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A Small-Town Homecoming
Terry McLaughlin
He’s wrong for her in every way, right? All architect Tess has ever wanted is to open her own design firm. So she’s thrilled when she wins a coveted waterfront project. She’s less thrilled to be working with rebellious contractor John Jameson Quinn! Tess doesn’t go for brooding bad boys – especially one who isn’t shy about going after what he wants. And he wants Tess. Never mind that he’s got a scandalous past to overcome and a daughter to raise.Quinn follows his own drumbeat. Only now Tess is starting to hear it too… Can they build a love to last?




“I like a man who’s honest about his bad intentions.”
A corner of Quinn’s mouth tugged to the side in something that wasn’t quite a grin.
Something dangerous, something potent. “If I ever have any of those, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
“It’s a deal.”
Quinn lifted a hand to Tess’s sweater and ran his fingertips from button to button, along the opening.
“All right, then,” he said. And then he grew very still, as only he could do, and looked at Tess in that way that made everything in her aware of everything about him. Of his height, and his breadth, and his strength, and his ridiculous, impossible appeal.
Dear Reader,
One of my writer’s perks is having an excuse to daydream about things that interest me—I can always claim my woolgathering is productive when I weave various elements into the stories I tell. Since one of my interests is building design, I knew that eventually I’d create a character who works as an architect.
Tess Roussel in A Small-Town Homecoming is a woman accustomed to seeing her plans followed and her sketches become reality. I had a great time pairing her with Quinn, a man who is determined to build things his way. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the fun as this quietly intense hero rocks the self-assured heroine’s world to its foundations.
I’d love to hear from my readers! Please come for a visit to my website at www.terrymclaughlin.com, or find me at www.wetnoodleposse.com or www.superauthors.com, or write to me at PO Box 5838, Eureka, CA 95502, USA.
Wishing you happily-ever-after reading,
Terry McLaughlin

About the Author
TERRY McLAUGHLIN spent a dozen years teaching a variety of subjects, including anthropology, music appreciation, English, drafting, drama and history, to a variety of students from kindergarten to college before she discovered romance novels and fell in love with love stories. When she’s not reading or writing, she enjoys traveling and planning house and garden improvement projects. Terry lives with her husband in Northern California on a tiny ranch in the redwoods. Visit her at www.terrymclaughlin.com.

A SMALL-TOWN

HOMECOMING



TERRY McLAUGHLIN






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For the baristas at Gold Rush, who help keep me
going with smiles and Cold Snap Mochas.

CHAPTER ONE
TESS ROUSSEL sidled through her Main Street office doorway a quarter of an hour past the posted opening time. She maneuvered a stylish leather briefcase, two rolled elevation plans, an oversize clutch purse, a custard-filled maple bar and her triple-butterscotch latte past the jamb, but coffee slopped through the cup lid and splattered over her gray suede heels.
“Not again.” She inhaled April air smelling of last night’s special at the trattoria across the street and this morning’s catch on the docks two blocks over. And then she blew it out with a disgusted sigh. “Damn parking meters.”
Shoving the door closed with her hip, she flipped a row of light switches with an elbow. It wasn’t that she was too cheap to spend her work breaks feeding coins into one of the meters stationed along Main Street, although the daily expense competed with the cost of her favorite caffeinated beverages. And it wasn’t that she was too forgetful to deal with the meters’ payment schedule, especially after four parking tickets had forced her to devise an alarm system that could penetrate her deepest levels of concentration and summon her from her design work.
It was the principle of the thing. Potential customers shouldn’t have to pay for the privilege of popping into the Victorian-era storefronts crowding Carnelian Cove’s marina district. And the merchants shouldn’t have to pay for the convenience of parking near their own places of business. And she shouldn’t have to make the hike from the stingy public lot three long blocks down the street. And definitely not twice on such a drizzly morning, just because she had too much stuff to tote safely in one load. And not in these heels.
