she wasn’t just humoring him here, but was genuinely striving to work off steam. Her mouth was grim, her eyes quite focused on the task, as if she was imagining someone’s face right where the sledgehammer fell.
It shocked him, the barely restrained violence pouring out of her, but what really shocked him was how arousing it was to watch her go at it. With every swing, her perfect, palm-sized breasts jiggled, her hips wriggled, her ass shimmied and shook.
And damn, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. “Remind me to never piss you off,” he said, and she let out a rough sound of agreement as she swung again.
She was going to get blisters if she kept it up, which she appeared to intend to do. He hadn’t expected her to be able to lift the sledgehammer, much less swing it. “Uh…Princess? Don’t you think that’s probably enough?”
Ignoring him, she swung again, but it took a huge effort.
Figuring she had to be nearing exhaustion, he shifted closer, thinking he should grab the sledge-hammer before she hurt herself. That’s all he needed, was to maim the boss before she paid him.
Blocking him with an elbow, she growled, “Back off.”
Torn between annoyance and amusement, he did. “Okay, maybe I was wrong, maybe anger management classes would have been more effective for you.”
“No.” Heave. Smash. Heave. Smash. “You were right, this is good. And…” Heave. Smash. “Cheap, too.”
She paused, gasping for breath.
“You could always just ask Daddy for more money,” he suggested.
She went utterly still. Then carefully and purposely set down the sledgehammer before turning to him, eyes suddenly cold as ice. “You know, I think I’m finished after all. Thank you,” she added politely, and then cool as he pleased, walked past him and quietly shut the door behind her.
Shaking his head, he let out a low whistle. Classy down to the last millimeter, when what she’d obviously wanted was to tear into his hide. Still in that state of amused annoyance, he let himself out of the unit as well, figuring he’d give in on this, her need to have the rest of the day to herself.
Only because it suited him.
Mac got into his truck and drove east. He didn’t live in the high-class, high-rent district of South Village. Nor with the middle class in their gated condo developments and upscale houses that all mirrored each other. He didn’t live with the wannabes on the outskirts either.
He lived exactly where he wanted to, and damn expectations. He lived in the area known as The Tracks, which before the Town Council and Historical Society had gotten a hold of it meant that he lived on the wrong side of the tracks.
He appreciated the irony of it.
In ten minutes he was walking into his own little house, little being the key word here. The first thing he did was toss his mail—unread—on the table, where it knocked over the existing pile of unpaid bills.
Didn’t matter. No matter how big that stack got, he was still free. Free of his family’s obligations, well-meaning but smothering nonetheless. Free of his ex-wife—whom he had to thank for all those un paid bills.
He’d refused to let her live off his very generous family and their money, refused to make her the socialite she wanted to be. As a result, she’d taken everything he owned and then some before purposely and completely destroying him in the only way she could.
By aborting his child.
But he wasn’t going there, not tonight. He stripped, hunted up a pair of beat-up old shorts and headed back out for his own anger management class.
A long, punishing run.
AT THE CRACK OF DAWN the next morning, Mac drove back to Taylor’s building. He had a soft spot for this hour, before the sun had fully risen on the horizon, as no one had yet screwed up his day.
Today he’d have a crew working on the demolition, tearing out drywall down to the wood studs, then stripping old electrical and plumbing lines. Yesterday had been just for him, a way to burn off some accumulated steam. And he’d had plenty of it. There’d been that call from his mother, who in spite of her own life and full-time, very demanding job, was warm and loving and more than a little certain he was wasting away without her home cooking, and when was he going to come home for a Sunday meal?
Then had come the call from his old captain, wanting him back on the police force, which he’d left at the same time as his divorce four years ago. Much as Mac had loved being a cop, he loved rebuilding and renovating more, and always had. He’d been building things, working with his hands, ever since he could remember, and his love of doing so hadn’t changed.
But his purpose had. Life was too damn short, as he’d learned the hard way, and he intended to spend the rest of it doing what he loved. And what he loved was taking old, decrepit, run-down historical buildings and restoring them to their former glory. He’d been doing just that since getting off the force and had never looked back. He’d started out working for a friend of the family, learning the trade. For two years now, he’d been on his own doing mostly single rooms within existing buildings until this last year when he’d taken on whole buildings for the first time.
He’d found his calling. Taylor was his biggest client to date, his biggest job and his stepping stone to the next level.
He hoped. Thanks to Ariel, who’d dragged him through the coals financially, morally and every other way possible, he couldn’t afford to renovate his own place, not yet. Fine. He’d do it for someone else and work his way up. He had no problem with that.
And with that single-mindedness, he parked right in front of Taylor’s building—a miracle given the deplorable parking in South Village—and fervently hoped she’d made herself scarce. He had a crew to think about, and he wanted their minds on work, not on a beautiful woman, no matter how good she’d looked swinging a sledgehammer in all her finery.
His crew was waiting for him, just standing on the front steps, which made no sense. They knew better than to stand around wasting time.
But they weren’t just standing, they were smiling and nodding like little puppets to…surprise, surprise…Taylor.
“It came from Russia,” she was saying, holding up some sort of vase as he strode up the walk, annoyance already starting to simmer.
Taylor stroked perfectly manicured fingers over the smooth, porcelain surface of the vase as she talked, caressing the thing like she would a lover, and Mac’s blood began to beat thick, and not with just annoyance now. An ache, purely sexual, began to spread through his belly.
Which proved it, he was insane.
“It’s worth a small fortune,” Taylor said, seeming lost in the delicate etching on the vase, sighing over the beauty of it as she touched.
The sound of her soft sigh didn’t help Mac’s inner ache, and he spent a moment brooding over the fact he hadn’t been with a woman in a good long while. He hadn’t wanted to, not since Ariel and her cruel betrayal.
But not having a sexual urge wasn’t the same as ignoring one. He looked at the vase in Taylor’s hands and concentrated on her words.
Worth
