Land a few months back, she’d decided she liked her guys fun, enthralled and uncomplicated. Which Davis had been. Before he’d decided to run off to Atlanta after some other woman—and a job with the man glaring at her now.
Which brought up a whole new complication. Why had Aidan Kendrick decided to come to Palmer’s Island? Did it have anything to do with Davis? How well did the two men know each other?
When her life decided to come full circle, it had apparently chosen to jump on the upside-down roller coaster, rather than the merry-go-round.
“Oh, so you’re not trying to intimidate me into running back to town and leaving you to your brooding and hammering?”
“Sure I am.” His lips curved. “And, yes, you would greatly aid my efforts if you’d saunter back to town.”
The effort at humor was intriguing. Appealing. If he could be any more appealing, that is. “I don’t saunter.”
“Yeah, well, I’m renovating, not hammering.”
“What about brooding?”
He lifted his shoulders in a careless shrug. “The Irish are entitled.”
“I suppose we are.”
“We?”
She held out her hand. “Sloan—warrior.”
This time he took her hand and shook it. The contact sent a bold shock up her arm. “Aidan—little fire.”
He looked pretty cold to her, but there was heat in there somewhere, behind the ice of his eyes. No man could have been through what he had, come through still standing, and not have a flame burning deep inside.
“And I doubt there’s much you’re afraid of,” he added.
“True.” She reached for her briefcase, and—again—wished he wasn’t so sexy, amazing…dangerous. “The blue-steel Glock nine millimeter I carry in my glove compartment doesn’t hurt.”
SOMEHOW, Aidan found himself sitting opposite her at the beat-up kitchen table. Unwanted desire crawled over his skin, even as part of him craved her brightness.
She 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