Although the shoes attached to the heels were simply fabulous.
Her stylish heels clicked across the scarred plank floor, echoing in the high-ceilinged space. Usually she enjoyed the ambience of her one-of-a-kind office—the subtle industrial spotlights punctuating the softer illumination of period fanlights, the brick side walls separating her office from the used bookstore on one side and the gardening boutique on the other, the touches of sharp black lines and bright red paint and delicate greenery. But this morning, in the fog-dimmed daylight trickling through the street-front bay windows, everything looked a little worn-out and washed-up.
Kind of like the way she’d be feeling if she let herself dwell too long on her problems. She dumped the briefcase, purse and elevations on her drafting table and scowled at today’s project: a contractor’s rough sketch for a bowling alley renovation she’d agreed to transform into a permit-ready plan. Not exactly the glamorous career she’d envisioned while slaving through her university design classes. And nothing like the exciting projects she’d worked on during her seven years with one of San Francisco’s most prestigious architectural firms.
Her father, a dashing, aristocratic Frenchman whose work had dazzled the city’s art connoisseurs before his untimely death, would have shuddered at the bourgeois assignment. Her mother, owner of the Bay area’s finest art gallery, would probably cringe at the dull practicality of the finish details.
But drawing restroom updates and adding more diner space to Cove Lanes was the only kind of work available in this compact northern California town on the Pacific coast. She knew she should be grateful for the crumbs the local contractors had tossed her way since she’d arrived a year ago, though she understood why they were so quick to give her this particular share of their business: builders wanted to build, not fuss over paperwork.
Yes, she understood—more than any of them realized. As much as she enjoyed the process of design, of crafting neat, two-dimensional schemes that would be transformed into three-dimensional works of art, it was nothing compared to the thrill of helping to shape her creation on the job site. The buzz and clang of equipment, the smell of sawdust and solvents, the skeleton and organs and nerves and skin of studs and plumbing and wiring and siding—every step was fascinating and exciting and hers. Every detail and decision was hers to choose and make, and the sense of power and control was addictive. Every line and corner and arc sprang from her imagination, and watching it all rise from the ground was a rush beyond compare.
She switched on her music system and selected her favorite Miles Davis album—something cool to match the day, a bluesy tune to match her mood. No one in Carnelian Cove considered hiring an architect when there were plenty of contractors willing to secure a building permit with the inexpensive—and unimaginative—basics. That’s how things had always been done, and most people couldn’t see a reason to do things differently. She’d known it might take a while to change their minds, and she’d been prepared to watch her savings dwindle during the adjustment period. But she hadn’t realized there might never be any genuine design business for her architecture firm.
Her very own firm, her long-time dream: Roussel Designs. She sighed and carried her maple bar and her cooling latte across her office to study the model occupying the prime real estate in the windows fronting Main Street: the model for Tidewaters. Retail spaces for six smart boutiques and offices, a midsize restaurant at dock level and five spacious multilevel condominiums above. A wonderful boardwalk fronting the bay and an open, parklike space surrounding the parking area—ample, meter-free parking. A harmonious blend of commercial use and stylish housing, a contemporary building reflecting local traditions, an ideal example for future waterfront redevelopment.
And it was absolutely, positively gorgeous.
She bit into her pastry and licked creamy custard from the corner of her mouth. She’d get Tidewaters built, all right. She’d pull it from her imagination and raise it from the ground, and then they’d see the three-dimensional proof of what she had inside her. She’d show them all what she could do—everyone back in San Francisco who’d warned her she’d never make it on her own, everyone here in the Cove who didn’t think an architect could make a difference, everyone in her family who’d patronized her ambitions and doubted her abilities.
Everyone but her grandmother, Geneva Chandler. Grandmère didn’t need proof of her granddaughter’s talent and determination. She’d already put up the financial backing for the construction and had been calling in her political markers for this building she wanted as much as Tess did herself. They’d make a hell of a team.
