was the very last thing he needed.
And the very thing he longed for.
“I’m sorry to call so late,” she said briskly, flipping her long blond hair over her shoulder, then digging into her bulging briefcase. “My day job forces me to keep irregular hours when dealing with the historical society business. And since you have no phone, I had to—”
“Day job?”
She glanced up. “I’m a librarian.”
“No way.” He’d figured pole dancer. Well, her body screamed pole dancer. Maybe, subconsciously he was hoping for a pole dancer. He let his gaze drift over her buxom figure—all that he could see above the table. Beneath, he knew there were miles of firm, tanned legs. “No damn way,” he added.
“I’m beginning to think you’re a man who leans toward stereotypes.” Casually, she pulled a yellow-paper legal pad from her case before setting the bag on the floor. “I’m sorry I can’t oblige you,” she said as she uncapped a pen and met his gaze. “But if it’s important, I can tell you that our town historical society doesn’t have the cachet of nearby Charleston. They have the wealthy past, the port and the bustling tourism industry, after all. We have our own place in history—this house being one of the premier monuments, since it lasted through the War of 1812, the Civil War and countless hurricanes. We have a strong community and a need to preserve our beginnings. To respect our ancestors and all they sacrificed.
“That’s all.” Her bright blue eyes burned with pride. “No hidden agenda. No fund-raiser planned to lure your money into our accounts.”
Maybe he’d misjudged her, and maybe he hadn’t, but he refused to feel shame. There was a time when he would have considered cynicism a flaw. Now it was a vital part of life. That’s what the past had done to him, stolen his openness, turned him wary and hard.
That guarded part of him spoke now, sensing that keeping her at a distance was vital. “It’s good to know I won’t be fleeced by you and a bunch of blue-hairs.”
She wrote on her pad in a neat, looping style. Very feminine. “There’s a committee of five. All volunteers. One blonde, two brunettes, a redhead and one with silver hair. The ages range from Penelope, who’s sixteen, to Sister Mary Katherine, who’s eighty-two. Would you like to know their qualifications?”
“No. But…Penelope?”
“Lovely girl. Brilliant with computers—quite a contrast to her old-fashioned name. She’s digitized all our historical photos and documents. She’s very shy.” Her gaze met his. “And she will not be coming to see you.”
“Why not?”
Wait. Why should he care? Why was he already picturing some tiny girl with big glasses and mousy brown hair?
“I’m sure you can guess,” Sloan said, smirking.
“No, I really can’t.”
“You’re entirely too…intense for a young girl.”
Right. Of course he was. He didn’t want some kid hanging around any more than he wanted an interfering librarian smiling at him, drinking his whiskey, smelling like fruit, flowers and heaven.
She ripped off the paper she’d written on, reached into her briefcase again, then crossed the room and stuck the note to the fridge, apparently with a magnet. “This is my home phone, cell phone and e-mail address. You’re going to need them as we move through the renovation process.”
Who carried magnets in their briefcase? He was distracted enough by the note and the sensual sway of her hips to ask, “What else do you have in that bag?”
She turned and smiled. “All manner of things, Mr. Kendrick. You’ll find I’m thorough and efficient.”
“Part of the librarian code of honor?”
“Naturally.”
Again, he realized she’d effortlessly made him curious about something that, fifteen minutes ago, he would have sworn wouldn’t have interested him in the least.
She returned to her seat. “We really should discuss, in detail, the plans you have for Batherton House.”
“My research shows it’s called Batherton Mansion.”
“It used to be. In its present state, I think that’s a bit premature, don’t you?”
He could hardly argue with that, but he leaned back in his chair and fixed her with an irritated scowl. “And yet I don’t see why I should discuss, in detail, any of my plans with you.”
“Didn’t your lawyer explain that all changes to the property have to be approved by the committee?”
“Yes, but I’m not changing any of the original structure, and he told me I got approval for the paint colors, trim and light fixtures last month. Everything else is simply repairs.”
“That’s true.” She cleared her throat. “Pardon if this sounds rude, but how do I know you’re not changing any of the original structure unless I inspect the property on a regular basis?”
Taking my word, I guess, is too much to ask.
Thanks to the well-documented media coverage of the tragic headlines involving his family, and his own mysterious, misunderstood behavior, he could hardly blame her. But the resentment, which was mostly self-directed, burned.
He shouldn’t be here with her, talking as if the past three months hadn’t happened. He needed to be alone with his ghosts, fury and guilt. He didn’t want her sly smiles and sparkling eyes bringing humor and lightness into the dark where he’d retreated.
Where he belonged.
And he was damned tired of feeling as if she’d taken control of everything since the moment he’d opened the door.
“Not taking the word of a crazy man?” He shifted forward, watching her eyes widen. “Despite what you read in the papers, my parents being murdered didn’t send me over the edge.” He almost smiled. “Not yet, anyway.”
2
SHE LET OUT a gasping breath.
She extended her hand and her fingers brushed across his fist, clenched on the table. “I never intended—”
When he lurched to his feet, she fell silent.
He shouldn’t have brought up the ugly darkness. Why had he?
To be cruel? To dim that bright, clever smile? Had his family’s pain and tragedy really turned him into such an un-feeling ass?
With his back to her, he forced his emotions to the pit of his stomach. “I understand you and your committee have a job to do. So do I. And I need to do it alone.”
“I don’t plan to burden you with my presence on a daily basis. Weekly inspections will be fine.”
He suppressed a wince. “Inspections?”
“Visits,” she amended.
There had to be a way around this historical accuracy nonsense. He only wanted to work and sweat, bring back elegance and beauty to something in this world.
“Suppose I ignore these rules? And your visits?”
“You could, I guess. But Sister Mary Katherine would consider that dishonorable, and you really don’t want to get on her bad side.”
Blue-hairs, teenagers, librarians and nuns were going to rule his life for the foreseeable future. It was completely, jaw-droppingly ridiculous.
“Also,” Sloan added, “My daddy is the sheriff, and my granddaddy is the county judge. You really don’t want to get on their bad side.”
And the law. Great.
He’d seen enough cops in the last year to last