Gritting his teeth and expending every effort of will he could muster, Paul forced himself to cut off the feeling before it took him over.
No softness, he reminded himself. He would allow nothing to blunt the edge of his purpose. Nothing.
He took another moment to regain his composure, during which a disturbing thought struck him: Had Kayla Thorne noticed his reaction? Bad enough to feel weak inside, but to have a witness? Unacceptable. He slanted his gaze over to where she stood, half a yard to his right, also taking in the view. She seemed composed, but the edges of her mouth were turned down, and even in profile, he could tell she was concentrating on some thought.
“You can see a lot more from here than you can from the church,” he observed, his voice cracking slightly, hoping the words sounded as casual as he’d wanted them to come out.
Kayla, her mind a jumble of images and emotions, was waging an inner war with herself. She adored looking out over what she secretly thought of as her hills, but today there was an added dimension to her appreciation: it was as though she were seeing it through the eyes of the man by her side.
Good heavens, what this must mean to him! In jail, he couldn’t have had anything to stare at but walls and bars, other prisoners, guards. No colors, just grays and drabness. This had to be beyond precious to him.
Or was it? Was she, once again, letting her imagination run away with her, filling in, providing the missing pieces to a man who chose to remain inscrutable? Was he the kind of person who truly appreciated nature’s colors and the infinity of sky overhead? If he wasn’t, then why was she trying to make him into that man? After all, if she was hiring a handyman, all she needed to know about him was if he could do the work.
Which was when she realized she’d done an abrupt about-face. She’d changed her mind. Or he’d done it for her. It didn’t matter. After he answered a few questions, she was going to offer him the job.
So much for absolutely, positively making her mind up, she thought, disgusted with herself. She was a wuss.
Hank came around the side of the house and joined them on the porch, a small toolbox in his grip. “I got to take off, Miz Thorne. So, what do you think? Will my new man do?”
She told herself she was in charge, that no matter how tall or broad or menacing—or wounded—Paul Fitzgerald might be, he had no power over her. Turning her head and meeting his silver-gray gaze directly, Kayla said, “I need to ask you a few questions first.”
“Ask away.”
“Do you ever smile?”
As though she’d surprised him, there was the briefest suggestion of softening around his mouth, then the flinty look returned to his eyes. “When I have something to smile about.”
“Well, I don’t do jokes.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “That’s a shame. I could use a good laugh.”
Another man might have said those words with some irony, or even as an invitation. But there was not a hint of amusement in his words; his face remained expressionless.
“You sure could,” she agreed, thinking—like the utter fool she was—that she would make him smile if she died trying. Why it was important to her, she had no idea.
“And you have experience?” she asked. “I mean with old houses, not just new ones?”
“Yes. In my former life, on weekends, I was part of a crew that renovated historical homes.”
“What were you in jail for?” she continued. “Even though you were innocent,” she added quickly, still not sure if she totally trusted that assessment. If there was smoke, there was usually fire.
He didn’t respond for a moment; instead, his eyes grew hooded again and his nostrils flared, letting her know she’d hit a sensitive area.
Well, too bad.
“I mean, if you were accused of being a rapist or a murderer,” she added, her chin jutted out to let him know she wouldn’t be browbeaten, even if the old trembling inside had started up again, “you know, bodily harm kind of thing, well then, I think you can understand that I’m not too nuts about you working here. Even if you were innocent.”
It was a reasonable question, Paul knew it and acknowledged it, but still, he had to tamp down the fury roiling in his gut. He gave himself a moment before he spoke. “I was accused of taking payoffs.”
“Paul here used to be a cop,” Hank chimed in. “A good cop, Miz Thorne, decorated and all. Made detective. But there were some corrupt officers in that precinct. You know, taking bribes and selling dope they’d confiscated. Maybe you read about it, a few years back. It was in Albany, the precinct near the capitol buildings? The cops and the drug ring?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, nodding.
“See, Paul didn’t like what was going on, told them to cut it out or he’d turn them in. So they set him up.”
“And you know this, how?”
“Paul told me. And his lawyer. Also a couple of friends I have on the force. And I believe them. I got a sixth sense about cons, Miz Thorne. Like I said, Paul’s innocent.”
“You have quite a champion,” the woman said, her face reflecting her lingering doubt.
He didn’t blame her. The tangible proof of his innocence wasn’t available, and she wasn’t thrilled with another ex-con’s “sixth sense.”
All he could do was nod his gratitude to Hank and wait for the next question.
“And you were in jail how long?”
“Four years.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, my. A policeman in jail for four years.” Her face reflected a mixture of sympathy and horror. “That must have been tough.”
He felt his jaw tense at the effort to keep his expression neutral. “I survived.”
Barely, he thought. Everything she was imagining, all that she’d read about cops in jail—gang rapes, brawls, weapons made out of kitchen utensils—he’d seen it all, and even taken part in some of it. Never being able to turn your back, making sure you were so strong they were scared of you. Yeah, he’d survived. By being terrified every day and night of those four years, and never, ever letting it show.
He watched her expression as she made up her mind about him. He wasn’t aware he’d been holding his breath until, still obviously doubtful, she said, “Well, if Hank trusts you, I guess that’s good enough for me.”
A small stab of disappointment hit him in the gut. He should have been glad, should have congratulated himself on getting the job, on taking the first step toward clearing his name. But all he felt was let down.
What had he expected? A ringing endorsement of his superior character? That Kayla Thorne would look at him and just know he could do the work? That he would be responsible, would put in long hours and not skip corners? Would be honest and reliable? The way he’d used to be, back before his life had changed one-hundred-eighty degrees from relative