Tess shifted her shoulders, uncomfortable with the possibility of comparisons to Geneva Chandler. She loved the old woman, but her grandmother could be powerfully intimidating.
A streak of sunlight pierced the low-lying fog along the bay, and the interior of Tess’s office brightened. The fog would clear by midmorning, and another gorgeous spring day would lift her spirits. Good weather for building something.
And time to get started on the day’s work.
She turned to face her desk, ready to draw the bowling alley plans on her computer’s CAD system, and saw her answering machine’s red eye blinking from beneath a messy stack of bills. The display listed the number for Chandler House.
“Tess, dear,” scolded Geneva’s recorded voice. “You’re late.”
“I know.” Tess snatched at the bills before they toppled over the edge of the desk.
“If you’re going to advertise office hours, you must make more of an effort to keep them,” the machine continued. “It’s part of a polished professional appearance.”
“Get to the point,” Tess muttered.
“But that’s not why I called.” Grandmère paused for dramatic effect. “I want you to cancel your morning appointments—”
“As if I had any,” Tess said with a sigh.
“—and meet me here, at Chandler House. I’ll expect you by eleven. No later than eleven,” Grandmère emphasized. “You can practice your punctuality on one of your relatives, who manages to love you in spite of your shortcomings.”
Tidewaters. She had news—that had to be the reason for this summons. Tess pressed a hand to her jittery stomach and sank into her desk chair.
A city council meeting was scheduled for tonight, and the waterfront zoning issue was on the agenda. Again. Grandmère had been pulling strings behind the scenes, postponing a vote until she was sure the results would go her way. She still carried plenty of political clout in this town, and several of the council members already agreed with her plans.
They were right to agree—Tidewaters would be a genuine asset to the city. It would develop a weed-choked gap along the waterfront, provide new jobs and help reinvigorate the quaint, older business section of town—and all on someone else’s dime. Tess had been astounded that anyone would refuse Geneva Chandler’s offer to build such a wonderful, beautiful place in the heart of her community. But the opposition to development had been fierce. There were many here who wished things to remain as they were, who viewed progress with suspicion and the land at water’s edge as untouchable.
Tess set the remains of the maple bar aside, wiped her sticky fingers and tried to concentrate on her work. But she couldn’t shake the case of nerves or the unsettling swings from elation to dread that kept her stomach churning. Even if her grandmother had won this battle, even if construction were about to begin, Tess wondered if the war over the waterfront would quietly move underground.
And she didn’t like the idea of building on such a shaky foundation.
PRECISELY one hour later, Tess drove her roadster up the long, winding approach to Chandler House. Early shrub roses edged the drive, and puffs of cotton-candy blooms dotted the rhododendron bushes spreading beneath the lacy canopy of a redwood grove. With each bend in the road, she caught a glimpse of the creamy yellow shingle-style mansion rising at the edge of Whaler’s Bluff.
Her great-grandfather, an ambitious man who rose from lumberjack to mill owner, had purchased the site and planned for a great house overlooking the growing town. His son, a clever man who launched several local businesses and invested in others, created that house to showcase the family’s wealth. Both men had used their money—and that of the heiresses they married—to benefit Carnelian Cove and their own positions in the community. Both had filled various city political offices; both had served as mayor.
Tess’s mother had spent her childhood in the fairytale house, her room overlooking the crescent-shaped sprawl of Carnelian Cove. The building’s fanciful bays and jutting windows, its wide porches and shadowed niches had filled Tess’s imagination with romantic scenes during the holidays and summers she’d spent here as a girl, and she wondered—as she so often did lately—whether this grand old place was the source of her fascination with architecture.
She slowed as she passed through the gap in an imposing black iron gate, admiring the stone steps that marched from the leaded-glass entry to meet the dramatic sweep of pristine lawn. Pale green ferns spilled from wicker stands, and the porch swing sported bright new pillows striped in sherbet shades. One of Grandmère’s fussy, yappy little terriers dashed to the top of the steps and sounded the alarm.
