back. She didn’t want to know that he was watching her, studying her slow steps, probably wondering what was wrong with her. She made it to her car without incident and sank onto the firm seat. With him still looking on, she backed out of the parking lot.
As she drove away, she was both desperate to know what he’d thought of her and grateful she couldn’t begin to guess. She was nothing like the woman he remembered as Josie Fitzgerald Scott. On the one hand, he’d divorced that Josie, so he couldn’t have cared about her too much. Of course he’d also married her, so there had been some kind of attraction and affection between them.
Josie turned left at the stop sign, then headed for the real estate office. If she was going to have her ex-husband restore the Miller Victorian house, then she’d better see about buying it. At least the old place had been vacant for years. That, combined with her ability to pay cash for the place, would mean that she could have a quick escrow.
Had she done the right thing, she wondered as she drove, or was she crazy? Pretending to be someone else sure wasn’t smart. Maybe she should have just told Del the truth about herself. But she hated the thought of seeing the pity and shock in his eyes. Better for him to think of her as a stranger. All she needed was a little time to get to know him again. Once they were friends, she would confess all and then convince him to talk about their marriage enough to give her closure. After that, she would be free to get on with her life. Free to figure out who she was and what she was going to do, now that everything she’d loved about herself was gone.
Chapter Two
Del Scott climbed the front steps of the old Miller place. It was nearly eleven in the morning on the kind of day designed to make every person not living in Beachside Bay want to sell their house, pack up their belongings and move to the oceanside town. The sky was a perfect California blue, the temperatures promised to reach into the mid-seventies and a faint tang of salt scented the sweet breeze.
Del paused to study the porch and front door of the old place. Both were in need of repainting, but the structure was fundamentally sound. He’d been through the house enough times to be able to picture every room and imagine the possibilities. At one time he’d even thought he might live here. The plans he’d brought along with him were proof of that. That dream had disappeared along with his wife. Although he could regret losing the house he could honestly say that he didn’t have the same feelings about Josie. She was out of his life forever, and he was glad.
As he raised his hand to knock on the front door, he frowned. He hadn’t thought about his ex-wife in months. Maybe not in the past year. Why had she turned up in his mind now? Was it being back at the Miller place? After all, they’d often talked about buying it. But every time they’d toured it, they’d ended up arguing about remodeling, just like they’d argued about everything else.
Forget it, he told himself firmly as he knocked.
As he waited for a response, he listened for the slow step of the soon-to-be owner. Rose. He frowned as he realized she hadn’t given him a last name. She’d intrigued him, which was strange. They’d exchanged only a handful of words. Maybe it had been the way the light had caught her pale-blond hair. Josie’s hair had been that color, but she’d always worn it as short as a boy, while Rose had soft, feminine waves that slipped down to her shoulders. With her big blue eyes and full mouth, she reminded him of a 1940s movie star. Curvy, sultry and a dozen kinds of trouble.
Before he could tell himself that sexual attraction to a client was a serious mistake, the front door opened. If he’d been hoping that seeing his potential new customer in person would erase the image he had of her as a temptress, he’d been mistaken.
Yesterday she’d worn a light-green dress. Today’s was pink. Short sleeves in a gauzy material flirted with her upper arms. The floral print fabric skimmed over full breasts and hips before falling gently to her calves. Makeup accentuated her big eyes and full mouth, and the fact that she was leaning heavily on a cane did nothing to stem his male interest.
“Good morning,” he said, forcing his voice to sound professional rather than husky with yearning. What on earth was wrong with him? He’d given up unrealized crushes on women about the time he’d turned seventeen and Betty Jo Lancaster had let him go all the way in the backseat of his Mustang.
“Mr. Scott.” She gave him a brief nod and a quick smile. “You’re very prompt. I appreciate that.”
“Just part of the Scott family service. We’re on time and we come prepared to do work. The same applies to my crew. If I tell you they’ll be starting at eight, they’ll all be here then. And please, call me Del.”
“All right. Del.” She stepped back to let him into the vacant house.
A beautiful chandelier hung in the foyer. He knew that it and the marble tiles underfoot had been shipped over from Italy in the early 1920s.
“I’ve been reacquainting myself with the house,” Rose said, closing the door behind him and turning slowly toward the main living area, keeping her cane close to her side. “I’d forgotten how much work the house needs.”
He was surprised to experience a stab of disappointment. He told himself his feelings came from having wanted to fix the old place for the past ten years, not from the realization that Rose might drift out of his life as easily as she’d drifted into it.
“Have you changed your mind about the remodeling?”
“Not at all. I’m prepared to see her looking as lovely as she did when she was first built.”
Her comment surprised him. “Have you seen pictures?”
“A long time ago.”
Before he could ask when, she started through the foyer, pointing to the front parlor. “I thought that room could be a combination living room and library. What do you think about bookshelves on a couple of the walls?”
He tapped the large case he carried. “You read my mind. I already have that design drawn up. Which leaves this as the main living area.”
They stepped into an oversize room about twenty-five by thirty. The ten-foot ceilings and crown molding added to the grandeur of the room. The hardwood floors were in need of refinishing but otherwise in good shape. On the right, bay windows let in morning light. To the left was the entry to the kitchen and dining room. A huge fireplace dominated the north wall.
Del pointed at the bricked opening. “That was imported from a castle in England. The stained glass in the dining room came from a chateau in France. There are bits and pieces of the world all over the house.”
“That’s one of the things that intrigues me about the place,” Rose told him. She paused in the center of the room, leaning heavily on her cane. “I don’t agree with the current construction philosophy that if it’s new it must be better. Sometimes what’s old has a unique charm that can’t be duplicated.”
“I agree.”
He noticed that her movements were slow and deliberate, the way they’d been the day before. He wondered if her disability was new—the result of an accident—or if she’d been born with it.
He grabbed a couple of straight-back chairs tucked in a corner of the room. There was also a folding table, flattened and leaning against the wall opposite the fireplace.
“Have a seat,” he said, putting the chairs in the center of the room, then retrieving
