be alarming to a woman who kissed like a twelve year-old. But he had held enough women to know when one was fully engaged, and Cara O’Shea had been more than engaged. She burned like a flame in his arms. His nerve endings were seared wherever their bodies touched.

It didn’t make sense. She didn’t make sense. The woman was a puzzle, and dammed if he wasn’t itching to get his hands on the pieces again.

Suddenly, Monday morning couldn’t come soon enough.

A heavy knocking rattled Cara’s door at seven-o-five Monday morning. Five cups of coffee and three dozen donuts were shoved into her hands the moment the door opened and Finn, followed by Ryan, and two men she had never met, filed inside.

Ryan swept her into a hug, forcing her to juggle the coffee before she scalded one or both of them. Plucking one of the cups out of the box, he grinned.

“Finn decided he needed a little slave labor to get those shelves out of here this morning. If it had been anyone other than you getting me out of bed this early, when I’m technically still on my honeymoon, my wife would have knocked me over the head with that new rolling pin Meggy gave her as a shower gift.”

Cara returned his grin, trying to picture her petite sister wielding the culinary weapon against her six foot groom.

“These other two slaves are Bob and Steve Burns.” Finn lifted three cups from where she balanced them in front of her. He handed one to each of the Burns brothers as he made introductions.

His tone of voice was friendly and though he wore that dimpled smile she’d begun to hate, she sighed with relief. She hadn’t known what to expect after their last encounter. Apparently he’d decided to put his hostility behind him, or ignore it while they were working together. Either possibility worked for her. It would make the job a lot easier if they weren’t snarling at each other constantly.

Cara took the last coffee and opened the first box of donuts on the counter. Two boxes were polished off while the men discussed the best way to remove the shelving without damaging the woodwork or the floor. An hour and a half later, the shelving units were loaded and lashed on a trailer out front. Finn would deliver them to the day camp later.

Cara thanked Bob and Steve for their help before they left, and stood marveling at the amount of space removing the shelves opened up. The room was huge!

She scrambled to help when Finn and Ryan pulled the mounting from the counter cabinet and maneuvered it to the center of the room. She had decided to keep it to use as a wet bar that would be the focal point of the seating area she envisioned for the front corner.

“Oh, wow!” Dropping to her knees, she ran her hand over the six foot expanse of hardwood flooring exposed.

Finn stood with his hands on his hips beside her.

“Let’s pull the carpeting up and see what kind of shape the rest of the floor is in.”

“Now?” Sitting back on her heels, she spun her head to stare up at him.

“Did you want to wait?” Amusement was clear in his tone.

“No, I just didn’t think…” She scrambled to her feet and dusted her hands on her jeans. “Where do we start?”

Ryan pulled a claw-like tool from a toolbox and went to the far corner of the room. With an easy tug, he peeled back a section of the carpet, exposing the padding beneath. Finn and Cara spread out along the front of the room, and together, the three of them accomplished the dusty job of rolling the carpeting in sections and removing the padding.

Cara fanned at the dusty cloud floating weightless in the morning sunlight, her eyes on the golden wood they exposed. Other than an occasional dull spot, the floor was in good shape, and beautiful. The smooth wood softened the appearance of the large space, and she loved the contrast of warm wood against the weathered brick of the back wall. She shivered with a secret thrill of ownership. The studio portion of her home would be even more beautiful than she imagined.