Her icy facade cracked a little. “I know that. I just don’t understand what you want from me.”
“Just some of your time.”
“I don’t know, it’s pretty precious. The current rate is a couple of hundred dollars an hour, but for you I’ve got a deal. I’ll make it three hundred.” She arched a reddish eyebrow, silently challenging him.
He let out a low whistle. “That’s pretty steep.”
“Oh, come on, you can afford it. You’re a rich man. A McCafferty.”
“Three hundred bucks an hour?” He eyed her up and down. She was wearing slacks and a sweater, a long coat and boots; her hair was twisted into some kind of knot at the back of her head. “You think you’re worth it?”
“Every cent,” she said, and slid into the car. “Don’t you?” She closed the door and as he straightened from the fender, she punched the accelerator and tore away from the curb. He should take her advice and leave her alone. Let that be the end of it.
But he couldn’t. Whether she intended to or not, Jamie Parsons had thrown down the gauntlet.
Slade had never been one to back down from a challenge, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to start now.
* * *
Why had she baited him? Why hadn’t she left well enough alone? Been coolly disinterested? Or professional? Or just plain civil? What was wrong with her? Ever since setting eyes upon Slade McCafferty again, she’d been acting like a fool. She couldn’t stop her pulse from skyrocketing at the sight of him, nor could she slow her heartbeat. The man got to her.
Jamie tossed her pen onto the dining room table and glowered down at the brochure she’d picked up from the real estate company. Her mind wasn’t on putting her grandmother’s house up for sale, nor was it focused on the buyout agreement for the McCafferty ranch, or even on the mystery surrounding Randi McCafferty. No. Her thoughts were filled with Slade, Slade, Slade.
Which was just plain ridiculous. She took a sip of tepid coffee, walked into the kitchen and tossed the rest of it into the sink.
She’d managed to keep him out of her brain for more than fourteen years. Every time his image had dared venture into her thoughts, she had mentally drop-kicked it into the next county, never daring to dwell on what had happened between them, what they’d shared and what they’d lost.
Absently she touched her abdomen. Their child would be fourteen years old now, going on fifteen. In high school, learning to drive. Maybe a cheerleader or an athlete or a bookworm.
Or a hellion.
It didn’t matter...if only the baby had lived. She would have raised it alone or maybe told Slade the truth. But it hadn’t happened. The miscarriage had taken care of that.
What she’d shared with Slade, that little piece of one summer, was over.
He was out of her life.
Until now.
“Damn, damn, damn and double damn,” she muttered, cringing a little as if she expected her God-fearing grandmother to appear and wash her mouth out for cursing in her house. “Oh, Nana,” she whispered, “what am I gonna do?”
You forget that McCafferty boy, y’hear. He’s no good. Wild. Never goes to church. Lord, Jamie, you’re so much better than all those McCafferty hellions rolled into one!
Jamie had heard the lecture before and it seemed to echo through the chilly hallways of Nita Parsons’s cottage. She was cold from the inside out. All because of Slade... Don’t go there, she told herself as she rubbed her arms to warm herself up. Lord, it was cold...she listened and realized that the furnace had quit rumbling. “Now what?”
She found the thermostat, noticed that the arrow designating the desired temperature was steadfastly pointed at sixty-eight. “No way,” she muttered, notching it up a couple of degrees. Nothing. She tried again, pushing the indicator to eighty. Nothing happened. No reassuring click or whoosh of air. The dial was pointed to eighty but nothing happened. Knowing it was futile, she walked to the vent in the living room and splayed her fingers over the duct. Sure enough, not a whisper of warm air was blowing through the old ductwork.
“Just what I need,” she muttered as she found her grandfather’s old toolbox in the pantry and made her way down the narrow staircase to the unfinished basement. Lazarus, ever curious, shot down the stairway ahead of her.
