Her Man Upstairs (5 page)

 

Mutt was excited to see her. “I guess he's bored,” she said to the part-time attendant, a kid with a blue Mohawk
and a gold earring, while she struggled to attach the leash to the dog's choke collar. She felt a little embarrassed to be using the thing, but Annie had told her it didn't hurt him at all—it helped to slow him down when he saw something he wanted to chase.

“What he needs is a few trucks to run after,” Blue Mohawk said cheerfully.

“Pity the poor truck if he ever caught one.”

“Naw, he'd just water the tires. You seen all these big, tall trucks. Now you know how they got that way.”

Marty rolled her eyes and led the dog out, nearly tripping over him when he tried to wrap himself around her knees.

“What you need, my dear Super-Mutt, is a crash course in manners,” she panted once the big shaggy creature pulled her out to the path that served as a sidewalk. “Take a left! Left! That way, dammit!”

They went right, toward the Hamburger Shanty, where Mutt knocked over a trash container and then tried to tackle her when she bent to collect the blowing garbage.

A gray Mercedes cruised past as if looking for a parking place. There were several available, but evidently the driver didn't care for the specials posted in the window. Triple cheeseburger, double fries, thirty-six-ounce drink? What's not to like, as long as you've got the metabolism of a hummingbird.

Mutt was sniffing at Egbert Blalock's tan Buick. The bank had just closed, and evidently the new vice-president was picking up a take-out supper. Egbert was known to be as stingy with the bank's money as if it were his own—which probably wasn't a bad thing in a banker.

“You want to pee on his tires? Be my guest.”

This time the dog obeyed, but she knew better than to take credit for it.

It was barely five-thirty when she got home again, but already it was practically dark. Her lower back was zapping her after trying to hang on to Mutt's leash with one hand while she picked up the garbage he'd spilled with the other. Those platter-size feet of his could probably topple a Dumpster. Fortunately, he hadn't tried.

She was dimly aware of the gray sedan turning the corner of Parliament and Sugar Lane behind her.

“Need a hand?” Cole's face, showing only concern, appeared at the driver's window.

He was still here. Was that a laugh line or a wrinkle in his left cheek? Disgusting how attractive lines in a man's face could be, when women were forced to spend a fortune on wrinkle removers.

She opened the door, but her feet were no longer responding to orders from headquarters. “No, thanks.” And then, because he still looked dubious, she said, “Did you ever try wrestling five hundred pounds of untrained mongrel that's determined to sniff every weed along the path? On both sides of the street?” Not to mention pee on every blade of grass along the way. She sighed and managed to extract first one leg and then the other without actually grimacing.

“This is a daily thing? The dog-walking?”

“Twice daily. I'm doing a favor for friends who've been looking forward to this trip for ages. The boarding kennel wouldn't accept Mutt unless someone agreed to walk him at least twice a day, because he's too big for the short runs they provide.”

Actually, Mutt's owners weren't really friends of hers. They lived a few blocks over, but Annie had once been a
regular customer and they'd been desperate. And Marty had needed the money.

She limped toward the house while Cole deposited another bag of trash on the area he'd set aside. Food first, she promised herself—then a hot soak and bed. Those strong hands of his on her lower back wouldn't be unwelcome, either, she thought wistfully

Quit it! The last thing you need is another man in your life.

As he was right behind her all the way to the front door, she tried not to limp. Tried not to collapse, coat, earmuffs, gloves and all, on the living room sofa. Instead, she turned and asked, “Was there something you needed?”

“You had three more phone calls.”

She lifted an eyebrow. At least she still had a few muscles that worked without causing pain. “Well?”

“A Ms. Beasley who said she could come any day next week if you want to start setting up the books. I think she's the one I met at the marina, who told me you needed a builder. You're to call her when you're ready.”

Marty murmured, “Bless her heart.” Faylene knew very well Marty was nowhere near ready for that.

Standing close enough so that she could smell a combination of freshly sawed lumber and a subtle aftershave, Cole continued. “There was a call from someone named Sasha. At least, that's what it sounded like. Anyway, she has some carpet samples she's bringing by in the morning.”

“I'm not nearly ready for carpet and she knows it.” More curiosity. “Anything else?”

