Her Man Upstairs Read online

  Slowly, he unfolded his taut, muscular body as she entered his room, his narrowed eyes taking in every detail, from her towel-dried hair to her grubby cross-trainers. Four of his square-tipped fingers rested on the tabletop. “You look pale. Sure you’re feeling all right? Was it the barbecue?”

  Heck no, she wasn’t feeling all right. Barbecue had nothing to do with it. She hadn’t felt this “not all right” since she’d flunked algebra on account of the boy who sat in front of her, whose voice had already changed and who had had to shave at least twice a week.

  She tried to think of something marginally intelligent to say and came up empty. “Sorry ’f I woke you. Tried to be quiet,” she mumbled. Her early morning voice was raspy to the point of surliness, but then he already knew that. Any friend who knew her well enough to drop in before noon understood. “Not a morning person. It’s January—February—whatever. I’m still hibernating.”

  Cole nodded. Didn’t say a word but looked as if he understood. Sympathy, she didn’t need. Sympathy always made her combative. When he continued to stand, she waved him back to his seat. “Just don’t expect me to carry on a conversation,” she warned.

  Silent as an oyster, he nodded again.

  She was the only one who was doing any conversing, and for some reason she couldn’t seem to shut up. “Circadian rhythms,” she grumbled as if that explained everything. Opening a cabinet, she stared at a box of dry cereal, made a face and shut the door. One thing about walking Super-Mutt—it not only woke up her appetite, it helped oxygenate her brain.

  Cole sat down again and tipped his chair back. Not saying a word. Just sitting there, watching while she muttered about circadian rhythms.

  “It’s just that as soon as I get things sorted out,” she felt compelled to explain, “we go on daylight saving time and the whole stupid process starts all over again. If I had half a brain I’d find myself a night job. Maybe a convenience store…”

  Chatter, chatter, chatter. So much for not being a morning person. She was okay with Sasha and Faylene, who knew her limitations and made allowances, but with anyone else she was hopeless.

  She fumbled in the dish cabinet for her favorite mug, wishing she had her house to herself again.

  Liar, liar, pants on fire!

  Nobody should look that good this early. The brass lamp over the table shone down on his head, making his hair glisten with moisture. He must have already showered. Which meant he’d been standing there stark naked only a few feet away from where she was sleeping. No wonder she’d woken up panting and throbbing.

  “What ever happened to the sun?” she muttered.

  “It’s on the way. Give it a few more minutes.” He reached for the drawing pad that was spread open alongside his coffee mug, while Marty filled her mug from the fresh pot of coffee, the fumes of which were just now reaching her caffeine receptors. She added two heaping sugars and a dollop of milk.

  “Toast, or something more substantial?” he asked genially as if she hadn’t practically snarled at him.

  She focused on the two slices of whole-wheat waiting at half-mast in the toaster. “No solids, not this early.”

  Clearing her throat, she asked him what he was working on, and Cole slid the pad over so she could see it. She stared at the lines on the paper until the elegant drawing began to make sense. “Nice,” she murmured. “Compact. Not exactly what you’d call a family room, but I guess it’s all there.”

  Which was actually a fairly coherent response, all things considered.

  Okay, so he could draw as well as take things apart and put them back together again. He could talk about things like coffee and toast and still manage to look like the kind of guy who devoured fair maidens for breakfast.

  She took another rejuvenating sip of coffee, sat her mug on the table and cleared her throat. “Cole…am I making a monumental mistake here?”

  His eyes widened. The dark centers seemed to expand.

  “What we’re doing upstairs, I mean.”

  She closed her eyes, Not that, she nearly said, stopping herself just in time. They hadn’t done a darn thing upstairs—not together, at least. If you didn’t count a few territorial skirmishes.

  Leaning back, he thumbed his freshly shaved chin and studied the drawing. He’d even gone so far as to indicate a small ceiling fixture over the table. “What’s the matter—you’re having second thoughts?”

  “Only a million or so,” she confessed.

  “A little late, isn’t it?”

