CHAPTER TWO

      OH, NO. OH, no, no, no, no, no. Staring blindly down the rocky expanse of beach, Allison listened to the remainder of the message. Her mother had hit Sammy up for another two thousand. He’d staked her, even though he’d promised to cut her off. And she’d lost it all playing blackjack.

      Allison swallowed against the bitter panic rising in her throat. Sammy wanted his money, and he wanted it now. All of it.

      I’m talking lump sum, bitch. No more of this payment shit.

      She didn’t have it. Her mother knew it. Sammy knew it. Which was why he’d previously offered to take payment in trade.

      The bastard.

      In his dreams.

      God, what a nightmare.

      Her fingers started to ache. She relaxed her grip on the phone, felt suddenly graceless as rocks shifted and rattled beneath her feet.

      She’d call Sammy back. Try to negotiate more time.

      She stumbled forward, almost stepped on a half-decayed fish. Her throat tightened. The bottom line was, she would have to deal with Joe. Assuming he hadn’t changed his mind. Though why would he? Having someone he considered a traitor at his beck and call for the next two weeks? Considering how he felt about Tackett and his methods—and her, by association—no way he’d make it easy on her.

      But she could handle it. For a guaranteed paycheck at the end of every two weeks she could handle anything. She had to.

      Sammy was the most merciless—hence the most successful—moneylender in the Washington metropolitan area. But if she could convince him that padding loans was bad for business, maybe he’d cut her a break.

      She shoved her feet back into her pumps. She’d downsized her apartment, her car, her wardrobe. In view of the debts her mother had racked up—not to mention the money she’d siphoned out of Allison’s bank account—a PR rep’s salary didn’t stretch anywhere near far enough. Allison had looked for other jobs, with no luck. Not a shocker, given the state of the economy.

      She had to keep her job. Yes, her mother had messed up. Big time. But no matter what she’d done, there was no way Allison would let her own mother spend her days fretting that one of the people in line with her at the supermarket might just be someone sent by Sammy to deliver a “friendly reminder.”

      She marched back to her car. She’d return to Castle Creek first thing in the morning because she’d had more than enough of Joe Gallahan for one day, thank you very much. And since T&P was paying her expenses, she’d snag a room at the Hampton Inn the next town over, call room service and order up a strawberry daiquiri.

      Or two.

      Then she thought of Joe as he’d been a year ago and winced.

      Club soda would have to do.

      * * *

      THE FAMILIAR RUMBLE of a truck outside the room provided just the excuse Joe needed to set aside his trowel. He winced as metal clanged on ceramic. No, the relentless throbbing in his head was just the excuse he’d needed. Or it should have been. But instead of pausing and taking something to ease the pain he’d decided to punish himself. Not for drinking—hell, he’d have to punish himself every damned day for that. No, his crime was in wishing, even for a moment, that Allison Kincaid had come to see him simply because she’d wanted to.

      Not because she’d had to.

      He pushed up onto his knees and went still, the sudden greasy churn in his gut making him grateful he was inches away from a toilet. Hell. He breathed in deeply, slowly. The nausea passed.

      With a grunt he pushed to his feet, grimacing at the stiffness in his legs, the ache behind his eyes. He brushed the grit from his palms and studied the floor. Once he got it grouted and scrubbed and got the walls repainted, he could cross another unit off his list.

      Three down, six to go. He had ten rooms altogether, but the one at the far end was currently his personal gym, and no way was he giving that up. No matter what Allison had implied the day before, he was making progress. He already had a good head start on this room and, hell, he and a crew had spent an entire month replacing the roof—

      He blew out a frustrated breath. Why did it have to come back to her? Why should he care what she thought? This was why he’d moved four hundred miles north. To get away from the expectations and the guilt. The responsibility. And the woman who’d cared about her job more than she’d cared about him.

      He lifted his hands over his head and leaned left, then right, in a careful stretch. Here in Castle Creek he had no one depending on him but himself. And whenever he let himself down, he invited himself for a drink at Snoozy’s and got over it. Life was good.

      He was well rid of her.

      So why did he suddenly feel so damned restless?

      Two truck doors slammed. Parker had brought Nat with her, a realization which both cheered and saddened him. If the kid kept seeing him like this, it wouldn’t take long for her to decide he was more zero than hero. He sucked in another deep breath, swiped the hem of his T-shirt over his face and headed out to the parking lot.

      Parker Macfarland, a tall, pretty redhead with an unfortunate love of baggy overalls, held up a hanging basket dripping with purple and red blooms. “A little something to cheer up your lobby, since you insisted on painting it brown.”

      “Not brown. Buff.”

      She rolled her eyes. “It’s still brown.”

      He took the basket and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you, my sweet.” He managed a