not, Edie admitted to herself. Probably he hadn’t given her a thought at all.
“And you should stop thinking about him,” she counseled herself.
So she did what she always did after work. She changed into her bathing suit, went out to the pool and dived in.
It was just past six when Nick got back to Mona’s house.
He had gone over every inch of the adobe, had walked around kicking the foundation, prying up floorboards, clambering onto the roof. He was grimy, filthy, sweaty and hot and he needed a shower. Bad.
Now he went around the house to go through the doors closest to the stairs so he wouldn’t track in dirt and dust. And so he could stop by Edie’s office. But before he got there, out of the corner of his eye he saw movement that caught his attention.
Beyond the bank of oleanders growing partway down the lawn, someone was in the pool.
Before his brain made a conscious decision, his feet were already heading across the lawn toward where Edie’s lithe form cut through the water as she did laps. Her stroke was smooth and even, but it wasn’t her stroke Nick was focused on. It was her body, her mile-long legs, her tanned back—all that lovely golden skin he remembered so well.
If he’d needed a shower before, he needed one worse now. A long icy cold one.
Or, he thought, he could dive into the pool, take Edie into his arms and solve all his problems at once.
Not a difficult choice.
He had unbuttoned his shirt by the time he reached the terrazzo-tiled patio where the pool was. He opened the gate, tossed the shirt onto a chaise longue and was toeing off his shoes and tugging his undershirt over his head at the same time.
“You’re back.” Edie’s voice startled him.
Nick jerked the T-shirt the rest of the way off to see her, out of the pool now, coming toward him. She had a towel wrapped around her waist and she was rubbing her hair dry with another. He couldn’t see her legs anymore, but her bare midriff was enticement enough. As Nick watched, half a dozen droplets of water slid down her abdomen from beneath the top of her bathing suit.
He swallowed, staring as the drops disappeared into the towel knotted at her waist.
“So what do you think?”
“Think?” He wasn’t thinking. Not with his brain anyway.
“About what?” he asked dazedly. She had to have seen him coming. Why the hell hadn’t she stayed in the pool? Was she trying to avoid him? he wondered, nettled.
“About the house.” She lowered the towel from her hair and peered at him over the top of it “Time to raze it? Cut our losses?” She sounded almost hopeful.
Was she hoping? Surely not. He’d seen the wistful look on her face this afternoon. He’d watched her move from room to room, running her hands over the woodwork and the cabinets, touching those little pencil marks by the back door.
“No,” he said sharply, with more force than he intended. He moderated his tone. “No. It’s quite salvageable.”
“Really? And it should be?” Now she sounded surprised.
“It’s an interesting piece of vernacular architecture,” he said firmly. “Not all of a piece, of course. And not of huge historical significance,” he added honestly. “But the fact that it’s not a mansion, but a surviving example of small ranch architecture makes it worth restoring.”
Also true. To a point. From a purely historical significance standpoint, the old adobe ranch house was such a pastiche of different styles, periods, restorations, disastrous additions and bad workmanship that, as a bonafide professional historical restoration expert called on to choose which buildings were worth preserving and restoring, he ought to have been running in the other direction.
But he wasn’t.
He was standing here saying, “It can be salvaged,” with an absolutely straight face.
And he was rewarded by seeing her face light up. “I thought you’d say it wasn’t worth the trouble.”
It wasn’t. At least not solely on an architectural basis. But there were other reasons to restore things.
“It’s worth it,” he said.
She gave him an instant brilliant smile. But it faded quickly. “So what does that mean?” she asked, sounding almost wary now.
We make love right here on the chaise. Of course he didn’t say that. He cleared his throat. “I put together a plan, talk it over with Mona, then get to work.”
“So, you’re … going to be staying a while?” She didn’t sound thrilled.
“Yes,” he said firmly.
Now she smiled again, but it still didn’t seem to reach her eyes. “Well, um, great. That’s just great.”
“You don’t want the house salvaged?”
Something flickered in her eyes. “No, I do. It’s—” she hesitated, then the smile appeared again “—it’s lovely.”
“Then why don’t I take you to dinner and we can celebrate?”
Edie blinked. She opened her mouth. But then she just stood there looking at him. No sound came out.
“Edie?” he prompted when seconds went by and she didn’t speak.
“Celebrate?” she echoed at last.
“Sure. We have a lot to celebrate. That the house is worth fixing. That I’m going to be here a while. That we’re both here,” he added pointedly and turned the full heat of his gaze on her. “I think that’s worth celebrating, don’t you?”
He saw her swallow. Then she bobbed her head a little jerkily and took a breath. “Yes. Of course.” Another breath, a brittle smile. “That would be nice.”
“Nice?” He cocked his head, regarding her from beneath hooded lids. “Nice?” he repeated, teasingly.
Edie shrugged awkwardly. Her smile stayed in place but it looked even more superficial. Nick was reminded of the smile she’d worn when she’d reappeared at his side at the reception, when she had taken him up on his offer of a tour of his renovations. There had been a tense edginess about her then, too.
Then she’d been avoiding the hundred-dollar-haircut man and her mother’s expectations. Was she nervous now? Uncertain? Wishing she could avoid him?
Nick scowled. Why would she feel that way? Didn’t she remember how good it had been between them? If she didn’t, he’d be happy to remind her.
“I need to get dressed,” she said now, and she began edging toward the gate.
“Not on my account.” He grinned.
A blush suffused every