Though she’d have preferred to continue to the rear service area and enter through the modest kitchen door, Tess pulled beneath the stately porte cochere shading the side entrance. She was a grown woman now—and gathering every one of her thirty-one years about her like a shield. She didn’t need the additional fortification of a cookie stolen from Julia’s fat jar to help her face her formidable grandmother. But she did take a moment to run a comb through her hair and freshen her lipstick before she stepped from her car. Geneva Chandler wasn’t simply Grandmère this afternoon—she was a business associate.
The heavy oak door opened and two more yipping, beribboned dogs escaped to circle Tess’s car. Geneva stood in the doorway, a tall woman whose regal stance was softened by pink cashmere, pearls and a welcoming smile. “Right on time,” she said.
“I can manage when it matters.” Tess grinned and waded through the pack of terriers sniffing at her ankles. “And I was hoping you might reward me with lunch.”
“I might at that, if you don’t mind sharing a plate of cheese and fruit.” Geneva wrapped her in a quick, tight hug that smelled of Chanel and felt like summer. “Julia has the afternoon off.”
If Julia had prepared the plate before she’d left for the day, the cheese would be brie and the fruit would be fresh and arranged with artistic flair. Grandmère’s cook may have rapped Tess’s fingers with a wooden spoon more than once when they’d inched toward the cake frosting or strayed into the sugar bowl, but she’d always found time for a kitchen visit, inviting Tess to perch on one of the tall stools around the gigantic island, oohing and aahing over the news of the day while she stirred the makings of something fabulous in one of her huge crockery pots.
“Sounds like you might be needing some company,” Tess said as she stepped into the cool side hall.
“Depends on the company.”
“I could manage to be on my best behavior.”
“Don’t beg, Tess, dear,” Geneva said with a shiver. “It’s so … unnerving.”
Tess laughed and bent to scoop one of the terriers into the crook of her arm and then grimaced as a quick pink tongue scored a direct hit on her lower lip. “Ugh.”
“You’re getting slow in your old age.” Geneva turned and headed down the narrow servants’ passage. “Please wipe your mouth and join me in my office.”
Tess set down the dog, tightened her fingers around her purse and followed her grandmother. A summons to the office had rarely ended well. Grandmère had always favored that spot for issuing difficult requests or doling out punishments.
Her grandmother ushered her into the small, thickly paneled room and then pulled the tall pocket door closed on its silent track. Tess’s heels sank into the thick Aubusson carpet, and she inhaled the familiar scents of old books and furniture oil. Sunlight shot through the ruby reds and cobalt blues of the stained-glass panes above the lace curtains and pinned rainbows on the portraits of Chandlers in military uniforms and Victorian gowns. The spired mantel clock, wedged between a pair of smudge-snouted Staffordshire spaniels, ticked away the seconds.
“Have a seat, Tess.” Geneva crossed to a cabinet. “This won’t take long.”
Tess perched on the edge of one of the delicate chairs near Geneva’s desk. Neatly stacked on the desk’s surface were correspondence and newsletters, no doubt from the Historical Society, the Garden Club, the Ladies’ League, the University Foundation Committee. As one of the Cove’s leading citizens, Geneva liked to keep a finger in every social pie in the county.
“I know it’s a bit early for this,” she said as she dribbled sherry into two dainty goblets, “but I think we can indulge ourselves just this once.”
Tess hesitated before taking the glass. She rarely drank—her mother had done enough of that for everyone in the family. She stared at the golden liquid in the elaborately etched crystal and told herself there was no harm in it, just this once. She sipped and braced for the burn along her throat, and then she lowered the drink to her lap and waited for her grandmother to explain the reason for her summons.
