you considered getting a job as a cook instead of... instead.”
She crossed her arms and glared at him, looking insulted that he might suggest she came for anything other than a carpenter’s helper, when he knew full well she hadn’t
“I need a job with room and board.” It was more a statement of fact than a request, a certain sound of assurance in her voice telegraphing this was a done deal.
Heaven help him. She was moving in. His gut told him it was true before the words took shape in his head.
He went to the cupboard and started rummaging.
“What are you doing?” she asked, standing close enough that he caught a whiff of her perfume, her words sending a soft puff of warm air skittering over his free arm.
“Looking for the antacid.”
“Have you ever tried laughter instead?”
He found the bottle, uncapped it and downed a healthy swig. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She cocked her head in a too-adorable way and said, “You ought to loosen up a little, Michael. Look at that frown on your forehead.”
When had they gotten on a first-name basis? And when had her voice changed? It seemed different somehow. Whatever was going on, he knew he’d better take charge of this situation right here and now.
“Look, Nic—Ms. Bedder. You can stay here for a few days and cook...in exchange for room and board.” She eyed him for a moment, looking as though she were taking his measure and had suddenly become wary of his intentions, which seemed strange, since she was a woman willing to sell her body to a perfect stranger.
Something just wasn’t adding up. But for now it didn’t matter. All he wanted to do was make one thing perfectly clear.
“Just a few days, while you look for a job elsewhere. Agreed?”
A slow smile reappeared on her full lips, exposing small, white, perfect teeth. “Agreed.”
Nicole raced over the brick walk toward her trusted Chevy until she came to the path’s end. There she turned and surveyed the sprawling Victorian, its turrets and furbelows adding grace and beauty to the valley it inhabited. It was a grand old lady, she thought, before turning and tiptoeing over the gravel and popping open her trunk. She could do a lot worse than stay here.
Yet stay she would. And not for a few days, either. Somehow she would convince that——that macho cowboy—that she was the right person for the job. A salaried one, at that. She’d never been afraid of hard work, and after a few good meals her strength would surely return.
Inside her duffel she found comfortable sandals and breathed a sigh of relief as she slipped them onto her hot feet. Throwing the bag over her shoulder, she indulged in a moment of optimism. What if this turned out to be more than a means to an end? Maybe she wouldn’t have to take the money and run. It could be the perfect place for—
She was getting ahead of herself. First things first.
When she started back for the house, she saw Michael standing in the doorway, his face lost in shadow. He was waiting for her and watching, not moving a muscle. She tried to recapture her earlier persona as she strode toward him, but she knew some of the cockiness had abandoned her. There was something about fainting that made that role no longer plausible. Something about him carrying her inside that made her feel...
She closed the distance between them and concentrated on the present. He held the door open and she squeezed through the narrow space between him and the door frame. The scent of aftershave floated on a breeze, and she moved quickly, suddenly uneasy.
He took her duffel and said, “Follow me.”
They crossed through French doors that led to the west wing, stopping when they reached the first room to the right. He stepped back and with a wave of his arm motioned her in.
“This will be your room.”
There was a hint of amusement in his eyes, which confused her. Until she stood m the doorway and looked in. Then she froze, dill pickles revisiting the back of her throat.
“The previous owner had a son. All the other bedrooms are in various degrees of disrepair, so I guess this will have to be it.”
In front of her was a young boy’s room, decorated in red, white and blue, a twin bed the shape of a race car with an appropriate spread. She took an involuntary step backward, a sharp intake of air sounding loud to her own ears. Her back hit Michael’s chest, but he didn’t move. Instead he gripped her shoulders and held her firm.
“You’re not going to pass out on me again, are you?”
She closed her eyes to what was in front of her and took a cleansing breath. It was only then she realized his hands were still on her. Warm and gentle.
She turned quickly, breaking contact. “N-no, of course not.”
He slanted her a disbelieving frown, then turned. “Come on. I’ll show you the rest.”
She vaguely remembered Michael showing her the sitting room next to hers and beyond that his own room, but whatever else she’d seen, Nicole would have to explore another time, the image of this room having occupied her thoughts.
She sat gingerly on the race car bed, buried her face in her hands and wondered for what cruel deed she was being punished to be sentenced to this room. Tenaciously, behind the darkness of her fingers, burned bright a dirt-smudged, freckled face.
No! She leaped from the bed and paced to the long, narrow window. She couldn’t afford the luxury of self-pity. There was a job to be done, money to earn. People in need.
Compartmentalize, she lectured herself. As often was the case, she imagined her heart as a large warehouse with many private chambers, each storing its own joys and pain, some atrophied with neglect, others—such as the one she accessed now—ripe with worry and longing.
Reluctantly she filed away the pain and surveyed her surroundings with a more objective eye. Someone’s little boy had actually lived here. Of that she was certain. But why? What a strange place to raise a child. As with the swing outside, Nicole wished these walls could talk. Or did she? Would she want to store another sad story?
Heavyhearted, she hiked her duffel atop the bed and found places for her meager belongings in the lone dresser—save for one item, a small photo album. She debated between the nightstand drawer and the small desk by the window, finally deciding on the desk. A less likely place for one to look.
She opened the drawer slowly. Inside was a pad of construction paper, all the colors of the rainbow, and her heart was in her throat once again. Quickly she hid her album at the back and closed the drawer. More than anything, she longed to study her precious photos, but the day had been long and dizzying enough. She shed her clothes and headed for the shower, taking her time as the refreshing spray washed away the dust from her hair and limbs, until finally she felt the soothing comfort of optimism return.
Silently she offered up a prayer of thanksgiving. She had found a safe harbor. And with God’s help, maybe more.
