Yesterday's Scandal. GINA WILKINS
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was going to take a few pictures in the downstairs bedroom. I don’t suppose I can go upstairs yet?”
He shook his head. “Not today. The crew’s up there testing the floors and patching holes. I’m reasonably sure the structure is safe, but I don’t want you wandering around up there until I’m sure.”
“And when will that be?”
He shrugged. “They’ll be finished later this afternoon. They haven’t found any problems so far.”
Although she understood his caution—after all, he was the owner of the house now and therefore liable in the case of accidents—she was still impatient to get upstairs and explore. “I’d be very careful.”
His smile was pleasant but unyielding. “Next time.”
“Has anyone ever mentioned that you can be awfully bossy?” she asked him a little too sweetly.
He chuckled. “Around here, I am the boss.”
“I’ll just finish up downstairs, then—boss.” She turned to snap one more shot of the window, then moved toward the bedroom.
He fell into step beside her. “Getting any great ideas?”
“A few.” Unfortunately, the only ideas that struck her as she entered the bedroom with Mac had nothing to do with decorating. Never mind that the room closely resembled a shadowy cave filled with dust and cobwebs. Or that one windowpane was broken, letting a warm breeze whistle through it. Or that there wasn’t a stick of furniture. It was still obviously a bedroom, and she and Mac were alone in it.
What was it about this man that he could affect her just by looking at her in that smoldering manner? She hadn’t blushed since high school, but she was dangerously close to it when he put a hand at the small of her back to guide her around a nail sticking up from a floorboard. The heat of his skin penetrated the thin, scoop-neck T-shirt she’d worn with jeans and sneakers for her exploratory visit here.
“The architect recommended taking out this fireplace and replacing it with doors leading out to a garden,” Mac said. But even that strictly-business comment sounded oddly intimate because he had murmured it into her ear.
Grateful for an excuse to move away from him, she crossed over to the stone fireplace in question and made a pretense of studying it. “It would bring more light into the room, of course, and easier access to the outside. But I wouldn’t do it.”
“You’d keep the fireplace?”
She turned to look at the center of the room, picturing a big white-painted iron bed there, covered in eyelet and mounded with pillows. A rocking chair in one corner. Fresh flowers on an old chest. A fire burning in this wonderful stone fireplace. Two people cuddled in the bed—she refused to picture faces. “I would definitely keep the fireplace.”
He nodded. “I had already decided to do that. I’ll convert the small window in the west corner to a glass-paned door leading outside. That should provide enough natural light to brighten the room a little during the day, but I didn’t want to sacrifice the fireplace.”
“I’m glad. It’s really lovely.” She rested a hand on the heavy oak mantelpiece. “I’ve always wanted a fireplace in my bedroom,” she mused almost to herself.
“The romantic type, are you?”
She dropped her hand and squared her shoulders. “Not particularly. I’ve always considered myself the practical type. A fire is a nice way to take away a chill on cold winter evenings.”
“Mmm.” He made it clear he didn’t quite accept her self-description. “Will you have dinner with me this evening?”
She swallowed before asking, “Do you want to talk about my ideas for the decorating? I’m afraid I don’t have much to discuss with you yet, since I just—”
“No,” he cut in quietly. “This has nothing to do with business.”
He was asking her for a date. She hadn’t dated anyone but Jerry in months—primarily from lack of interest in going out with anyone else who had asked during that time.
She couldn’t claim a lack of interest in Mac; the opposite was actually her problem. She was, perhaps, too interested in him. She supposed some people—her assistant, for example—would consider that an odd reason to hesitate about accepting his invitation. But Sharon had always considered herself a shrewd judge of people, and something told her Mac wasn’t exactly what he seemed to be.
It wasn’t that she was afraid of him, or even that she didn’t trust him—but she was definitely wary of him. Should she follow through on her undeniable attraction to him, or listen to her instincts and avoid further complicating her life?
His left eyebrow lifted. “I didn’t think it was that difficult a question.”
“You aren’t a member of a crime family, are you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“According to local rumor, you’re either an eccentric millionaire, a flunky for an eccentric movie star, or you’re a member of an organized-crime family. The first two possibilities don’t worry me overmuch, but I would definitely be concerned about the latter.”
His chuckle was disarming. He didn’t laugh often, and it was a pleasant sound. “I am not a crook,” he assured her, the cliché making her smile. “I don’t work for anyone except myself. As for the millionaire part—I’m afraid not.”
Remembering Tressie’s question, Sharon asked, “Are you married?”
“No. I’m single, straight and unattached. Are there any other juicy tidbits you want to quiz me about?”
“I probably haven’t even heard all the talk,” she confessed. “Those were just the stories that made it to my shop.”
“Do you always take gossip so seriously?”
She had to smile at that. “Hardly.”
“Is there anyone who would object to you having dinner with me?”
She thought of Jerry, but shook her head. “I’m not seeing anyone special, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“So…?”
It was as good an evening as any to go out. Brad was going on an overnight campout with his baseball team, sponsored by the coach and several team dads. Having made an excuse to Jerry after her recent decision to spend less time with him, Sharon was free for the evening. She had planned to spend a little time to herself for a change perusing decorating journals and making preliminary notes for the renovation project. Instead, she heard herself saying, “All right. What time?”
His only reaction was a brisk nod—as if there had been no real doubt that she would accept, she couldn’t help thinking. “Seven? I’ll pick you up.”
Sharon thought of the inevitable ramifications if she and Mac were seen sharing a cozy dinner-for-two in town. There would certainly be talk. Speculation. Questions. She wasn’t accustomed to being the center of gossip. She’d always been the quiet and responsible type. Everyone knew her mother was a lovable flake, that her father had died of a heart attack thirteen years ago, and that her little brother tended to hang with the wrong crowd, but they had never attracted the sort of interest that the McBrides or some of the other longtime Honoria residents garnered.
“I could cook,” she suggested, wondering whether her alternative was actually more or less reckless than dining in public. “You’re probably tired of restaurant food by now,” she added quickly, not wanting him to take it the wrong way. “Maybe you’d enjoy a home-cooked meal?”
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