she took a step closer. “Wait a minute. Isn’t that sex discrimination?”
He hiked an eyebrow before giving her his back and walking up the steps to the front door. “Only if you’re willing to hire an attorney and take me to court.” He knew he had her now. If one thing was certain, her kind wouldn’t go looking for a day in court. Not intentionally, anyway.
Michael was halfway through the door when he heard a thud behind him. He turned and found her lying on the brick walk. In two long strides he was beside her and hunkered down.
“Ms. Bedder?” He watched and waited, hoping this was some sort of last-ditch effort to win sympathy. He touched her thin arm. “Ms. Bedder?” He could see her chest moving, though her breathing seemed shallow.
Faking or not, he couldn’t just leave her there. He scooped her up in his arms, her remaining shoe falling to the ground, and he was surprised at how light she was. At closer inspection he could see her pale and sallow cheeks, and for a moment he almost felt sorry for her...until he remembered what kind of woman she clearly was.
He carried her to the door and pushed it open with his shoulder, just as her eyes started to flutter open. A quick flash of surprise was followed by an indignant palm against his chest.
“What do you think you’re doing? Let me down this instant!”
He had a mind to drop her on her cute little backside, but he didn’t. He headed for the sofa and dropped her there instead. The errant eyelash was now pointing straight up and a grin escaped before he could control it.
“What’s so funny?”
He pointed to his own eye and watched her squirm. She removed the lash and tucked it in her skirt pocket, leaving her with one long-lashed round eye and one...one beautiful brown one. He wiped the grin off his face and started for the kitchen.
“Where are you going?”
“To get you a glass of water.” He stopped and glanced over his shoulder. “Or would you rather have something stronger?”
“I’d rather—” She started to stand, then fell back down.
Michael watched and waited. This woman was definitely not okay. In more ways than one.
She lifted her head off the back of the sofa, removed the remaining eyelash and stared at him for the longest time. It was as though he were seeing a different woman. This one had far less bravado and looked far more vulnerable. Damn. He hoped she wouldn’t cry. He hated it when a woman cried.
She lowered her gaze, and again he noticed how frail she looked. Without thinking he asked, “When’s the last time you ate?”
Her head popped up, and the original woman reappeared. “Oh, I’m on this fad diet. That’s all.”
If he’d learned only one thing over the past couple of years, it was to know when a woman was lying. In a flash, images of another woman, another place tugged him back in time. And just as quickly he stuffed them away. Instead, he looked through the front window at the old rattletrap parked in his driveway, then back to this woman’s pale face. “Look, I haven’t had lunch yet. Would you like to join me?”
Her face brightened and she found the strength to stand.
Great! Now why in the hell had he done that?
The phone rang in the kitchen and he left Ms. Bedder to fend for herself.
Nicole took a deep breath and padded barefoot into the kitchen, where she found Michael leaning on the open refrigerator door, staring blankly inside, a phone propped between his ear and shoulder.
“That’s right,” he said into the receiver. “The job’s still open.”
She nudged him aside and proceeded to retrieve lettuce, mayo, lunch meat and pickles from the fridge. Taking it all to a center chopping block, she looked around and found a pantry closet. Inside were bread and potato chips, which she added to her cache on the cutting board.
She pretended not to notice his gaze as he followed her around with his curious blue eyes and carried on his phone call at the same time.
“Do you have your own tools?”
Tools? She almost laughed. Like what? Handcuffs? Leather pants? What kind of tools would a man need for this job? She slapped mayo on four slices of bread. Then she decided to make Michael what’s-his-name a sandwich, too.
“No, you don’t need tools. I was just wondering.” He leaned a shoulder into the wall and looked out the bay window to the overgrown garden behind. “Any carpentry or remodeling experience?”
Nicole’s knife stilled in her hands. Carpentry? Helper?
She stood frozen over the food, an instant replay of their meeting outside running before her eyes, embarrassment warming her neck and cheeks. All around her were signs of remodeling. And nowhere in sight were the ladies, whose colorful stories she’d heard about in Livingston
“Sorry. Guess I should have put the location in the ad,” Michael said behind her. “You’re right. It’s probably a two-hour drive. Uh-huh. Perfectly understandable. Well, good luck.”
Nicole heard him hang up the phone, but she kept her back to him, wondering how she could begin to explain, if she should even try. She cut the sandwiches diagonally and on second thought put three halves on each plate. She added chips and pickles, then carried it all to the cozy table in front of the window.
Before he could join her, one of her sandwich halves had disappeared along with most of her chips. Michael pulled out a chair and sat down, fascinated with the steady rhythm of her hand to mouth to plate and back.
“Some kind of fad diet you got there.”
She continued shoveling it in, not meeting his gaze, too intent on the business at hand. When she’d finished the last of it she sat back and closed her eyes, seeming to relish the moment.
Michael picked at his food, his appetite having left him when he realized he’d fallen prey to this hapless creature. It was obvious she was hungry and had been for some time, which meant she was broke, which meant he couldn’t send her off if he wanted to.
What bothered him most was that he wasn’t sure he wanted to.
There was something more than met the eye here. One moment she was cocky and confident, the next a frightened kitten.
“Aren’t you going to eat that?” She was staring at his untouched half sandwich and pickle.
He pushed his plate over and she helped herself.
“Where else have you tried to find work?”
She held up a finger, finished chewing, then said, “You name it.” She polished off his dill pickle in three efficient bites, then carried both plates to the sink where she rinsed and stacked them. Then she put everything away and cleaned off the counter, looking as though she’d done this all her life, that this was her home instead of his.
Now she stood in front