  “Actually, it’s too early. I usually sleep until seven-thirty or so, but since I’ve been walking the dog, I have to get up in the wee hours.”

  “Any reason why he can’t wait until later in the day?”

  Deep breath. Oxygenate that old brain. “Annie said he liked to go out for his first run before breakfast, but that might be so they could both get to work on time.” Two slices of medium-crisp whole-wheat toast popped up, and without thinking she reached for the butter and the fig preserves. A little sugar rush wouldn’t hurt, since she was being forced to sound rational before she was even awake.

  With Sasha, who often dropped by on her way to work, depending on where her current client was located, Marty could be as grumpy as she liked. Her friend understood and never took it personally.

  With Cole it was different. She hated for him to see her as she really was—a puffy-eyed, raspy-voiced going-on-thirty-seven-year-old woman.

  Oh, yeah? How do you want him to see you? Naked and in his bed, all ready for a few rounds of whoopee?

  Shut up, dammit, who asked you?

  Who just bought a whole box of condoms?

  Still tipped back, with his long legs stretched out before him, he said, “I haven’t started on the cabinets yet. If you’re not comfortable with the plans we agreed on, now’s the time to say so. I can put things back the way they were, but it’ll take a few days.”

  “I’m not,” she protested quickly. “That is, I am. Comfortable, that is.”

  What she was not comfortable with was sharing breakfast with him, smelling his aftershave, his soap—actually her soap. He’d evidently forgotten to bring his own.

  That was the trouble with dreaming the kind of dreams she didn’t even know how to dream—it left her imagination susceptible to the slightest provocation. One whiff of the same brand of bath soap she’d used for years and she instantly pictured a naked carpenter standing in her shower with water streaming down on his broad shoulders, his narrow hips, his taut butt, his—

  Okay, got the picture.

  “No, it looks great,” she croaked earnestly. “Really. I like what you’ve done here—this little space over the sink.”

  “In most kitchens you’d have a window there. You don’t want a cabinet in your face.”

  She didn’t particularly want a mirror in her face, either. “There’s no room for a dishwasher, I guess.” She had one, but never used it. Living alone, she ran out of clean dishes before she could ever get a full load. “That’s okay. I’d probably never use it anyway.”

  “It might come in handy for holiday entertaining.”

  “Just make room for a double sink, that’s all I need.”

  For no reason at all, he smiled at her across the table then, and she got tangled up in his eyes. His laugh lines, even his squint lines were sexy. Pity the same couldn’t be said for her own. Double standards were the pits.

  “Finish your toast and let’s pick up Mutt. You think he’s truck trained?”

  “You mean, like housebroken?”

  “I mean, if we anchor him in the back of my truck, will he try to jump out?” Rising, Cole reached for the coffeepot, shot her a questioning look and, when she shook her head, switched it off. He glanced at the back door, and seeing the chain still in place, set his mug in the sink and put away the butter, cream and preserves.

  How the devil, Marty asked herself, could a man look sexy doing kitchen chores?

  “In case your stalker shows up again, we might wan
t to turn the tables and follow him. It’d be easier with wheels.”

  “Don’t even think about it. All these chains and whatchamadoodles on the windows are one thing, but I didn’t hire you as an extra in my tiny little melodrama.”

  “Not even as a walk-on? Not even if I agree to let Mutt have all the best lines?”

  She couldn’t help but laugh. What else could a woman do? Any way you looked at it, the man was irresistible.

  “There, that’s better,” he said, pausing behind her chair to lay hands on the area where stress had her tight as a bowstring.

  One of the areas, at least.

  When his thumb began to work on her taut trapeziums she tipped her head back and closed her eyes.

  In a soft voice that bordered on a growl he said, “We’d better get a move on. I like to be on the job by eight.”

  “I told you, there’s no need for you to go with me. I’ve been walking him for a week. Now that I know how to control him, I don’t need you.”

  As if she hadn’t spoken, he said, “You want to run upstairs before we leave?”

