Turn My World Upside Down: Jo's Story (12 page)

Irritation snapped like a whip inside him. “Get that ‘I’m gonna call the cops’ look off your face. Do you really think I’m some kind of criminal or something? And if I
was
, I’d invite the kid into it?”

She scowled right back at him. “Well, none of us knows much about you, do we?” she countered. “Hell, for all I know you’re some mob guy hiding out from the feds.”

Astonished, he simply goggled at her. “Your mind is a
very
interesting place to visit. Living there must be a nightmare.”

“You’re not answering the question.”

“Wasn’t a question.
Was
an accusation.”

Jo blew out a breath and held up one hand. “Okay, you’re right. Fine. Fine. I don’t think you’re a mob guy.”

“Hey,” he drawled.
“Thanks.”

“Come on, look at it from my point of view, okay?” she said, poking him in the chest with the tip of her index finger. “You blow into town a year ago, start seducing women right and left, sending them off to be Mother Teresas all over the damn world.”

He shifted position uncomfortably, scraping his boots against the rocky ground.

“Then this Money Fairy starts making itself known, dropping cash all over town—and now I find out it’s
you
.”

He glanced at the workshop, to make sure Jack was still inside where he couldn’t overhear. “Keep it down, will ya?”

“So pardon the hell outta
me
for being just a tiny bit suspicious.”

Her pale blue eyes were lit with a kind of fire that could singe a man right down to his bones. He knew she had no idea just how amazing she looked when her temper was kicking and her body all but vibrating. Dangerous, but amazing.

And what kind of weirdo did it make him that he actually
liked
fighting with her?

He reached up, shoved both hands through his hair,
scraping it back from his face and stalling to figure out just how to tell her. “In college,” he finally said, deciding to simply blurt out the truth, “my roommate was always tinkering with shit. Mechanical stuff. Wires, chips, whatever.” Smiling to himself, Cash remembered their dorm room. “I was always stepping on some stray piece of metal or the clipped ends of wires.”

“So . . .”

“There’s that legendary patience of yours,” he said, with a shake of his head. “The guy didn’t have
any
extra cash. He was always hungry, always scrounging for a little extra money to buy parts for the computers he built in our room.”

“He
built
computers.”

“Oh yeah,” Cash said, grinning now at the memories flashing through his brain. “He was brilliant—couldn’t remember to tie his own shoes but he could probably have built a working spaceship if he’d wanted to. Anyway, he eventually started selling some of them to the other students, so his cash flow improved a little. But I kept him in pizzas and spare parts for three years.”

Jo shook her head and threw her hands wide before letting them fall back against her sides. “And this has
what
to do with you being the Money Fairy?”

He winced. Seriously, he hated being called that. “At the end of our third year, Jimmy dropped out of college. Wanted to make a go of his computer business.”

“Risky.”

“Oh yeah, but like I said, he was brilliant.” Shrugging his shoulders, Cash continued, “I introduced him to some former associates of my mother’s. They
backed him and he went into business. He gave me a million shares of the company as a thank-you.”

“This is going to have a happy ending, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “Ever hear of Holt Computers?”

She staggered. Eyes wide, mouth open, she breathed, “Are you kidding me?”

“Nope.” He grinned at her reaction. You never had to wonder too long what Josefina was thinking. Usually it was right there on her gorgeous face. “Jimmy Holt started the business in our dorm room. Now, he’s making Bill Gates sweat.”

“And you got a million shares.”

“Well, there’s more now,” he mused, and started walking again, not surprised when Jo fell into step beside him. “They’ve split and split again a few times.”

“Right.” She blew out a breath. “And you don’t want anyone to know this because . . .”

He stopped again. He could hear the radio playing in the workshop and figured Jack was making himself at home. He only hoped the kid wasn’t trying the planer again without supervision. They needed to get in there, but first he wanted to make his point. “Because when people find out about the money—they act different. Treat me differently.”

“Poor little rich man?”

“Funny.” He reached out, grabbed her shoulders, and dragged her close. Looking down into her eyes, he realized that this was one of the few times he
couldn’t
read her expression. Perfect. Was she going to be like all the rest? Was Jo going to start acting weird around him? “I don’t tell people because I don’t want them to know. Okay?”