“Another of those ‘If-a-man-answers, hang-up' calls.”

Marty closed her eyes. “Oh, shoot, shoot, shoot. I hate that kind of thing, don't you? It ought to be against the law.”

“Probably just a wrong number.”

When she opened her eyes again, he was still there. Still looking big and solid and protective and all the good things the romance stories described—things that she had never personally experienced. If she'd needed another clue that she was almost ready for an over-the-counter de-stress medication, that was it.

“Look, I closed up the house and turned on the heat again. Why don't you take off a few layers while I make you a pot of coffee? Once you warm up, maybe you'll feel more like—”

Better yet, turn the dog loose, call a cruise line and make reservations for two and you're on. What was it that caused two strangers to bond based on a few casual exchanges?

Or at least, caused one person to bond?

C
ole ended up staying for supper, partly because he had nothing better to do and partly because her house, even with a faint lingering odor of polyurethane and burnt cinnamon, was a hell of a lot more comfortable than the
Time Out
with its faint odor of mildew and inefficient space heater.

It has nothing to do with the woman, he assured himself. Nothing to do with the fact that he enjoyed her company—enjoyed even more speculating about what she'd be like in bed. So far as he could tell, she hadn't done a single thing to attract his attention.

Maybe that was it. She used natural bait, not an artificial lure.

He had no business fishing in these particular waters, no matter how tempted he was. On the other hand, she looked as if she needed someone to dump on. Her two
friends probably had their own baggage. At least, she didn't seem too eager to speak to either of them.

He happened to be both handy and baggage free. A disinterested party, so to speak.

And you're going to damn well stay that way, right?

Right!

“The thing is,” Marty said as she opened a diet drink and a bottle of Blackhook porter, “I really don't have time for fun and games right now.” She handed him the ale. “Do you want a glass for that?”

“Bottle's fine.” Fun and games? She'd explained briefly about their favorite pastime of matchmaking—which explained part of the conversation he'd overheard. “Don't your victims have anything to say about it?”

“I'd hardly call them victims. I mean, look how many people try to meet other people in chat rooms. And lots of people go on blind dates.”

“Of their own free will. Nothing's forced on them.”

“We've never forced anything on anyone,” she protested. “All we do is arrange for X to meet Y, and they can take it from there.”

“X and Y as in chromosomes?”

“Hadn't thought of it that way,” she said, gray eyes twinkling. “Anyway, I'm too busy trying to figure out how to fit a bunch of ten-foot bookshelves into my two front rooms to worry about the social life of our neighborhood CPA. Any advice would be greatly appreciated.”

“Your CPA's probably about to have all the social life she needs, with tax season looming dead ahead.”

“I meant advice with the bookshelves.”

“Oh. Right.” What the hell, he wasn't one of her busy-
buddies. What did he know about matchmaking? “That's not a problem.”

“Maybe not in theory. Just whack the shelves in two and close up the open ends. I'm good at theory, just not so great when it comes to the actual whacking and closing.”

“I can do one or two for you after supper.”

Her doubtful look gradually gave way to a smile that was all the more effective for a tiny chip on the corner of a front tooth. Oh, man, this natural bait was wicked stuff.

“You don't have to do that,” she protested.

He was tempted to agree. It wasn't a part of their agreement. On the other hand, he wasn't particularly eager to go back to the marina. This small yellow bungalow, even with a portion of the second floor gutted, was a hell of a lot more comfortable than the cold, damp cabin of a forty-year-old cruiser.

Yeah, sure. The house is the only attraction.

She was saying something about the dog, about how she was already dreading tomorrow's walk. “Rain or shine, he has to get out twice a day for a run, and the Hallets won't be back for… Oh, lawsy, five more days? I'm not sure my arms will survive.”

Cole helped clear away the remains of supper as if he'd been doing it all his life. It had been Paula who'd insisted on hiring a combination cook-housekeeper. When he'd protested that with only the two of them they didn't really need it, and besides, they couldn't afford it, she had meekly agreed. A few weeks later he'd received a surprise promotion and a hefty raise.

He'd been excited at first about getting in on the architectural side of the business. That had always been his goal. He'd even managed to get half a degree in architec
ture before he'd damaged his left knee, putting an end to his football scholarship.

