with those bitten nails. Yet Rand felt something odd when she touched him. He supposed it was because he wasn’t used to a woman shaking hands like a man.
He waited for her to state her business. The silence stretched an uncomfortable length of time, and it seemed as if she expected to be invited in. Then he saw the truck in the driveway and the logo on the door: Kilgore Woodworking.
“Oh, the bookshelves,” Rand finally said, feeling like an idiot. “Come right in.” He looked past her out to the driveway, expecting her father or brother to appear, but apparently she was alone.
She stepped into the foyer and looked around. “This is a fine old house,” she said, almost wistfully. “I imagine it’s been in your family forever.”
“No. I’ve only had it eight years. Frankly, it’s a bit of a pain. Always something going wrong.”
Susan sighed. “Old houses just need a little more TLC—like old people.”
“You have an old house then?”
“No, but someday…”
“The shelves go in here.” He led her into his lair.
“Oh, my, yes,” she said from behind him. “I see why Clark called.”
Rand studied his office, trying to see it with her eyes. The room was large, with French doors leading out to a patio on one end, a rolltop desk with a computer at the other, an unused fireplace with a faded wood mantel, and a chipped tile hearth, and not much else. One tiny, tired-looking oak bookcase overflowed with books, periodicals, and papers, along with a few office supplies. The rest of the room featured untidy piles of books and notes.
“I want this room to be a real office,” he explained. “The plans you sent over are perfect. You can do one of those rolling staircases, right?”
“Most definitely. When I’m done, you’ll have the prettiest office in all of Marlena.”
“Pretty is fine, but I’m mainly interested in function. I’ll be using this office to research and write a medical textbook, and I need a place to organize my source material.”
“I can see that.”
He ventured a look at her. She’d stepped behind his desk to examine the wall, knocking on it. Then she pulled a small electronic gizmo from the pocket of her striped overalls and ran it along the wall, pausing to make a pencil mark.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“A stud finder.”
Look no farther, darlin’, I’m right here. He couldn’t help his thoughts. Hell, he’d almost said it out loud. She was so pretty—even though he suspected she wasn’t trying. No makeup, no jewelry…He wished she would get out from behind his desk so he could see the rest of her.
“So…do you have a father or brother who does the actual building?” he asked.
Those soft blue eyes took on the look of a summer rain cloud. “My father’s deceased. It’s just me. I’m the Kilgore of Kilgore Carpentry.”
“But…”
“Yes?”
He supposed he didn’t need to point out to Ms. Susan Kilgore that she was a woman. And he would sound like a Neanderthal if he expressed doubts about her abilities simply because she was female. He’d been in these situations enough in the past to know he had an uncanny ability to stick his foot right in his mouth.
“Um, will you excuse me?”
“Of course.”
Rand headed for the kitchen, where he found Clark pouring sauce from a small pan into a Tupperware dish filled with some unidentifiable lumps. It wasn’t very pretty, but the smell made Rand’s mouth water.
“Take a look at this,” Clark said. He wore a tall white hat and apron, which only served to emphasize his huge muscles. “Chitterlings and portabello mushrooms sautéed in a white wine—”
“Chitterlings!” Rand said in alarm. “I’ll pass, thanks.”
“It’s not for you, it’s a project for class. We’re each supposed to take a family recipe and make it French.”
“Your mother never made chitterlings.”
Clark grinned. “Oh, yes, she did. We just told you it was something else. You want a taste?”
“No, thanks.” Rand got to the point. “Did you know you hired a woman to build my bookcases?”
“Oh. She’s here, huh?” Clark looked distinctly guilty as he snapped the lid over his masterpiece.
“Yes, she’s here! And I can’t see how she can do the work. Carpentry involves a lot of heavy lifting, power tools…”
Clark set the pan in the sink and ran water into it. “Look, Rand. I had doubts, too, when she told me her…situation. But she knows her stuff. And she sounded, you know, kind of desperate. Apparently not many people have given her a chance to prove herself.”
“But this is my office we’re talking about. My bookshelves.”
“Well, you can’t fire her now. You signed the contract.”
“You tricked me! I’ll…I’ll pay her off.”
“Can you look her in those big blue eyes and tell her she’s fired?”
Rand narrowed his gaze. “How do you know she has big blue eyes?”
“I’ve met her. She and her dad redid my mom’s staircase a couple years ago.”
“Well, you hired her, you can fire her.”
Clark glanced at his watch. “Golly gosh, look at the time. I’ll be late for class.”
“Clark!”
Clark whipped off his chef’s clothes in record time, grabbed his Tupperware, and scooted out the back door, ignoring Rand’s objections.
“Well, hell,” Rand muttered. Better get it over with.
He returned to his office to find Susan with her back to him, stretching a tape measure up to the ceiling. He’d always thought a woman in overalls was kind of cute. She squatted to run the tape measure to the floor, and the denim pulled tight across her bottom.
She had a really nice bottom.
Oh, Lord, he didn’t want to fire her. Even if he offered to pay off the contract, her feelings would be hurt. Maybe…maybe he could at least give her a chance. He would keep a close eye on her work, of course. No harm in that, was there? If at any time it seemed she wasn’t performing up to par, he could pull the plug then.
She seemed to have some trouble standing. She had to grab onto the edge of the desk and pull herself up, conjuring up a familiar scene from Rand’s memory. He’d seen a woman make exactly that movement before…
She turned, startled, when he cleared his throat, and her difficulty suddenly made sense.
“You’re…you’re…” Rand sputtered.
“I think the word you’re looking for is pregnant.”
SUSAN WINCED IN anticipation of the explosion. She was busted, she knew it. Rand Barclay was going to throw her out, contract or no contract, and she had no recourse unless she wanted to sue him.
Clark had warned her that Dr. Barclay was something of a curmudgeon, a man immersed in his work with little use for outside distractions. She hadn’t expected him to be such a hunk, though, with that raven-black hair flopping over his forehead and those piercing blue eyes, even bluer than her own. Even Gary, her ex-boyfriend, who’d had a blond, beach-bum sort of charm about him, didn’t hold a candle to this guy. With those wide shoulders and big biceps, she could picture him on the racquetball court or paddling a kayak through white