Her Man Upstairs

No pressure, no demand, just…touching.

As the kiss slowly deepened, Marty felt as if she'd been asleep for a hundred years and had woken up in a brand-new world to the tantalizing scent of soap and leather and sun-warmed male skin, to the iron-hard arms that held her breathlessly close.

Her carpenter. Her kissing carpenter, her upstairs man.

“Well,” she breathed, unable to think of anything else to say. “Well…”

“I guess we got that out of the way,” Cole said, sounding a tad stunned himself. “You want to fire me? I'll understand.”

Marty shook her head. Fire him? Things might be infinitely more complicated after this, but if she let Cole walk away, she might lose the opportunity of a lifetime.

Dear Reader,

It's Valentine's Day, time for an evening to remember. Perhaps your perfect night consists of candlelight and a special meal, or a walk along a deserted beach in the moonlight, or a wonderful cuddle beside a fire. My fantasy of what the perfect night entails includes 1) a
very
sexy television actor who starred in a recently canceled WB series 2) a dark, quiet corner in an elegant restaurant 3) a conversation that ends with a daring proposition to… Sorry, some things a girl just has to keep a secret! Whatever your evening to remember entails, here's hoping it's unforgettable.

This month in Silhouette Desire, we also offer you
reads
to remember long into the evening. Kathie DeNosky's
A Rare Sensation
is the second title in DYNASTIES: THE ASHTONS, our compelling continuity set in Napa Valley. Dixie Browning continues her fabulous DIVAS WHO DISH miniseries with
Her Man Upstairs
.

We also have the wonderful Emilie Rose whose
Breathless Passion
will leave you…breathless. In
Out of Uniform
, Amy J. Fetzer presents a wonderful military hero you'll be dreaming about. Margaret Allison is back with an alpha male who has
A Single Demand
for this Cinderella heroine. And welcome Heidi Betts to the Desire lineup with her scintillating surrogacy story,
Bought by a Millionaire.

Here's to a memorable Valentine's Day…however you choose to enjoy it!

Happy reading,

Melissa Jeglinski

Senior Editor

Silhouette Books

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

M
arty allowed herself ten minutes, start to finish, to shower, shampoo the stink out of her hair, dress and get back downstairs in time to meet the fourth carpenter.
If
he even bothered to show up. What the devil had happened to the work ethic in this country?

She knew what had happened to her own. It fluctuated wildly between gotta-do, gonna-do and can't-do. Between full speed ahead and all engines reverse, depending on the time of the month.

At least she had no one depending on her for support. Not even a cat or a dog, although she was thinking about getting one. Something to talk to, something to keep her feet warm in bed at night while she read herself to sleep. But then there were all those shots and flea medicines and retractable leashes and collars and tons of kibble.

So maybe a couple of goldfish…?

She checked her image in the steam-clouded bathroom mirror, searching for signs of advancing age. “At least you're not paying rent. Except for the phone bill, the power bill and property taxes, you don't owe a penny to anyone.”

On the other hand, her split ends were in desperate need of a trim and the sweater she was wearing dated back to her junior year in college. Even if she could've afforded to update her hairstyle and her wardrobe, she lacked the interest, and
that
—the lack of interest—was the scariest of all. She was sliding downhill toward the big four-oh, which meant that any day now, the guarantees on various body parts would start running out. Oh sure, her teeth were still sound, and she could still get by with drugstore reading glasses, but she plucked an average of three gray hairs a day; she was collecting a few of what were euphemistically called “laugh lines” and lately her back had been giving her trouble.

Of course, moving a ton and a half of books and bookshelves single-handedly might have had something to do with that.

Bottom line, she wasn't getting any younger. Her income was zilch minus inflation, her savings account had earned the lofty sum of a buck eighty-seven in interest last month, and with the least bit of encouragement she could become seriously depressed. She read all those magazine articles designed to scare women and sell pharmaceutical products. The trouble was, scare tactics worked.

Frowning down at her Timex, Marty decided she'd give him ten more minutes. Traffic jams happened, even in Muddy Landing, population just shy of a thousand. She'd forgotten to ask where he was staying, when he'd called late yesterday to see if she still needed a builder. If he was
coming from Elizabeth City and happened to get behind a tractor or a school bus, all bets were off.

Squeezing the moisture from her thick chestnut-colored hair, she tried to hedge against disappointment by telling herself that he probably wouldn't show at all, and even if he did, he probably wouldn't be able to fit her into his schedule anytime soon. If he did manage to fit her in, she probably couldn't afford him. But the biggie was her deadline. If he couldn't meet that, then there'd be no point in even starting.