But not even when he'd been relegated to the job of selecting from a set number of styles and floor plans and making superficial changes among them had he tumbled to the fact that he was a kept man.

Once he'd been given the job of working on more challenging projects like the Murdock Office Complex and the Josephine Civic Center, he'd settled in and actually begun to enjoy the work.

That is, until too many accidents had aroused his suspicions and he'd started coming in early and staying late, poking into areas that were out of his jurisdiction.

Now he followed Marty into the living room, where she pointed out the potential placement of her bookshelves. “That wall's the longest. There are eleven of them, and if possible, I'd like to fit them into these two rooms.” She waved a hand, indicating the small dining room that currently doubled as a home office. “I thought I'd use the kitchen for an office and box room. The table won't fit upstairs, but it'll be great for unpacking.”

Stroking his stubbled jaw—he was a twice-a-day shaver when neatness counted—Cole studied the layout. One thing about living aboard a small boat—you learned to make the most of every square inch of space.

“Sasha has some wild ideas about colors—she's this friend I was telling you about. You spoke to her on the phone? Anyway, she's an interior designer—she's supposed to be tops in this area—but she thinks I need to paint my walls three different shades of red—can you believe it? She says with the north light I need to make it not just inviting, but exciting.”

The room was already inviting, to Cole's way of thinking. Walls painted a warm, creamy shade with furnishings a comfortable mixture of old and not-quite-so-old. It looked just right to him. Nothing really outstanding—at least, nothing that screamed, “Keep off the furniture!”

Paula had insisted on an all-white color scheme to show off her art collection. He'd hated the damn stuff, her so-called art included.

Marty had a couple of pictures on the wall. One a reproduction of a marsh scene, the other a factory-produced oil of a cloudy sunset on the water. Both were pleasant enough. Hell of a lot better than Paula's primary color abstracts, anyway.

Walking around the two rooms that, along with the kitchen and a laundry-utility room, made up the first floor, Cole mentally transposed the bookshelves with the furniture that currently occupied the space. Damn shame to crowd all this into one room upstairs, but it was her house.

Marty was following him around like a hungry pup waiting for a handout. He was no miracle worker. He could remodel her second floor, but he couldn't guarantee anything beyond that. Sensing her anxiety, he said, “You've got choices, you know.”

“Choices. You mean colors?”

He heard her sigh and turned to find her only a couple of steps behind. Too close. His hand brushed her hip and electricity sizzled. The way she jumped back, she must have felt it, too.

Sounding slightly breathless, she said, “I'll have to fight for them. Did you ever hear of a velvet-covered steamroller? That's Sasha.”

“I'm talking about your arrangements, not your color
scheme.” Her mouth looked soft, tired and discouraged. Staring at it, he thought, What the hell—a little encouragement wouldn't cost him anything.

Fortunately, before he could act on his impulse, his survival instinct kicked in. Taking a deep breath, he said, “You want to know what I think? I'm betting you can hold your own against any steamroller, velvet-covered or not.”

It drew the ghost of a response. Not quite a smile, but at least those full, naked lips didn't look quite so discouraged. “Yes, well…you don't know Sasha.”

Nor was he sure he wanted to meet her.

Marty shook her head. “I've tried arranging those darn shelves ever which-a-way on paper, but the proportions are all wrong for here. I had them custom built for my old place, but—” She shook her head again. “Am I crazy to even think of doing what I'm doing? Don't answer that—it's way, way too late.” This time she actually chuckled.

It affected him in more ways than he cared to admit.

“People remodel all the time. In a house this age, it's probably overdue.”

“Sure, to add a downstairs bath and maybe a room or two over the garage, but turning it into a retail outlet?”

He was tempted to pull her head down on his shoulder and tell her not to worry, that it was always darkest before the dawn, or some other meaningless fairy tale.

“Customers have to be able to move freely, you know? They're not going to browse in a room where they feel claustrophobic.”