Lit by two dim bulbs screwed into ceramic outlets, the basement smelled musty. Dust covered every inch of the floor and cobwebs draped from the low ceilings. The furnace stood in the middle of the room, a behemoth with tentacle-like ducts stretched to the far corners of the ceiling. It had originally been wood-burning, her grandmother had explained, but had been converted to electric sometime in the seventies. Jamie placed a hand upon its dusty side. Stone-cold. Not a sound emitting from the monster.
There were instructions on the side and she wiped the dirt away and shone the beam of her grandfather’s old flashlight on the panel, then unscrewed the cover and looked at the workings. “Now,” she said as Lazarus walked around the cracked cement floor, “all I need is a degree in electrical engineering.” The cat meowed as if he understood just as the phone shrilled upstairs. Leaving the tools behind, Jamie dashed up the stairs, flew into the kitchen and snagged the receiver by the fourth ring. “Hello?”
“Jamie?” a male voice asked.
“Speaking.”
“Oh, good. It’s Jack. Next door.” She relaxed when she recognized the neighbor’s voice. “Betty and I, we got your message about you being over at the house. Now you’re sure you don’t need any help with Caesar or Lazarus?”
“I can handle them,” she said, and decided she wouldn’t mention the furnace.
Lazarus appeared at the top of the stairs. He rubbed up against Jamie’s legs as she listened to the neighbor prattle on, the gist of the conversation being that Jamie was welcome to keep Lazarus as long as she wanted because Betty and Jack, who had two dogs and three other cats of their own, thought Jamie might be lonely by herself. As for the horse, Jack gave her specific instructions as to his feed, water and exercise. “He’s not as young as he used to be and we old fellas like to stick to our schedules,” he added with a chuckle.
Jamie grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“If it was up to me, I’d rather you have Rolfe with you, he’s our three-year-old German shepherd, y’know, and one helluva watchdog. He’d be more company for you, too. More than the cat. Me and the missus, we’d loan him to ya, if ya wanted.”
“Thanks, but I think Lazarus and I will be fine,” Jamie assured him as from the corner of her eye, she saw headlights flash through the window as a truck pulled into the drive. A second later her little car was illuminated in the glare. “I’d better go,” she told Jack. “I think I’ve got company.”
She hung up and leaned over the sink to get a better view outside.
There, big as life, was Slade McCafferty.
Again.
She strode to the front of the house and before he had a chance to knock, she yanked open the door. “Well, well, well, Mr. McCafferty,” she drawled. “This seems to be getting to be a habit.”
“Does it?”
“Mmm-hmm. A bad one.”
He flashed her a devastating smile. “And you love it, Counselor, admit it.”
“In your dreams.”
“And in yours.” His lips curved into a wicked little smile that caused her heart to flutter stupidly.
“Don’t flatter yourself. To what do I owe the honor?” she asked.
His eyes darkening with the night, he held up three crisp one-hundred-dollar bills.
Chapter 6
“This buys me one hour, right?” Slade asked.
“Oh. I was only kidding around. I would never—”
Quick as a striking snake, he grabbed her hand and curled her fingers around the cash, then looked pointedly at his watch. “The clock’s running.”
“Slade, this is a joke, right?”
“Take it any way you like.”
This was getting her nowhere, so she stepped asid
e and he released her hand. “Fair enough. Since the clock is ticking, come on in,” she said, “but you’d better bring a wool blanket. The furnace is on the fritz.”
“Maybe I can do something about that.”
“If you can, I’ll be forever in your debt.”
Blue eyes sparked. He glanced down at the money curled in her fist. “In my debt? Is that so?” A crooked grin slashed across his jaw. “I like the sound of that. You’re on.”
He strode inside and as she closed the door, he found the thermostat, fiddled with it, then looked over his shoulder at her. “Is the furnace in the basement?”
“Yes. The stairs are through the kitchen, right next to the pantry...”
He was already charging down the short hallway and through the open door with Jamie tagging behind. Ducking his head to avoid low-hanging beams, he made his way to the nonfunctioning behemoth. “Not exactly the newest model around,” he commented, grabbing the flashlight and screwdriver from the open toolbox and flipping open a dusty panel.