“I spoke with Arlie Ratliff again today.” Geneva settled in one of the high-backed chairs flanking the fireplace and regarded Tess over the rim of her glass. “He’s had a change of heart.”
Tess clutched the arm of her chair. The city councilman had been on the fence about changing the zoning of Geneva’s waterfront property to allow for commercial development. “Would this change have anything to do with Tidewaters?”
“Yes. He assures me he’ll vote for rezoning at tonight’s council meeting.”
“And we’ll have the building permit in hand by tomorrow afternoon.” Elated, Tess raised her glass in a toast. “You did it.”
“Arlie owed me a favor or two.” Geneva swirled the sherry in her glass with a sly smile. “I simply had to jog his memory a bit. And then promise him I’d forget all about it myself.”
Tess held up a hand. “Whatever it was, I don’t want to hear it.”
“Are you sure?” Geneva’s smile widened. “It would make for some excellent lunch conversation before it gets wiped from my memory for good.”
“Geneva Chandler, you can be one hell of a scary lady.”
“Thank you, dear.”
Tess rose and paced the room, unable to sit still. “I can’t believe it. Tidewaters—it’s actually going to happen. I’m going to build it.”
“Yes.” Geneva lowered her glass to the piecrust table beside her chair. “In a manner of speaking.”
“It’s going to be gorgeous. Fabulous.”
“Tess …”
“I know you’ve seen the model often enough—and I did a fabulous job on that, too, if I do say so myself, but—”
“Tess.” Geneva raised a hand. “Please. Sit down.”
Something in the tone of her grandmother’s voice had Tess’s stomach jackknifing to her knees. “What is it?” she asked as she sank back into her chair.
“It’s about the contractor I’ve chosen for the project.”
“You’ve chosen—” Tess took a deep breath, slamming a lid on her temper and her anxiety. “You promised to consult with me on that. I explained how important it was to find someone who could work with me to implement my vision. Our vision.”
“Well, yes, I did. But that was before my meeting with Arlie.”
“I see.” Tess set her glass on the desk. “Someone else helped him change his mind.”
“It’s not what you’re thinking.” Geneva twisted her fingers through her pearls.
“You couldn’t possibly know what I’m thinking.” Or what I’m feeling. Tess sucked in another long breath and ordered herself, again, to stay calm. “This is someone I’ll be working with so closely it’ll be as if we’re the same person. Someone who’ll have to practically read my mind and help fashion what’s inside me.”
“I’m sure you two will figure things out as you go.”
Tess narrowed her eyes. “Who is it?”
“Quinn.”
“Quinn.” The name was like a physical blow.
“Arlie says he’s very good.”
“He wasn’t so good a few years ago.” Quinn had skipped town after an accident on a job site had put one of his crew in the hospital. “And he’s an alcoholic.”
“Recovered.”
Tess knew all about “recovered” alcoholics. Those in her experience had never managed to stay recovered for long, no matter how much the people who loved them might beg. She rose from her seat to prowl around the room, swamped with ghostlike reactions, trapped in a never-ending loop of helplessness and resentment, tempted to gnaw a fingernail as she used to. But the moment she’d raise her hand toward her mouth, Grandmère would click her tongue and shake her head. That, too, was part of the old patterns.
Geneva picked up her sherry and took another sip. “I’m convinced Quinn’s the right man for the job.”
“Because you have so much experience with this sort of thing.”
“Because I have a great deal of experience reading people, yes.” The woman in pastel pink straightened her spine and leveled a severe look at Tess. “Quinn has assured me he can complete this job on time and on budget. And I believe him.”
“You’ve met with him?” A dull pain layered over the shock of betrayal. Her grandmother had done this without consulting her, knowing how much this project meant to her. Knowing how many dreams she’d poured into her sketches and plans.
“Yes.”
“I see.” Tess stared out the window, watching the waves beating against the rocks. “It’s decided, then.”
“I’ve offered him the contract. I expect his answer by the end of the day.”