“Well, shoot,” she whispered. When it came to looking on the bright side, she was her own worst enemy. So what else was new?

The first time the idea had occurred to her, she'd thought it was brilliant, but the longer it was taking to put her plan into action, the more doubts were seeping in.

Was that a car door slamming?

She gave her hair a last hurried squeeze with the towel and then felt in the top drawer with one hand for a pair of socks. Having long since gotten out of the habit of matching her socks and rolling them together, she came up with a short and a long in two different colors. Tossing them back, she raced for the stairway, bare feet thudding on the hardwood floors.

At least she no longer reeked of polyurethane. If the cinnamon had done the trick, neither would her house.

The phone rang just as she hit the third step down from the top. Swearing under her breath, she wheeled and raced back to catch it in case it was her carpenter asking for instructions on how to find her address.

“Hello! Where are you?”

“Is he there yet?”

Her shoulders drooped. “Oh, Sasha.” If there was an inconvenient time to call or drop by, her best friend would find it. From anyone else Marty might think it was a power thing. “I thought you were someone else. Look, I don't have time to talk now. Can I call you back?”

“You're talking, aren't you?”

“But I'm in a hurry—so can it wait?”

“Is he there yet?”

“Is who there—here?”

“Your carpenter, silly! Faylene said Bob Ed said he was going to call you yesterday. Didn't he even call?”

Marty took a deep breath, drawing on the lessons of a lifetime. Patience was a virtue, right up there with godliness and cleanliness. At various times, she'd flunked all three. “Somebody's here, I just heard a car door slam. It might be him—he. Listen, later I want to know exactly what you two have been up to, but not now, okay?”

If you couldn't trust your best friend, whom could you trust?

“Wait, don't hang up! Call me as soon as he leaves, okay? Faylene said—”

Marty didn't wait to hear what Faylene had said. The trouble with a small town like Muddy Landing was that aside from fishing, hunting and farming, the chief industry was gossip. By now probably half the town knew what she planned on doing to her house, who was helping her do it, and how much it was likely to cost her.

Slamming the phone down, she peered through the front bedroom window to see a ratty looking pickup with a toolbox in back and a rod-holder on the front bumper, a description that fit roughly half the vehicles in Muddy Landing. There was probably a gun rack in the back win
dow, too, and an in-your-face sticker peeling off the back bumper.

Well, so what? If the guy could read a blueprint and follow simple instructions, she didn't care what his politics were or what he drove or what he did in his spare time.

Not that her drawings bore much resemblance to blueprints, but at least she'd indicated clearly what she wanted done. Not only indicated, but illustrated. If he could read, he should be able to do the job. If it weren't for all the red tape involved with permitting and such, she could probably have done it herself, given enough time. There were how-to books for everything.

She watched from the window as a long, denim-covered leg emerged from the cab. Putty-colored deck shoes, Ragg socks, followed by leather clad shoulders roughly the width of an ax handle. Judging by all that shaggy, sun-streaked hair, he was either a surf bum or he'd spent the summer crawling around on somebody's roof nailing on shingles. All up and down the Outer Banks, building crews were nailing together those humongous McMansions on every scrap of land that wasn't owned by some branch or another of the federal government. She'd like to think of all the tourists who would pour down here once the season got underway as potential customers. Trouble was, there were enough bookstores on the beach so that few, if any, tourists were likely to drive all the way to Muddy Landing, which wasn't on the way to anywhere.

She was still watching when her visitor turned and looked directly at the upstairs front window. Oh, my…

As she flicked the curtains shut, it occurred to Marty that living alone as she did, inviting all these strange men into her home might not be the smartest thing. This one, for instance,
looked physically capable of taking out a few walls without the aid of tools.
He's a construction worker, silly!
she told herself.
What did you expect, a ninety-seven-pound wimp?

She was halfway down the stairs when the doorbell chimed—three steps farther when the smoke alarm went off with an ear-splitting shriek. “Not now, dammit!”

She galloped the rest of the way and reached the bottom just as the front door burst open.

“Get out, I'll take care of it!” a man barked. He waved her toward the open front door.

Swinging around the newel post, Marty collided with him in the kitchen doorway. She stood stock-still and stared at the billowing smoke that was rapidly filling the room.

“Try not to breathe! Where's your fire extinguisher?”

“Beside the drier!” Marty yelled back. Racing across the room, she jumped and slammed her fist against the white plastic smoke detector mounted over the utility room door. The cover popped off, the batteries fell out and the ear-splitting noise ceased abruptly.

In the sudden deafening silence they stared at each other, Marty and the stranger with the shaggy, sun-bleached hair and the piercing eyes. The stranger broke away first, wheeling toward the range where clouds of pungent smoke rose toward the ceiling.