Moving to stand behind her, Cole placed one hand on her shoulder and used his other to gesture. “Eighteen feet, right? Fifteen of usable space between the door and the corner. How about we cut a few of your bookshelves down to
about six feet, butt them up against the wall here, here and here.” He indicated the area, his arm brushing against her shoulder. “That should give you plenty of clearance on the open end, and you can use the corner space beside the door for wall shelves.”

“Cut them down?” Regardless of what she'd said earlier about whacking, she sounded as if he'd suggested cutting her legs off just above the ankles. Spinning around, she had to step back to keep from stumbling. He was that close. When he put out a hand to steady her, her eyes widened, sucking him into the cloud-gray depths.

Flowers. Even with the faint echoes of paint and burnt spice, he smelled flowers. There wasn't a damn thing blooming in her yard. It had to be the woman herself. No makeup, wild hair, clothes that could have come from any thrift shop—and she smelled like a tropical garden.

He leaned closer. She froze, a deer-in-the-headlights look in her eyes.
Don't do it, man—you're starting something you're in no position to finish.

“Like we talked about before—shorten them,” he said gruffly, stepping back to a safe distance.

Her cheeks flushed with color, she nodded slowly. “And I could use the short ends over here—and here.” She gestured toward the space between windows and on either side. “And there's still the dining room.”

She gradually lost the bemused look, if that's what it was. He was no expert when it came to reading a woman's expression, but she no longer looked wary. Actually, she looked almost excited, and an excited Marty Owens was a little too infectious for his peace of mind. He moved back and leaned against the door frame while she walked around,
motioning with her hands, muttering to herself—soft little sounds she probably wasn't even aware of making.

And who'd have thought gray eyes could darken and sparkle that way? He wondered if that was how she'd look in bed, after—

“I'd better be getting back to the marina.” It was one thing to hang around and help her plan her building project. It was another thing entirely to—

Yeah, well…forget about that. “I'd like to get here about seven tomorrow, if that's not too early.” That way she'd be out walking her dog and he could start work without any enticing distractions.

 

Marty watched until Cole's truck disappeared, allowing her imagination free range. What was it about men and the way they dressed? Ninety-nine out of a hundred might as well be wearing baggy bib overalls for all the difference it made. She might even know and like them personally, but there was no chemistry. No
click.

And then, along came that one out of a hundred—a thousand—wearing faded jeans and a plain black tee, and she immediately started wondering….

Be still, my heart.

A few minutes later she gathered her wandering wits and focused on her immediate problem. At least, one of her problems. She wandered around, studying the available space and jotting notes on the back of an envelope. If she used the utility room instead of the kitchen for—

That wouldn't work. No way was she going to squeeze a washer and drier into her upstairs hall, even after remodeling. The living room and dining room would provide enough display space, using the kitchen for—

The refrigerator. Oh, shoot. All she'd have room for in her new kitchenette would be one of those dorm-size models.

She could worry about that later. Meanwhile, just when it seemed as if her plan was not going to work, suddenly everything was falling into place, thanks to a sexy carpenter with shaggy hair, greeny gold eyes and a smile that could melt porcelain.

All of which was totally beside the point, she reminded herself forcefully.

Still, ever since she'd conceived the idea, she had thought she'd considered every possible way to fit eleven ten-foot-long bookshelves into the available space. And said sexy carpenter had given her the answer.

 

On Wednesday morning Marty was up long before daylight, wide awake for once, even though she'd stayed awake far into the night mentally arranging and rearranging her new showroom. The kennel didn't open until seven, which was when Cole was due.

She gulped down a glass of orange juice, winced as it hit her empty stomach, then bundled up and hurried outside, leaving the front door unlocked. The damp, cold northeast wind was still howling like a chorus of banshees. Occasionally they got a day when the temperature hit the seventies in January, but not this year.

Mutt loved the weather. There was probably some polar bear in him somewhere. With his shaggy coat streaming out behind him, he galloped off down Water Street toward his favorite destination, the Hamburger Shanty. Yelling at him was like yelling at a long-haired locomotive. She did it anyway. According to an article in one of the women's magazines Sasha was always bringing her with the pertinent pages turned down, yelling was a great stress-reliever.

Mutt ignored the shouts. If any of the few passersby heard her and wondered if she was stark raving bonkers, one look should clear up the mystery. The damn dog marched to a different drummer.