“I’m sure you’ll get the answer you want.” A job this size would provide steady employment through the entire building season—and plenty of corners to cut to pad the contractor’s profit.
She turned to face her tough-as-nails grandmother. “You always do, Mémère.”

CHAPTER TWO
QUINN SLUMPED against the toolbox wedged in one side of his pickup bed, legs hanging over the edge of the open tailgate, and scanned three acres of weed-covered ground studded with refuse. From the cracked curb on the Front Street boundary to the gap-toothed riprap edging the foot of a disintegrating dock, the ground rose and fell in random, jagged waves.
Tomorrow he’d haul in an office trailer and set up shop. In one week, he’d have this place scraped clean and the footings ready to dig. By the end of the month he’d have gravel spread and neat piles of form boards and rebar placed and ready for the foundation work. And before the end of the year he’d be putting the finishing details on the finest building Carnelian Cove had seen erected in over fifty years.
He inhaled deeply, enjoying the cool blend of trampled Scotch broom, sea-salted air and the rich tang of tobacco smoke from the cigarette dangling between his fingers. And then he braced while a sharp-taloned need clawed its way through him. His personal battle with his alcohol addiction was a day-by-day siege, but nothing was proving as difficult as trying to deny his craving for tobacco.
Denial—a daily exercise and a constant companion of late. The tamped-down disappointments and regrets, the low-grade itching and yearning for something—for anything—better than what he had, colored his existence and kept him moving in the right direction. That and the daughter waiting for him at home.
Rosie wanted him to quit smoking, and he’d do it for her. He’d do anything for her—anything within reason. She needed that from him right now, needed his reassurance as much as his steadiness. She’d lost so much lately—hell, she’d lost just about everything she had to lose during her short life. He had so much to make up to her.
He studied the thin stream of smoke curling from the cigarette. Rosie had been five when his drinking had driven his ex-wife away, and Nancy had taken their daughter with her to Oregon. He’d never forget the way Rosie had clung to his pant leg that last night, sobbing, promising to be good, promising to remember to feed her turtle if only she could stay in her room, stay in her new school with her new friends. Begging him to come with them when it was time to go.
He’d promised to feed her turtle for her. But he’d been too wrapped up in his own misery, too drunk to remember, and he’d let her pet die. His daughter’s dry-eyed acceptance of this betrayal had been the turning point. He hadn’t had a drink since the turtle’s funeral.
Now Rosie’s mom had a new man in her life, a guy who didn’t want a ten-year-old cramping his style. And since his ex had never been the kind of woman who could function for long without a man, she’d sent her daughter packing, back to her father. Just for a while, Nancy had told him, just until this new relationship settled into something permanent. In the meantime, it was Quinn’s turn to deal with Rosie.
So he’d deal.
He’d had her four months now. Four long, difficult months of figuring out a new routine, of learning how to balance the long hours on the job with the responsibilities of a full-time parent. Of watching Rosie struggling with another start in a new school and the uncertain business of making new friends. Trying to deal with him.
Four long months to decide he wanted his own new relationship to be permanent, too. He was going to keep Rosie here, with him.
He sighed and fingered the cigarette in his hand, fighting the urge to raise it to his lips for just one puff, and then a streak of scarlet roared past and slowed near the end of the block. He narrowed his eyes as a familiar BMW Z4 roadster bumped over the gap in the curb at the entrance to the construction site and edged onto a patch of rough gravel.
Tess Roussel, architect. The nominal head of this project, though they both knew she couldn’t make a move without him.
The driver-side door swung open and one long, slim, short-skirted leg stretched toward the ground. Nice. Too bad it was attached at the hip to a harpy with an agenda.
She rose, slowly, and slammed the door behind her, pausing to glare at him across the ruins. He knew her eyes were the color of bourbon and every bit as seductive, that her scent could make his mouth water and send his system into overdrive. And the fact that he’d wanted her the moment he’d set eyes on her didn’t mean spit. He’d been controlling far more serious thirsts for years.