“Get out of my way!” Marty shouldered him aside and grabbed the blackened pie pan with her bare hand. Shoving open the back door, she flung it outside, took two deep breaths and hurried to turn off the burner.

The stranger hadn't said a word.

Trying not to inhale, she clutched her right hand and muttered a string of semi-profane euphemisms. God, she could have burned her house down!

“You want to tell me what's going on here?” Fists planted on his hips, the stranger stared at her warily.

He
wanted answers from
her?
She wasn't the one who'd burst into a house uninvited and started shouting orders. At least he wasn't wearing a ski mask over his face and carrying an AK-whatchamacallit—one of those really nasty guns.

Of course, she'd been expecting a carpenter. And he did have a toolbox in the back of his truck. But for all she knew, the thing could be full of nasty weapons of mass destruction.

A big fan of hard-edged suspense, Marty often let her imagination get the better of her. Not only that, but she'd been under a growing amount of stress, which always tended to affect her common sense.

“Sorry about that,” he said quietly, pulling her back to reality. “I thought you had a real fire going.” He waved away the pungent fumes with one hand.

Trying not to breathe too deeply, she leaned over the sink and held her stinging fingers under cold running water. Ow-wow-ee!

She felt him right behind her and tried not to react. He
had
to be her carpenter—either that or a fireman who just happened to be passing by 1404 Sugar Lane and smelled smoke.

Or the answer to a harried maiden's dream?

Not that she was a maiden. Far from it.

Way to go, Owens—so much for getting your head together. You nearly burn down your house and now you're checking out the vital statistics of the first man on the scene.

“Uh—maybe I'd better leave, okay?” The voice was rich and gravelly, if somewhat tentative. Pavarotti with a frog in his throat.

“No! I mean, please—I need you. That is, if you're the carpenter I was expecting. You are…aren't you?” She
turned, still clutching her wrist to keep the pain of her burned fingers from shooting up her arm.

He was staring, probably trying to decide if it was safe to hang around. “Ma'am, are you sure you're all right?”

He'd called her “ma'am.” Pathetically un-PC, but sweet, all the same. Conscious of her dripping hair and her naked feet, Marty tried to look cool and in control of the situation.
Oh, Lord, did I remember to fasten the front of my jeans?

In case she hadn't, she tugged her sweater down over her hips. A smile was called for, and she did her best, which probably wasn't very convincing. At least, her would-be rescuer didn't look convinced. Any minute now he'd be calling for the butterfly squad.

Deep breath, Owens. Get it in gear.
“Sorry. I'm usually not this disorganized.” At least, this time of day she wasn't. Early mornings were another matter. She was a zombie until she had her fix of caffeine and sunshine. “It's just that everything happened at once. First the phone, then the doorbell, then the smoke alarm.”

He nodded slowly. Then he sniffed, using a really nice nose. Not too big, not too straight—just enough character to keep the rest of his features from looking too perfect. “What
is
that smell?”

Marty sniffed, too. The air was rank. “Polyurethane and paint thinner, uh, laced with fried cinnamon. Actually, not all my ideas work out the way they're supposed to. You ever have one of those days when everything goes cronksided?”

He continued to watch her as if he suspected her of being a mutant life-form. His eyes, she noted, were the exact color of tarnished brass. Sort of greenish blue, with undertones of gold. Looking uneasy, he was backing toward the front hall, and she couldn't afford to let him get away.

“I left the burner turned on the lowest setting, thinking sure I'd have time, but…” Despite appearances to the contrary, she tried to sound intelligent, or at least moderately rational.

Fat chance. She sighed. “Look, I've been painting bookcases in the garage and I left the side door open so I could hear the phone, so that's how the smell got into the house, okay? I was just trying to cover it—while I showered—with cinnamon.”

“You showered with cinnamon.”

Was that skepticism or sympathy? Time to take control. “Yes, well—I probably should have used something heavier than one of those aluminum foil pie pans. Pumpkin. Mrs. Smith's. I hate to throw them away, don't you? They come in handy for scaring deer away from the pittosporum.”

Nodding slowly, he backed a few steps closer to the hall door, watching her as if he expected her to hop up on a counter and start flapping her wings. “This
is
the right address, isn't it? Corner of Sugar Lane and Bedlam Boulevard?”

Bedlam Boulevard wasn't even a boulevard, just a plain old street. She'd almost forgotten the developer's love of all things British: Chelsea Circle, Parliament Place, London Lane.

She snickered. And then watched as his lips started to twitch. And then they were both grinning.