the media.”
“Thank you. That would be helpful.”
He poured his drink, then rested against the counter to sip it. “The carpenter is coming tomorrow. I’m sure you can discuss all my insidious plans with him.”
“I’ll be sure to do that,” she said cheerfully.
“So go.”
She angled her head. “Does drinking improve or sour your mood?”
“Go!”
Shrugging, not looking at all offended by his surliness, she rose from the table, then walked down the hall.
She was right. She didn’t saunter. She strutted.
He poured more whiskey.
Rage and regret were living, breathing things. And both volatile. He longed to remember what his life had been like before, when his family had been happy and secure, when his communications company, which he’d inherited from his father and which had supported them all, had flourished. When he’d been full of himself and the fortunes he’d been surrounded by. When he hadn’t thought being on time to dinner would be the difference between life and death. When he hadn’t realized the power a total stranger had over everything that mattered.
Berating the police for lack of justice hadn’t solved anything. Avoiding the media hadn’t made them any less likely to go away. Selling the company hadn’t soothed his grief. Working himself to exhaustion hadn’t, as yet, tempered his anger.
Give it time, his friends said.
So he was.
As he sipped his drink, he forcefully pushed his thoughts to the work he’d accomplished the last few days and ignored the briefcase sitting on the floor a few feet away. He’d sanded the floor in the dining room, preparing it for staining. He’d accepted delivery of a mattress and box-spring set and assembled it into the antique mahogany bed frame he’d bought a couple of weeks ago at an estate sale. He’d repaired the bookcase in the library.
Where Sexy Sloan was now.
Why didn’t she leave? Why did the sensual, tropical fruit scent of her perfume linger, even when she wasn’t in the room?
He stiffened as he heard her move down the hall toward him.
“These are really good,” she said, holding the rolled-up plans. “You’ve done a lot of work already.”
“I haven’t changed anything,” he said sharply. “Just simple repairs.”
She held up her hand. “I can see that. I saw the pictures of the new stair and balcony railing. Did you have it built?”
“I bought it at an estate sale.”
“I have a hard time seeing you puttering around old houses on weekends.”
He paused in the process of sipping his whiskey. “I don’t putter.”
“No.” Her gaze drifted down his body, leaving heat and need in its wake. “I imagine you don’t.”
“You’ve got what you want,” he said harshly, irritated by her ability to arouse him so effortlessly. Now go.
She seemed to sense his unspoken words and crossed to her briefcase, which she set on the kitchen table. “I’ll get the plans back to you tomorrow.”
“Fine.”
Straightening, she faced him. “I’m not your enemy, Aidan.”
It was the first time she’d called him by his given name, and the moment sent a pulse of excitement through his veins. A moment he didn’t want and shouldn’t feel.
“I’m sorry about your parents,” she added.
He never knew what to say to this. Thanks? They lived a long and full life? Since neither of those were true, he remained silent.
Hitching her briefcase on her shoulder, she started out. “It’s a nice town. You’ll be—”
“Happy?” He shook his head. “I want to be alone.”
“I was going to say you’ll be accepted,” she said softly. “If you make an effort.”
“I want to be alone.”
“Yeah?” She cocked her head, her eyes bright with challenge. “How’s that workin’ out for you so far?”
He tossed back the rest of his whiskey. “Fine,” he lied.
With a half smile, she nodded. “I’ll leave you to it.” She turned and headed down the hall and toward the front door.
Finally.
And yet some mad, invisible force pulled him after her.
Watching her hips sway as she walked, he reflected on times when he’d been whole and happy. He used to run a successful, international communications company. He used to wear custom-made designer suits and attend all the important events in Atlanta. He used to be sociable. He used to relish the attention of smart, beautiful women like Sloan.
Today, the shell of him that walked through the dark, dusty halls of this ancient house had consumed him.
But wasn’t it right that he was here? Hadn’t his thoughtless attitude put his parents in danger? Hadn’t his failure to see the cold world realistically reminded him in a brutal way that he had to embrace darkness to see it clearly?
Didn’t he deserve to be alone?
She brushed her fingers across his cheek. “Where’d you go?”
Unnerved by her touch, by the tenderness in her expressive blue eyes, he jerked back. “Nowhere pleasant.”
She sighed, as if exasperated by his continual—yet completely failing—efforts at distance. “When was the last time you had a decent meal?”
He thought of the ham sandwich he’d had for dinner. “Define decent.”
“I’ll bring you something from Mabel’s Café for lunch tomorrow. Along with returning your plans,” she added quickly, as if sensing the protest that rose to his lips. “My apology for showing up unannounced tonight. Besides, if you’re going to work yourself into the ground, you need nourishment. If you get sick, you can’t work.”
Since he could think of no immediate argument to that, he nodded. “Fine.”
There was a lot of fineness going on, actually. And none of it on his part.
As they talked, he’d been keeping his gaze focused—deliberately—on her face, but now he let it slip over her curves, her long, seemingly endless legs.
Merciful heaven.
His whole body, already aroused, hardened like steel. He wanted her beyond sense and reason, beyond his self-imposed isolation. Certainly beyond what he deserved.
“Do you get a lot of teenage boys hanging out at the library?”
Since she was halfway down the steps when he spoke, she had to glance over her shoulder to look at him. She smiled, no doubt completely aware of the effect she had on the male population. “They’re my best customers.”
“SORRY TO DRAG all of you down here so early,” Sloan began, glancing around the library’s conference table at her fellow committee members. “But I felt we should get on top of this project immediately.”
It was 7:00 a.m. on Tuesday, the only time everyone could gather before work and school to discuss the all-important restoration of Aidan’s house.
“Batherton Mansion could be a jewel for us,” said Courtney, a fiery redhead who owned the local hair and nail salon.
“If we can get Kendrick to cooperate,” Helen, their local real-estate agent added. “I’ve dealt with him, and only through his attorney,