“Dial it down, geez,” she muttered, clearly over her shocked surprise. She stepped out from beneath his hands, shoved her own into her jeans pockets, and looked him up and down dismissively. “I don’t care if you’ve got more money than God. You still bug the hell out of me.”

Relief shot through him at a blistering rate. But he took a deep breath and blew it out anyway, just to steady himself. He should have known that piles of money wouldn’t impress Josefina. Strange how pleased that made him. “Good to know.”

“Good. Now. You want to show me your other little secret so we can finish up the
latest
additions to the cottage?”

Marconi Construction had been working on the guest cottage at Cash’s place off and on for the last eight months. Every time she thought they were finished, Cash came up with something new to do. Expand the kitchen. Add a built-in Murphy bed to the living room. A river rock fireplace. You name it, Cash wanted it.

And now that Jo knew he was Grace Van Horn’s nephew, she wondered if compulsive construction was hereditary.

He laughed, took her elbow and steered her toward the workshop. They stepped into the wide, sunlit area and Jo stopped dead beside him. When he told her about the money, she’d been surprised, but clearly unmoved. But this was different, he thought, watching her as she stepped into the part of his life that was the most important to him.

Her pale blue eyes went soft and dewy and she
moved forward slowly, carefully, as if she were entering a church. She turned in a slow circle, letting her gaze linger over the finished furniture and the projects he was still working on. He followed her gaze himself and felt a swell of pride as he looked at the handcrafted armoires, beds, and tables crowding the hangarlike building.

The rich smell of freshly sawn wood filled the air and classic Stones pumped from the radio.

“Isn’t it
awesome
?” Jack shouted over the music. “Cash
made
all this stuff!”

Jo ignored her brother and let her gaze sweep over the collection of furniture stacked in Cash’s workshop. She hadn’t given a damn about his money. Hadn’t cared that he was sneaking around town being Santa, the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny rolled into one. But this.

This was different.

Shaken, she stared at the exquisite craftsmanship of the pieces surrounding her. This was the kind of thing she appreciated. The kind of work she loved to do herself—when she could find the time to indulge herself.

To find the hidden beauty in a block of wood and coax it to the surface. To show it to those who would never have seen it on their own. The detailed carving, the painstaking care involved in true craftsmanship took patience, she knew. But it also required sheer talent to create such beauty.

The wide windows lining one side of the building allowed plenty of sunlight to enter the room, and it dazzled off polished wood surfaces, spotlighted works
in progress, and showcased some amazing completed pieces.

She recognized the style. The artistry. Now she knew who had made the special “one of a kind” furniture that was sold at a specialty store right outside of Chandler. Now she knew who had carved the magnificent bed her sister Mike and her husband, Lucas, had bought there.

And one more time, she was forced to admit that there was a lot more to Cash Hunter than she’d first imagined. How did he manage to keep surprising her?

Shaking her head, licking dry lips, she looked up at him and whispered, “Okay,
now
I’m impressed.”

“Nana,” Mike said, inching back into the sofa as far as her nearly eight-months-pregnant body would let her. “I just don’t think olive oil on my stomach is the look I’m going for.”

“
Silenzio
, Michaela, quiet,” the old woman translated just in case Mike had missed the order given.

But she was used to listening to half Italian, half English. Nana was still more at home with her first language than with the English she’d learned as a young woman. Just as she was more at home with herbal remedies than aspirin, or olive oil instead of expensive body creams and lotions.

Mike was already a woman on the edge. Hadn’t she just that morning practically chased her own husband out the door? She felt like an overfilled balloon and wished to hell someone would pop her already. It had been years since that moment when she’d so giddily announced her pregnancy.
Years
.

She couldn’t even remember a time when she could bend over to pull her own boots on. Hell, she hadn’t seen her
feet
in two weeks!

“What’s going on?” Sam asked as she came back from the bathroom.

“Michaela issa making a fuss,” Nana said primly, clasping the bottle of olive oil at her waist as though it were a sword in the hands of a skilled fighter.