  “We. It’s always first person singular when it comes to what you’re doing upstairs, but the royal ‘We’ when it comes to everything else.”

  He nodded judiciously. “Sounds about right,” he said just solemnly enough so that she knew he was joking.

  “You’re a chauvinist, you know that, don’t you?” Brushing his hands away, she got up, rinsed her mug and plopped it in the drainer.

  Hips braced against a counter, he grinned. “What tipped you off?”

  She felt like frapping him with the hand towel. Instead, she dried her hands and reached for the bottle of jasmine-scented lotion on the shelf behind the sink. Then he got out both their coats and held hers while she slid her arms through the sleeves. She could feel him grinning at her as if she had eyes in the back of her head.

  By the time they got out to the truck, the eastern sky was streaked with gold. February, she thought. That’s almost spring. Pretty soon it will be summer, and by then I’ll be back in business.

  And where would Cole be, cruising down the intrastate waterway? Tied up at another marina, tearing up and rebuilding some other woman’s house? For some reason spring didn’t feel quite so promising.

  The walk went surprisingly well, even after Marty insisted on taking charge of Mutt. The only time things threatened to get out of control was when a pack of strays showed up and the dog went crazy, yapping and jumping, ignoring her shouts, which of course he couldn’t hear.

  “I forgot how to make him look for my signals,” she exclaimed when Cole stood back, making no move to take control.

  “Give the leash a sharp jerk,” he said.

  She did. When Mutt looked around as if to say, “Wha-at?” Marty sliced off a hand signal, the rough translation of which was Straighten up and fly right or I’ll pull your eyelashes out!

  “That dog must be in heat,” Cole said when they resumed the brisk pace.

  Not that she’d give him the satisfaction of saying it, but Marty hated to think what would have happened if she’d been alone. “Yeah, I figured that’s all it was.”

  “Probably going to be some free pups in a few months. You did say you’re thinking of getting a dog?”

  “No time soon,” she said grimly, shortening the leash when Mutt got a little too interested in inspecting the tires on a rusty Fairlane that was parked illegally. “Speaking of time, we can head back now. It’ll be a full half hour by the time we get to the kennel.”

  “Honor system?”

  “Darn right,” she said. “Besides, he’s a big guy. He needs the exercise.”

  Outside the canine boarding house, Cole reached for the leash. “You want to wait in the truck while I take him inside?”

  “No, thanks.” She was cool. In control. Mutt was seated on his overgrown haunches, grinning up at her as if to say You go, girl!

  So what did Cole Stevens do?

  The one thing designed to shatter her composure. Laying a hand on her, he leaned over and kissed her.

  Right there in broad daylight, in front of a stream of traffic. Or if not exactly a stream, at least a bread delivery van, a bicycle and Susie-at-the-bank’s new hatchback.

  Oh, my, if she’d been turned on by his looks, by his voice and his touch, his taste sent her sailing over the edge. Whose heart was it that was thundering between them? Beating hard enough to be felt even through two layers of coat? His or hers?

  Or both?

  They were standing toe to toe. One of his hands moved up to her back, holding her close. The familiar taste of him—coffee, mint and something essentially personal, was as intoxicating as any whiskey.

  Not until he stepped away did Marty realize that she had a death grip on his arms. She stepped back, forced herself to breathe normally and tried pinning on a smile. Her lips were tingling. She only hoped they weren’t trembling.

  Cole licked his lips and said casually, “Mmm, nice. Coconut?”

  But his eyes had gone dark on her again. She took a modicum of satisfaction in that, at least.

  A red convertible was parked behind her minivan when they got back to Sugar Lane, so Cole parked on the street. “Pretty early for company,” he observed.

  “Not for Sasha,” Marty replied, not sounding particularly happy at the prospect of company. “She stops by on her way to work sometimes.”

  There were two women seated in the car. As the top was up, Cole couldn’t tell much about them. Leaving Marty to invite them inside—or not—he headed toward the front door. As the door was locked and the key was in her coat pocket instead of under the doormat—he’d insisted on that—he had no choice but to wait.