She strode toward him on her ridiculous shoes, risking injury to one of her shapely ankles with every wobble of those skyscraper heels. The breeze off the bay tossed her short black hair across her forehead, and she lifted an elegant, long-fingered hand to brush it back into place. She wore a no-nonsense gray suit, the kind of suit a woman wore when she wanted to look like a man. The kind of suit that clung to lush, womanly curves and accentuated the fact that she was a female.
She halted in front of him and raised one of her perfectly arched brows. “Quinn.”
“Roussel.”
She lowered her gaze to his cigarette and slowly lifted it again to meet his. “Smoking on the job site?” she asked.
He brought the cigarette to his lips just to watch those whiskey-colored eyes darken with displeasure. “Against the rules?”
“Are you asking for a clarification?”
“Figured that’s why you’re here.” He squinted at her through the smoke. “To set things straight,” he said.
“Plenty of time for that later.” She slipped her hands into her jacket pockets and turned toward the bay. “It’s a great site.”
“Best in town.”
“It will be.”
She angled her face in his direction, waiting for him to comment, but he simply met and held her stare.
God, she was a looker. He’d mostly seen her in passing, striding down Main Street as if she owned the strip, or crossing those long legs on a tall stool at one of the waterfront bars. And he’d noticed the way men’s gazes followed her, tracked her, undressed her, coveted her. A real heartbreaker. A real ball-buster, too. The kind of woman who enjoyed the attention, as long as it was on her terms.
He’d never had the chance to study her like this, up close. Right now, with the sun sinking over her shoulder and setting the highlights in her hair aflame, with her sculpted chin tipped up in challenge and those thick, sooty lashes drifting low over her wide-set eyes, she was even more of a looker than he’d realized.
Her gaze settled on the six-pack nestled in a rope coil on the truck bed behind him, and her glossy red lips thinned in disapproval.
Beer for the crew, a small celebration for the big job ahead. She needn’t worry—he had no intention of joining them in the drinking part of the festivities. Not that it was any of her business. “Something bothering you?” he asked.
“Yeah.” She shifted her stance and narrowed her eyes. “Plenty.”
“Same goes.”
“Oh, I doubt that.” Her mouth turned up at the corners in a catlike smile. “I don’t think it’s the same kind of bother at all.”
He slid to the ground and moved in close, close enough to note the slight flutter of her lashes and hear the sharp and sudden intake of her breath. His blood heated with something more than the basic tension between them. In her heels, she was nearly eye to eye with him, and he wondered how she’d fit alongside him if he snaked an arm around her narrow waist and hauled her to him. “No harm in a little creative thinking,” he said.
“Is that so?”
He dropped his gaze to her mouth, testing her. Testing himself. He wanted this job, damn it. He’d just signed a contract saying he’d take it on. He wanted to earn a chunk of money so he wouldn’t have to worry about his ex’s first legal maneuver in the inevitable custody war. He wanted his daughter to be proud of the work he was doing, even if that work was going to mean long hours away from home, away from her. The last thing he needed was another battle on his hands with another woman who could pile on the guilt of his past failures.
A woman who could give him one more thing to crave.
He looked Tess straight in the eye. “Yeah.”
“All right, then.” She turned to go, tossing a wicked smile over her shoulder. “See you around, Quinn.”
He dropped the cigarette and crushed it into the ground. “I’ll be here.”
LATER THAT EVENING, after she’d changed into her most comfortable jeans, her softest designer loafers and dined on a frisée salad with her special raspberry vinaigrette dressing, Tess drove toward Driftwood. The residential area south of the town center offered a certain rustic charm, particularly where the streetlights thinned and the pavement faded to crunchy gravel roads, where lacy-branched redwoods crowded the shoreline and cast their long shadows over wave-splashed rocks. The neighborhoods she passed wore a jumble of styles, and the houses perching in the open spaces among the trees often reflected the personalities of their owners rather than the period of their construction.