“Anything I can do?”
“Besides pray?”
“Very funny.”
“When was the last time the filters were cleaned or it was serviced?”
“Beats me.”
“Humph.” He tinkered some more and rather than hover over him like a useless female, she climbed the stairs and, after having secured his money on the windowsill with one of Nana’s jelly jars, heated water for coffee.
Damn the man, he’d paid her. Actually had the gall to hand her cash. Well, it served her right for being so flip on the street today.
The two cups they’d used the night before were still in the drainer. With icy fingers she poured dark crystals into the mugs, then added hot water. From the basement came sounds of clanging, banging and clicking, but no familiar whoosh of hot air rushing through the old ducts.
“Try the thermostat now,” Slade yelled up the stairs. “Turn it off, then on again.”
“Aye, aye, captain,” she muttered under her breath, but did as she was asked. Several times. To no avail.
A few minutes later she heard the sound of boots pounding up the old wooden stairs. Frustration tugged his eyebrows together as Slade appeared. “I give,” he admitted. “I guess you’re off the hook. You won’t be beholden to me, after all.”
“There’s a relief.”
“I’ll bet.”
“But you can’t fix it?”
“No, ma’am,” he drawled, finding a towel and wiping the dust from his hands. “I think you’re going to have to call the repairman.”
“Which is the same conclusion I’d drawn myself, but here—” She finished stirring crystals into the hot liquid and handed him a mug. “For your efforts.”
“Futile as they were.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “I won’t hold it against you.”
He snorted. “That’s something, I suppose. I think I have enough black marks as it is.”
More than you know, McCafferty. “We’re not going there, remember?” she reminded him as she sampled her coffee, wrinkled her nose and pulled a quart of milk from the refrigerator.
“Your rules.”
“My house.”
“Until you sell it.”
“Yes.” Pouring a thin stream of milk into her cup, she nodded and refused to acknowledge that the man was getting to her on a very primal level, forcing her to remember how easily he’d seduced her. Nor would she think of what her grandmother might say to that sorry fact.
“Don’t want to keep it for a vacation retreat?”
“Oh, right. I could leave my condo in Missoula for the change of scenery here in Grand Hope.” She glanced out the window into the frigid winter night, tried to keep her mind set, attempted to ignore how downright sexy Slade was, how her heart raced at the sight of him. Lord, it was hard with Slade. It always had been. “Your idea’s tempting, I’ll give you that, but I was thinking maybe somewhere where the temperature is above freezing. You know, like Hawaii or Palm Springs or the Bahamas.”
“Wimp.”
“Sticks and stones, McCafferty. At least I’d be a warm wimp.”
“So you don’t want to keep it as a rental?”
“Don’t think so.” She set the milk carton on an empty shelf in the refrigerator. “I think selling it and getting out clean would be the best.”
“No muss. No fuss.” Serious eyes regarded her over the rim of his mug.
“Precisely.”
“But in the meantime you could freeze. Let’s see if we can get this place warmed up. Got any firewood?”
“I think so...on the back porch, or maybe in the garage.”
He started for the door, ready to brave the elements for a stick of kindling and a log, but Jamie wasn’t interested in any more of his help. A crackling fire sounded far too cozy, too intimate, and she’d already found herself enjoying his companionship far too much, looking forward to seeing him again. There was just no point to it. “I can build a fire by myself, you know.”
“I’m sure, but since I failed Furnace 101, I’ve got to find some way to salvage my wounded male pride.”
“Wounded pride? That’ll be the day, McCafferty.”
His lips twitched and his eyes sparkled blue devilment, but he kept whatever was on his mind to himself. He drained his cup, left in on the counter and, with a bad Arnold Schwarzenegger impersonation of “I’ll be back,” was out the back door, the screen door slapping behind him.
“There’s no kindling,” she called through the mesh as an icy wind swept inside and rattled the windowpanes.