  A minute later both car doors opened and two women emerged. He’d met the redhead before, but not the tall blonde in black pants, black boots, a long, black coat and a purple chenille scarf.

  The three women trooped up the front walk, the blonde carefully stepping on each flagstone, the redhead striding out in front, ignoring stepping stones and whatever it was that was shooting up beside the walk. Looked like onions. Probably wasn’t.

  “Hi, Cole. Lily, this is Marty’s carpenter.” Short yellow fur coat, black tights and all, the height-challenged redhead charged up the steps, right hand extended. There was at least one ring per finger, including her thumb. “I’m Sasha, remember? We met the other day?”

  As if anyone was likely to forget.

  By that time Marty and the blonde had made it to the front door. Sasha said, “Lily and I were on our way to IHOP, and it occurred to me that since Marty’s going to be opening again right here in the neighborhood, she might need some professional advice. Home office and all—the IRS is picky about that sort of thing. Believe me, I work out of my home, so I know all about it. They make you jump through flaming hoops, right, Lily?”

  “I’m sure Ms. Owens is familiar with the regulations.” Her voice, Cole decided, matched her looks. Cool, competent, with an air of superiority that might or might not be merited.

  The talk of business records and home offices continued briefly before turning to more general topics. Then the redhead hit him with a few personal questions, to which he gave only minimal answers.

  Did he actually live aboard a boat?

  Yeah, he did. No, it definitely wasn’t a yacht, and yes, he’d met Faylene Beasley. No, he didn’t have children, and yes, if he had, he would definitely teach them to swim before they could walk.

  Yada-yada-yada. Funny thing, though—even as he was answering her nosy questions, he couldn’t help but notice that she seemed more interested in Marty’s reaction than to anything he was saying.

  The blonde looked cool, even in a long black topcoat that Cole recognized as being a pricey model. Among other things, Paula had taught him something about women’s clothing. Without making an issue of it, Ms. Sullivan glanced at a tank watch that Cole recognized as a Tiffany model, either that or a damned good knock-off.

  Sasha tapped him on
the shoulder. “I suppose you know a lot of people around here, hm? Is that why you decided to lay over here? That is what you call it, isn’t it? Laying over?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I believe that’s what it’s called.”

  “Oh, would you just listen to that! Honey, you’re so un-PC you’re adorable!”

  Cole had taken about all he could take without triggering his gag reflex. Before he could think of a reply that would deflect her attention without being openly rude, she turned away.

  “Marty, in case you have any questions, you know who to call. Now remember what I told you about colors. You’re not going to have that much wall exposed, so you’ve got to make every inch work for you.” Before Marty could respond, Sasha turned back to Cole. “It’s great seeing you again. Faylene’s told me so much about you and those lovely windows you put in for Bob Ed.”

  Lovely windows? Unpainted secondhand double-hung windows in an unpainted building? What the devil had the Beasley woman said about him, anyway? He’d spoken to her for three minutes, tops.

  Marty opened the door and more or less hurried them out, promising they’d get together for lunch one day soon. Cole was still trying to figure out what had just happened—hell, it was barely eight in the morning—when he heard the plump little redhead who was striding off down the front lawn saying, “That went well, doncha think? Did you see the way she—”

  He didn’t catch the rest because Marty slammed the door shut. Oh, boy, the lady was steamed about something. Probably wouldn’t do much good to ask, but he asked anyway. “Did I miss something important?”

  “What? Oh—no. Yes. I mean, I don’t know if you realize it or not, but you’re now an official target.”

  “Whoa, I’m not sure I like the sound of that.” He backed a few steps toward the stairway.

  “Depends on whether or not you like gorgeous, intelligent, independent women,” she snapped. “That’s who they’re setting you up with.”

  “Now wait a minute—who’s setting me up? How?”

  “With Lily. Why else would Sasha bring her by here this early when she knows I’m not even coherent this time of day?” Her cheeks were burning, her soft gray eyes flashing fire. “It’s not me and my tax situation they’re interested in. No way—it’s you.”