they were so narrow. She studied his hands. They should have been slender and elegant, but they looked as though they’d been designed to dig ditches. A dangerous bolt of heat shot through her. He might be the demon personified, but he was also too sexy for her peace of mind. Apparently, she hadn’t gotten rid of all her old suicidal instincts when it came to unsuitable men.
Her gaze returned to those blunt, competent fingers. She blinked. “You’re the one who put that chain across my driveway.”
“You knew that.”
“No, I mean you did it yourself. You didn’t hire anyone. You poured the concrete and set the posts.”
“It’s hardly brain surgery.”
“I wasn’t even gone for two hours. And when I saw you afterward, you were wearing Armani.”
“I believe it was Hugo Boss.”
“You actually know how to do manual labor?”
“How do you think I supported myself after I lost my teaching job?”
“With your writing.” If she made it sound like a statement, maybe it would be true.
“I’m afraid my ability to write anything worth reading was put on hold after you had your fun.”
She lost her appetite.
“My father was a bricklayer,” he said. “Irish. And my mother was English. Rather an amusing story. She came from an upper-class family that spent the last of its dwindling fortune making certain their only daughter could make a brilliant marriage. Instead, she fell in love with my father. Tears, threats, disownment. The stuff of great romance.”
“How did it work out?”
“They hated each other within a year.”
She knew what that was like.
“I got my love of literature and the arts from my mother, but I’m more like my father in personality. Mean, unforgiving bastard. Still, he taught me a useful trade.”
“You worked as a bricklayer after you went back to England?”
“In this country, too. The novel I wrote before
But he shouldn’t have had to do it laying brick, and some of the starch went out of her. “You aren’t ever going to forgive me, are you?”
“Let’s just say I’m in no hurry.” He flicked his hand toward the door. “Run along and find something degrading to do.”
The telephone rang. He reached out, but she was pissed again, so she beat him to it. “Byrne residence.”
“Give me that.”
“A freebie,” she whispered.
“I need to speak with Colin,” the woman at the other end said.
He held out his hand for the phone, clearly expecting the worst from her. It was tempting to give it to him, but she had a point to make, so she turned her back. “Mr. Byrne is working now. May I take a message?”
“Tell him it’s Madeline.” The woman on the other end made no attempt to hide her displeasure at being put off. “I’m sure he’ll take my call.”
“Madeline?” She turned back to Byrne. He vigorously shook his head. She settled back on the arm of the couch and reclaimed her oatmeal, finally beginning to enjoy herself. “I’m sorry, but I have orders not to interrupt him.”
“He won’t mind. I promise you.”
“I’ll make certain to deliver your message.”
“I’m afraid you don’t understand. I’m Madeline Farr.”
Sugar Beth vaguely recognized the name of a New York socialite and put a little more magnolia into her accent. “Are you really? My, this certainly is an honor. I can’t wait to tell all my friends I’ve spoken with you in person. Let me have your number.”
She took a bite of oatmeal while an irritated Madeline reeled off a telephone number Sugar Beth didn’t bother to write down. “Got it,” she said when the woman paused for breath.
“It’s very important for Colin to call me back by the end of the day.”
“I’ll tell him the minute I see him, but he still has messages backed up from last week, and he’s been working so hard he barely comes out of the office, the poor ol’ sod.” She gave Colin a thumbs-up, making the point that she could talk his lingo anytime she pleased.
The corner of his mouth twitched.
“Do your best,” the woman snapped.
“I sure will,” she replied. “So lovely talkin’ with you, Ms. Farr.”
She hung up and regarded Byrne with satisfaction. “Note that I didn’t tell her to go screw herself, even though she’s obviously a bitch. I remained polite, fawning almost. At the same time, I didn’t commit you to anything. In case you’re not
He took a sip of coffee, unaffected by her outburst. “I’m having a dinner party in ten days to thank some of the people from the university who helped me with my new book. My agent and editor are flying in. A few others will be here, maybe thirty total, I’ll let you know. The caterer’s phone number is on your list. See what you have to do to get the house ready. And you’ll need to serve, of course. After that, we’ll discuss how much you’re worth.”
“You bet your sweet heinie we will.”
She grabbed her oatmeal and headed out the door.
Colin listened to the taps of her ridiculously inappropriate heels retreating down the hallway. His writer’s imagination could be a blessing or a curse, and right now he was cursed with the image of those tight black slacks hugging her bottom, and that little turquoise butterfly bouncing between her breasts. He needed to look for a uniform company as soon as possible.
It was ironic. When he’d arrived at Parrish High, he’d been twenty-two, in the throes of his own hormonal overload, and it had taken all his self-control to keep his eyes from lingering too long on so many short skirts and supple breasts. But Sugar Beth had never tempted him. So how was it that now, older and infinitely wiser, he found himself bombarded with mental images of her lying naked and feisty in his bed?
He knew better. Painful experience had taught him to keep his sexual relationships uncomplicated, but he still sometimes had to fight that instinctive part of him that was attracted to dramatic women. This was clearly one of those occasions. Still, age had taught him how to control his old weakness, and he wouldn’t let it worry him.
He’d inherited his foolish romanticism from his mother. When he was a boy, it had made him far too caught up in dreams of slaying dragons and rescuing princesses for his father to tolerate, and after a few beatings, Colin had learned to confine that part of himself to the stories he wrote in his head. Still, it had taken his disastrous five-year marriage to a deeply neurotic American poet with raven hair, milky white skin, and haunted eyes to make him understand that he could never again express that secret part of himself anywhere but on paper. He’d loved Lara desperately, but there hadn’t been enough love in the world to satisfy her kind of neediness. One rainy New Orleans night nine years ago, she’d run their car into a concrete abutment, ending her own life and taking the life of their unborn child. It had been the worst time of his life, a black hell that had swallowed him whole for nearly two years. He’d vowed never to put himself through anything like that again.
Once again, he considered the wisdom of having the ultimate high-maintenance female working in his house, but the opportunity for revenge had been too sweet to resist. Still, he wouldn’t let her distract him again. From now on, he’d direct every bit of his energy where it belonged. Into his new novel.
He heard the faint sound of running water in the kitchen. Last night it had taken him nearly an hour to come up with that overloaded list of things for her to do today. The dinner party had been in the works for a month, so that was pure serendipity. He smiled and checked his conscience to see if he was ashamed of himself, but the romantic boy who’d once dreamed of slaying dragons and rescuing princesses had developed the heart of a cynic, and his conscience didn’t say a word.
Sugar Beth tossed aside Colin’s list long before she got to the end and concentrated on the essentials. As she’d
