'I wanted to look at you for a while.' Her bland gaze had his lips curving. 'And I figured to go over some of the wall treatments—and the parlor furniture. I want to complete that one room, give me a feel for the rest.'
'That's a nice idea. I—' She broke off at the sound of movement and voices from the shop. 'I've got customers. Everything's here—the paint samples and fabrics, itemized lists of furnishings.'
'I picked up some samples of my own.'
'Oh, well, then...' She crossed to the desk, booted up her computer. 'I have a room-by-room rundown here. Why don't you go over it? Several of the pieces I've suggested are here. You can take a look at them when you've finished here.'
'All right.'
Thirty minutes later, flush with three sales, Regan stepped back into the office. He looked so big, she thought, so...male, sitting at her lovely little Chippendale desk. She could smell him—wood dust, soot, oil.
His boots were scarred, his shirt was ripped at the shoulder. There were traces of plaster or drywall dust in his hair.
She thought he was the most magnificent animal she had ever seen. And she wanted him with a kind of primal, mindless lust.
Whoa! To steady herself, she pressed a hand to her jumpy stomach, took three deep breaths.
'Well, what do you think?'
'You're an efficient woman, Regan.' Without turning, he flipped open a file with printouts of her lists. 'It doesn't look like you've missed a trick.'
Flattered, she walked over to look over his shoulder. 'I'm sure we'll need to adjust, add a few details after we see one of the rooms completed.'
'I've already made some adjustments.'
She straightened again. 'Oh, really?'
'This color's out.' Briskly he tapped the paint chip, then located the page on-screen where her colors were listed. 'I ditched this pea green here for—what's it called? Yeah. Loden.'
'The original color is accurate.'
'It's ugly.'
Yes, it was, but— 'It's accurate,' she insisted. 'I researched very carefully. The one you've chosen is entirely too modern for the 1800s.'
'Maybe. But it won't spoil anyone's appetite. Don't get your panties in a twist, darling.' When her breath hissed out at that, he chuckled and turned around in the chair. 'Listen, you're doing a hell of a job here. I have to admit, I didn't expect this much detail, certainly not so fast. You've got a real feel for it.'
She didn't care to be placated. 'You hired me to help you reconstruct a particular era, and that's what I'm doing. It was your choice to make the house look the way it did in the past.'
'And it's my choice to make adjustments. We've got to make some room here for aesthetics and modern taste. I've had a look at your place upstairs, Regan. It's a little too much on the female side for me—'
'Fortunately, that's hardly the issue here,' she told him, stiffening all over again.
'And so neat a man'd be afraid to put his feet up,' Rafe continued smoothly. 'But you've got taste. I'm just asking you to use it, along with research and accuracy.'
'It seems to me we're talking about your taste. If you're going to change the guidelines, at least make them clear.'
'Are you always so rigid, or is it just with me?'
She refused to stoop to answering such an insulting question. 'You asked for accuracy. I don't care to have rules changed in midstream.'
Considering, Rafe picked up the paint chip that had started the ball rolling. 'One question. Do you like this color?'
'That's not the point—'
'Simple question. Do you like it?'
Her breath whistled between her teeth. 'Of course not. It's hideous.'
'There you go. Guidelines are, if you don't like it, it doesn't fly.'
'I can't take the responsibility.'
'I'm paying you to take it.' Since that settled the matter as far as he was concerned, he turned back to the screen, and scanned down the displays. 'You got this what-do-you-call-it in stock, right? Isn't that what this I.S. stands for?'
'Yes. The double chairback settee.' Her heart dropped to her feet. She'd bought it the week before at auction, with his parlor in mind. If he rejected it, her books were going straight into the red. 'It's in the shop,' she continued, keeping her voice coolly professional. 'I've put a hold on it.'
'So, let's take a look. I want to see this fire-screen and these tables.'
'You're the boss,' she muttered under her breath, and led the way.
Her nerves strained as she stopped by the settee. It was a gorgeous piece, and it had had a price to match. However much she coveted it, she would never have made the bid if she hadn't had a customer in the wings.
Now, she thought of that customer—the scarred boots, the ripped shirt, the potent aura of man. What had she been thinking of, she wondered frantically, imagining Rafe MacKade approving of an elegant, curvy, and decidedly feminine piece such as this?
'Ah, it's walnut...' she began, running a suddenly icy hand over the carved arm. 'Around 1850. It's been reupholstered, of course, but the material is very much in keeping with the era. You can see the double-shaped backs are centered by a circular upholstered panel. The workmanship is first-rate, and the seat is surprisingly comfortable.'
He grunted and crouched down to peer under the seat. 'Pricey little thing.'
'It's sixty-nine inches wide, and well worth the expense.'
'Okay.'
She blinked. 'Okay?'
'Yeah. If I stay on schedule, I should have the parlor ready by the weekend. I could take delivery on this by Monday, unless I tell you different.' He glanced up at her. 'That suit you?'
'Yes.' She realized she'd lost all feeling below the knees. 'Of course.'
'C.O.D. all right? I don't have my checkbook on me.'
'That'll be fine.'
'Let's see the Pembroke table.'
'The Pembroke table.' She looked dizzily around the shop. 'Over here.'
He straightened, holding back a grin. He wondered if she had any idea that, for a few minutes there, she'd been clear as glass. He doubted it.
'What's this?'
Distracted, she stopped. 'Oh, that's a display table. Satinwood and mahogany.'
'I like it.'
'You like it,' she repeated.
'It'd look good in the parlor, wouldn't it?'
'Yes, I had it down as a possibility.'
'Send it over with the couch thing. Is this the Pembroke here?'
All she could do was nod weakly. When he left, an hour later, she was still nodding.
Rafe headed straight to the sheriff's office. He'd have to put in a couple of hours overtime on the job, but he wasn't leaving town until he knew Joe Dolin was in a cage.
When he stepped inside, he found Devin tilted back in his chair, his feet propped on his battered metal desk. Devin's uniform consisted of a cotton shirt, faded jeans and boots worn down at the heel. His only concession to his position was the star on his chest.
He was reading a dog-eared copy of
'And you're responsible for law and order in this town.'
In his slow, deliberate way, Devin marked his place and set the book aside. 'That's what they tell me. Always got a cell waiting for you.'
