a feather in his cap, getting him this community service gig. Looking around, he was beginning to think a little jail time wouldn’t have been such a bad thing. “You are Lisa Kittridge, right?”
“Right,” she fired back at him. She didn’t like his attitude, she didn’t like him. One of the privileged who’d come here, slumming, to atone for a social transgression. She’d seen his kind before. “Who told you to report to me?”
“A little bird-like woman at the front desk.” He turned in that general direction. “British accent, bad taste in clothes.”
“That would be Muriel.” She took offense for the other woman. Muriel ran the shelter and had a heart as large as Dodger Stadium. “And for your information, I think she dresses rather well.”
“Can’t help that,” he murmured under his breath, then asked, “Is she a friend of yours?”
He asked a hell of a lot of questions for someone who’d been sent here in lieu of jail time, she thought. She felt her back going up even more. “We don’t go on retreats together or braid each other’s hair, but yes, you could say we’re friends.”
“Then I’d clue her in if I were you. Better yet,” his eyes washed over her and there was a glint of appreciation in them, “you could take her shopping with you the next time you go.”
She wasn’t flattered. She was annoyed. “Is this an effort for you, or does being obnoxious just come naturally?”
The smile gave no sign of fading. If anything, he looked even more amused. “It’s a gift,” he told her dryly.
“One you should return,” she countered. Because she was short of funds and long on work, Muriel had gotten to the point where she relied on Lisa heavily, so Lisa knew she had to make the best of this conceited misfit they’d been sent for however long he was here. “Let me guess, community service, right?”
Ian inclined his head, giving her the point. “The lady gets a prize.”
The shelter saw its share of first-time offenders whose sentences were commuted to volunteering a number of hours working for either the city or a charitable organization. Most of the time, the men and women came, did what was required of them and left without any fanfare, wanting to get it over with as quickly, as quietly as possible.
This one was different. This one had an attitude. Terrific.
“And just what was it that they found you guilty of?” she asked.
The answer came without any need for thought. “Living.”
“If that were the case, the shelter would never be shorthanded. What did the judge say you did?” she pressed. The sooner she got him to admit accountability, the more readily he would move on. Or, at least she hoped so.
He shrugged carelessly. He’d never liked giving an account of himself. It reminded him too much of being grilled by his grandfather. “My car had a difference of opinion with a tree. They both wanted to occupy the same place. The tree won.”
Her eyes swept over him. There were no signs that he’d even been in an accident. He had one small scar over his left eye, but that had long since healed and grown faint with time, so she doubted that he’d sustained it in an accident. “You don’t look any the worse for it.”
His mouth twisted in a semi-smile. “Too bad my car can’t say the same thing.”
Her eyes darkened like a sudden storm sweeping over the horizon. “You were drunk.”
He watched, fascinated by the transformation. She looked as if she would have thought nothing of grinding him into the ground. “Kitty, what I was—and am—is my business.”
“Lisa,” she corrected coldly. “My name is Lisa. Or, in your case, Miss Kittridge. And since you’re here, you’ve become my business.”
The smile was warm, disarming. It startled her how quickly it all but filleted her clear down to the bone. “Sounds promising.”
Lisa mentally rolled up her sleeves. “Okay, Malone, the first thing you’re going to have to understand is that this isn’t a game and that you’re not slumming. After your time here, you get to go home at the end of the day. For most of these people, this is home. You will treat it—and them—with respect and do what you can to make the experience of being here less painful for them.”
She was almost barking out the orders. “You a drill sergeant in your spare time?”
Her eyes narrowed again. Damn, but they were scraping the bottom of the barrel with this one. “No, a human being.”
“Ouch.”
She didn’t return his smile. She meant to get a fair amount of real work out of him. The shelter was always in need of some sort of repair. The boiler didn’t sound as if it was going to make it through another winter and there were holes in the roof the size of well-fed rats. The rainy season was just around the corner, right after Thanksgiving. That didn’t give them much time to get into shape.
Lisa glanced down at his shoes. “Your Italian loafers are going to get dirty here.”
Their eyes met as she looked up again. She found his smile really unsettling. “You know quality.”
Lisa looked at him pointedly. “Yes, I do.” The way she said it, her meaning was clear.
Ian laughed. Most of the time he dealt with people who fawned over him. People who wouldn’t know an honest emotion if it bit them.
She, obviously, did not fall into that category. “I like you, Kitty.”
She started to correct him again, then decided it wasn’t worth it. Maybe if she just ignored his attempt at familiarity, the man would eventually give it up. He didn’t look as if he had much of an attention span. “How are you with a hammer?”
He’d built his own sailboat once. Actually, he and Marcus had. Marcus had talked him into it the summer before they graduated college. Marcus from Yale, he from NYU. But this woman looked like she’d probably consider that bragging, so instead, he shrugged. “I know which end to use.”
She sighed. Not handy, either. This was just getting better and better. “It’s a start,” she allowed.
“That it is,” he responded.
Ignoring the comment, or the chipper way he delivered it, she made a quick assessment of his body. He was muscular and lean, although she doubted he’d actually ever done any physical labor. He didn’t seem the type. Too bad, but he’d learn.
She thought of the most pressing repair item on her list. “Do heights bother you?”
His eyes slid over her body. She had the impression of being weighed and measured. It surprised her that there was a part of her that wondered, just for a moment, what his conclusions were.
“That depends on what I’m doing,” he finally answered.
Why did she feel as if she’d just been propositioned? “Nailing shingles,” she bit off.
His smile just widened. And burrowed
