Without permission, her gaze drifted back to the hunky painter. There were other people working on the castle, but none so visually stimulating. She strolled across the drawbridge. His front probably wouldn’t be able to live up to the promise of his back. Two halves didn’t usually add up to one awesome whole.
But hey, that was okay, because she needed to focus on her job and nothing else. Mentally plunking her professional glasses on her nose, she studied the castle. Pretty ordinary as castles went. From her brief research, it looked like it was a mixture of several different time periods—a keep with four square towers, and a curtain wall.
The lawyer had said the great hall and a few other areas would be used for role-playing. The rest of the castle would be for guest rooms, a restaurant, and several shops. She’d never decorated the real deal, but there had to be a first time for everything. Before leaving New York, she’d done a mad research scramble, but had only skimmed the surface.
Uh-oh. Something was wrong with her professional perspective. As her gaze slid back to The Painter, her glasses morphed into sexy shades, perfect for fun in the sun and viewing bright celestial bodies. Bodies. Amanda sighed her defeat. Curiosity, the Harcourt curse, wouldn’t let her concentrate on the castle until she saw his front. So be it.
Amanda refused to sneak. If New York had taught her anything, it was that you boldly and aggressively pursued your goal. She strode to within a few feet of his ladder and gazed up. So big, so tanned, so authentically male. No research needed to figure that out.
She narrowed her gaze on his broad back. New York had also taught her how to be devious. “Umm, who’s in charge of your paint crew? I need to talk to your boss about—”
“I own the paint company, so I guess you’ve found the boss.” His voice was a husky and darkly compelling promise that he indeed would always be the boss.
“Oh. Well, I . . .” Wait. She frowned. There was something familiar about that voice. A deeper and more sensual echo of a voice she’d once known. Dawning horror widened her eyes as the man stepped off the ladder and turned to face her.
She knew him. Knew that hard face with those light hazel eyes framed by thick dark lashes. Knew the sensual mouth that enhanced his bad-boy image. She hadn’t forgotten anything. Not the three-inch scar on his thigh he’d earned while playing running back for Ball High, nor the tattoo on his hip.
“Mandy?” His voice was erotic promise and unspoken lies.
Like lemmings, women always swam out way too far in his sea of sensual promises and then drowned in those lies. Not her, of course. Never her.
“Conleth Maguire.” Saying his whole name distanced her from him, and she needed all the distance she could get. A few hundred miles minimum.
“What dragged you back home, wicked woman?” His smile was slow, welcoming, and a sensual minefield for the unwary. And because she was not unwary, she realized she needed to say something quick to diffuse the power of that smile.
“Lots of money. The owner hired me to decorate the castle.” Home? Amanda had tried for years to reprogram her subconscious to believe New York was home. But standing here staring at Con tugged at something she thought she’d left behind ten years ago.
“Money. Figures.” His smile didn’t waver, but the warmth in those incredible eyes cooled just a little.
What was wrong with money? Money was good. It bought acceptance, love. Okay, maybe not love, but certainly a sincere level of caring. She took a deep breath to renew her brain’s oxygen supply. She’d better say something fast before mutually uncomfortable memories filled up the void.
“So what color scheme did the owner decide to go with for the exterior?” Why hadn’t she noticed the color of the trim he was painting? Because you were too busy wiping the drool off your chin, stupid. If she looked now, she’d have to take her eyes off Maguire. Not a good idea.
Con shrugged. “I get to choose my own colors.” He glanced at her dress, stripped her down to bare essentials with his heated stare, and proclaimed her wanting. “I don’t like neutrals.” Capturing her gaze, he slowly rubbed his hand across his chest. “I like colors that burn for me.”
He’d done that on purpose, the jerk. He thought he’d sidetrack her professional questions by drawing her attention to his chest. His broad muscular chest with dark male nipples and a light scattering of hair damp from his exertions. Of course, he’d failed, because she hadn’t noticed at all.
Colors that burn for me. What exactly did he mean by that? She’d ask, but any question with the word burn in it was bound to send her skipping merrily down the wicked path Con hoped she’d follow. Uh-uh, she was smarter than that.
What to say? She’d try the time-honored Galveston icebreaker, “Do you think Hurricane Billy Bob will come into the Gulf?” but Con would manage to make something sexual out of the hurricane, too. She’d be safer sticking to a few professional statements. “I—”
“I bet you’re getting ready to ask if anything’s new with me. Not much. I still have the rose tattoo. No wife and kids. And I own a condo about a block away.” His smile widened, immediately taking her back to her teen years. “Do you still have the little blue butterfly on your behind?”
“My behind is none of your business, Maguire. It hasn’t been for a long time.” She stared at a point somewhere beyond his left shoulder. Did he remember the body decorations of all the women he’d had sex with? Nah. No human had that kind of
