Caldwell, Director of the Palmer’s Island Historical Preservation Society.”
“You’re a society matron?” he asked, his disbelieving tone clear.
Like blue hair was a requirement for social awareness. “Miss, actually.” She tried a smile and put her hand on her hip. She had nice hips. Men usually noticed. “May I come in?”
He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the door frame. “No.”
“No?”
“I’m busy at the moment. Come back another time.” He started to turn away.
She reached into the briefcase hitched on her shoulder and pulled out a file folder, which she handed him. “But you contacted me. About the renovations to the house?” she added when he remained silent.
Sighing audibly, he reached behind him and flipped a switch, which turned out to belong to a small desk lamp sitting on a sawhorse in the foyer. “My lawyer sent this,” he said, staring at the papers in the file, then flicking his gaze to hers. “I didn’t contact you.”
Silver. His eyes were a cool and piercing silver.
Again, she’d known this both from his recent notoriety courtesy of twenty-four-hour cable news and from the research she’d done on him. But the images hadn’t done him justice. The pictures weren’t full of annoyance and sensual power. Nor had she been prepared for the breath-stealing impact of having that gaze focused on her. Not to mention the fact that those eyes were surrounded by a lean face, the sculpted jaw shadowed by dark stubble and tons of tousled, wavy black hair.
She shivered. And not in a bad way.
Clearing her throat, she tried to remember she was there on business. “As your lawyer is no doubt aware—even if you aren’t—all renovations to Batherton House must be approved by the committee before any work can be done.”
“So?”
“Your neighbors heard hammering.”
“What neighbors? The property encompasses three acres.”
“But past the intimidating, spooky and overgrown bushes and trees, there are houses on either side of you. You just can’t see them.” She smiled in the face of his frustration. “Sound tends to echo out here on the island.” She accepted the documents he thrust back into her hand. “I thought I should come out here personally and take a look at your plans.”
She could practically see the wheels in his brain spinning, striving desperately to find a way to get rid of her. She found his efforts surprising and interesting. Very few men had the urge to slam the door in her face.
And not just because she was the sheriff’s only daughter.
“Do you always come to business meetings at nearly nine at night, dressed like that?” he asked, drawing his eyebrows together.
“I preserve the past, Mr. Kendrick,” she said huskily, stepping closer, so that their bodies nearly touched. “But I live very much in the present.”
His eyes shone with interest for a split second, then he stepped back.
She walked past him, the faint scent of whiskey brushing by her nose. Drinking alone in a dark old house? Aidan Kendrick certainly lived up to his eccentric reputation.
“I bet you were surprised by the working electrical system,” she said, walking across the foyer’s wood floors and into the parlor, where she flipped on the switch for the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. “Old Doc Marcus replaced it about twenty years ago.”
“Nothing surprises me, Miss Caldwell.” He paused. “At least not until you appeared on my porch.”
Smiling, she glanced over her shoulder at him. “I have that effect on some men.”
He nearly succeeding in looking amused. “I’ll bet.”
She wandered around the room, noting the stacks of boxes in one corner, the collection of hand and power tools gathered in another. Wondering about the lack of furniture, she strolled past him. She peeked into the dining room on the opposite side of the foyer, but finding nothing but a creaking and broken chandelier and an impressive collection of cobwebs, she moved into the central hallway and headed toward the back of the house, where she knew the kitchen was located.
Here, at least, there was a battered oak table and a set of chairs that looked reasonably sturdy. There was also evidence that someone actually lived in the house.
A brand-new stainless-steel refrigerator took up one corner. Empty water bottles were strewn across the scarred, yellowing, linoleum countertops. A partial loaf of bread sat next to a plate bearing a half-eaten ham sandwich. A nearly empty bottle of whiskey rested beside a stack of red plastic cups.
The whole place was depressing. It was hard to believe the Atlantic Ocean ebbed and flowed only a few blocks away.
She lowered herself into one of the chairs, set her briefcase beside her, then looked up at him. “It was rude of you not to invite me in. I thought you were from Atlanta.”
He frowned. “I am.”
“They never taught you Southern hospitality up there?”
“We’re a rare breed, I guess,” he said, his sarcasm clear. “For instance, we rarely come uninvited to someone’s house, then walk around like we own the place.”
She shrugged. “I came to see the house. I didn’t see any point in not getting started. Do you ever offer uninvited guests something to drink?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I have whiskey and water.”
She needed water for her dry mouth. Heavens, the man was so tempting. But she knew he’d smirk at that request. “I’ll have whiskey.”
“One finger or two?”
“One.”
Without comment, he moved to the counter, then poured a splash of the amber liquid into a fresh plastic cup. When he returned to her, he held out the cup.
She didn’t quite suppress a wince. “No ice?”
“I haven’t hooked up the ice maker yet.”
She took the cup, glanced into it, then tossed back the contents in one swallow. Her throat burned, then her chest. But she didn’t cough or flinch.
On occasion, she liked the rich, smoky taste of whiskey. However, she preferred it with a serious game of poker. Or a hot fire and a warm guy. Or, even better, a hot guy and a blazing fire.
“Do I pass?” she asked, handing him back the cup.
“Pass what?”
“The test on not being afraid of you.”
“I’m not testing you,” he said, his annoyance intensifying. “I’m not doing anything with you.”
But you could be. She’d never gone after a guy who clearly wanted to