“Ooh. News flash,” Sam said, swallowing hard and easing down onto the soft green couch opposite its twin, where Mike lay like a beached whale. “What’s wrong now?”

Nana straightened up to her full four feet nine inches—used to be five feet even, but she was shrinking—and lifted her chin. In a slice of sunlight, she was silhouetted. A short, thin woman still wearing black for the husband who’d died more than thirty years before. Her snow-white hair lay close to her head in a series of tightly wound curls that looked like sausages snuggled together in a package.

Her face was lined, but her dark brown eyes snapped with life and energy. Her voice was quiet but steely, and her stubbornness was the stuff of legend.

“Michaela issa
arguing
with me.”

“Impressive,” Sam whispered, “but a losing proposition.” She propped her feet up and dropped her head back onto a pillow. Taking deep breaths, she cupped her palms over her slightly rounded belly.

“Drink your tea,” Nana said.

Mike smirked as she looked at her sister. “Nana doesn’t think you should still be so sick. So she made you a special tea. To
help
.”

Sam’s eyes widened as she finally noticed the steaming mug set near her on the low coffee table. Her nose wrinkled at the flowery yet stinky smell drifting toward her. “Oh.” She swallowed hard. “Thanks, but—”

“Drink your tea, Samantha. Issa good for you. Good for the bambino.”

“The bambino doesn’t like
anything
I eat, Nana.”

“He will like this.” She narrowed her eyes on Sam until the younger woman surrendered and picked up the mug.

Taking one slow, cautious sip, Sam swallowed and waited. When nothing disastrous happened, she took another and began to breathe a little easier.

“What’s in this?” she asked.

Nana smiled. “Issa secret recipe. I tell you another time.”

“Cool.” Sam cradled the mug between her palms and took another sip.

“Now you, Michaela.”

“Seriously, Nana,” Mike said, tugging at her shirt to hold it down even as Nana pulled up on it. “I’m glad the tea worked for Sam, but I’m good. Really.”

“Michaela, I come to take care of you and your bambinos.”

“I know.” She sighed out a breath and gave up the fight as Nana’s gnarled fingers won the tugging war on her shirt. Incredible, really, just how much strength remained in her hands. “But I don’t want to smell like a Caesar salad.”

Sam snorted and Mike glared at her.

“Issa good, you see.” The older woman leaned over
Mike, lifted the hem of her shirt and exposed her full belly. “Olive oil issa good for the skin,” she said, pouring a big puddle of extra virgin oil into the hollow of her hand. “And the babies will like the rubbing.”

Mike stared at the beamed ceiling as her grandmother massaged her huge stomach and the slow slide of gentle hands began to work some of the tension from her body. She sighed and let herself enjoy the moment, not really thinking about how she was going to get olive oil out of her clothes or, God help her, the fabric of the couch.

“Ah,” Nana said, her voice as comforting as her touch, “this issa a good time for us. Your papa, the
bastardo
, is gone—”

“Nana,” Mike warned.

She waved one bony hand. “Issa fine. I no talk about the
bastardo
. This is not about him. This is about the boy. Jack. He is a good boy. Smart. Handsome. And you girls.” She smiled and her wrinkled face shifted, falling into comfortable, familiar lines. “All of you. You and Samantha with the babies, Josefina with her young man—”

“What?”
A single word shot from both Mike’s and Sam’s mouths and together they stared at their still smiling grandmother in stunned shock.

For one brief moment, there was perfect understanding between Jo and Cash. It hung in the air, and sizzled in the undercurrent of electricity humming all around them.

Jo felt it. Wasn’t sure what to
do
about it, but she felt it.

“Did you see the chair back there?” Jack called out, shattering the moment and giving Jo time to reel in the emotions stuttering to life inside her.

She wanted to kiss the kid for it.

“Which chair?” she asked, tearing her gaze from Cash’s.

“That one.” He pointed. “There’s a dragon carved into the top of it.”

Even as Jo moved in for a closer look, Jack took off, exploring, leaving the two of them alone. “Hey,” she shouted, “don’t run around in here, it’s—”