“There will be. Got an ax?”
“I assume so.” Rubbing her arms, Jamie added, “There used to be one. But I think it’s probably locked in the garage.”
“How about a key?” He stared at her through the rusted, patched screen and all at once the mesh seemed a thin, frail barrier between them. Standing in the pool of light from the single bulb on the porch, with his breath fogging, his skin flushed from the cold, he looked more like the boy she remembered, the boy she’d tried so hard to forget.
“That’s a good question.”
“See if you can find it.”
She should just ask him to leave, tell him she didn’t need his help, that a woman could chop kindling if she wanted to. Besides, he was bossing her around, as if they were still kids. Still friends. If she had any brains at all, she’d keep her relationship with each of the McCaffertys, especially Slade, strictly professional, but she wasn’t up to arguing and the house was getting colder by the minute. She opened the pantry door, and found a key hanging on a nail by the shelf that used to hold jars of home-canned peaches.
She plucked the key from its resting spot. “Really, Slade, I can do this.”
“You’ll probably have to. Tomorrow.” Slade opened the door and she passed the key through. Knowing she was making another big mistake, Jamie snagged her coat from the closet and made her way outside, following the path he’d broken in the snow.
By the time she reached the garage he’d already unlocked the side door and had flipped on the lights. He slid a quick glance in her direction as she entered, then focused on Nana’s old car—a vintage 1940 Chevrolet. It had actually been Grandpa’s while he was alive and Nita Parsons hadn’t had the heart to sell her husband’s pride and joy, even though she, herself, had gone through a succession of small, imported pickups.
Jamie ran a finger over a front fender. The Chevy had once been waxed every other week, but now the exterior had lost most of its gloss and cat tracks and dust had collected on the fenders, top and hood.
“This is a classic,” Slade said, walking around the car and appraising it slowly.
“Probably. It belonged to my grandfather.”
“And now it’s yours.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t ever sell it.”
Jamie laughed and rubbed her hands together. “You sound like my grandmother.”
“I doubt it.” But he grinned just
the same and the tiny, dilapidated garage seemed a few degrees warmer. Dry wood was stacked in a corner and gardening tools, saws and hubcaps were mounted on the wall that stretched behind a long workbench. Jamie fingered the cold steel of her grandfather’s vise, twisting the grip as she reminded herself not to fall victim to the McCafferty charm again.
“I really don’t know what I’m going to do with the car,” she admitted. “I had intended to sell everything. The house, the furniture...this.” She rapped her fingers on the hood, then rubbed out a spot of dirt on one headlight. “Even Caesar.”
“Caesar?” Slade repeated, and then, as he remembered, a grin stretched across his face. “He’s still alive?”
“And kicking.”
Slade nodded. “Good for him.” Leaning jeans-clad hips against one fender, he eyed Jamie. “You’d really sell your horse?”
Guilt cinched tight around her heart but she tried to make light of it. “He wouldn’t fit in my condo. Besides, I don’t think he’s house trained.”
“The girl I used to know would never have sold him.”
“The girl you used to know grew up,” she countered, but didn’t add how much he’d influenced the rate with which she’d catapulted into womanhood. Being pregnant and jilted had a way of crushing girlhood dreams.
“That she did,” he said, and she felt the weight of his gaze slide slowly from her toes upward, past her hips, waist and breasts, only to stop at her own eyes. She swallowed hard, refused to glance away. “You look good, Jamie. You’re a beautiful woman.”
She warmed under the compliment, but didn’t let her silly feminine heart take flight. “Thanks, but...let’s cut through all this, okay? If you’re trying to come on to me, Slade, it’s not going to work.” She stopped fiddling with the vise. “I learned a long time ago that you can never go back. That’s why I’m selling this house and yes, the horse, and probably the car. I pride myself in not wallowing in nostalgia.”
“A businesswoman through and through.”
“Yes.”
“So you never married?”
“Not that it’s any of your business,” she reminded him.
“No kids?”