Normally Tess enjoyed a trip through Driftwood at this time of night, when the amber glow of early-evening lamplight provided glimpses of prairie-style mantelpieces, paneled doors, arching doorways and coved ceilings before the home owners drew their curtains to shut out the dark. She might have enjoyed restoring one of the vintage houses in this part of town, but she’d found a place that suited her along the river, a more practical house that wouldn’t require messy repairs or put a dent in her budget making them.
Tonight she wasn’t in the mood to notice much more than the widening pothole on Daylily Lane and her own negative attitude. Her chat with Quinn had siphoned most of the joy from what was supposed to be the first triumph of her professional career.
All she’d wanted was some time alone on the site to look at the place and to know—to truly believe—that what was in her imagination was actually, finally going to appear. A few minutes to let her imagination loose, to fill that space with all the possibilities she held inside. Her very own creation, her very own miracle—hers and hers alone, for the first and last time.
Only it hadn’t been hers, because she hadn’t been alone. She’d been forced to share it with Quinn. Just as she would be forced to share every step of its creation with him for the next nine months, to maintain her vision through his interpretation and consult with him on its progress. To share the end result, too: her design, his construction.
Quinn Construction. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel. He had a lot riding on this project, too. He was rehabbing his professional reputation as well as his personal life. If he pulled off this job—the largest in the Cove at the moment—without a hitch, he’d be well on his way to establishing himself as a competent builder, not to mention banking a sizable profit.
And in order to maximize that profit, he’d want to complete the job as quickly and as cheaply as possible. Which meant they’d argue over the specs. Contractors always tried to shave their costs by changing the specs—after they’d used those same specs to draw up their bids for the project in the first place. She wanted Tidewaters to be spectacular; he’d want it to be finished.
If only he weren’t so … so … so damned attractive. Those craggy, lived-in looks, that haunted, stoic air. Thick black hair layered in unruly waves, sensuous lips above a dented chin. Yum. Even the intense gaze he aimed at her with those shockingly blue, deep-set eyes could send tiny shivers skittering up her spine at the same time it ratcheted up her annoyance. She’d always been a sucker for a bad boy, and Quinn was as bad as they came.
Beyond bad. A disaster, considering his problem with drinking and her problem with drinkers.
Besides, lusting after a business partner couldn’t be good for a working relationship, especially one that was so important to them both. Especially when that relationship threatened to be antagonistic. Although she didn’t intend to be antagonistic … not at first, anyway. She’d be generous and let him make the first wrong move.
Smiling grimly in anticipation of the coming battles, she pulled into the narrow gravel drive beside Charlie Keene’s tiny bungalow and plucked a dog biscuit from the box tucked behind her seat. Then she climbed from her car, lifting a pink bakery bag high above her head.
“Down,” she ordered the black Labrador retriever streaking across the shadowy yard. “Stay down, or you won’t get your bribe, you fur-faced shakedown artist.”
Charlie’s obnoxious pet rammed its wide black nose into her crotch before she could toss the biscuit across the yard. “Good riddance,” she muttered as the dog raced after it, and then she glanced at the muddy paw prints on her shoes with a sigh. At least the monster hadn’t left a matching set on her jeans and jacket. Charlie’s fiancé, Jack Maguire, must have been making some progress with the obedience training.
He’d certainly made some progress with Charlie’s house. As Tess strode up the narrow path toward her friend’s freshly painted forest-green front door, she noted the neatly clipped lawn and the new willow tree staked in one corner of the yard. Charlie hadn’t done much more than dump her junk in the place after she’d bought it last year, but Jack was slowly and surely turning the fixer-upper into a charming home they’d share after their wedding. Charlie had always needed a keeper, and in Jack she’d found a man who liked to keep things the way they ought to be kept.
Actually, it had been Jack who’d found Charlie. He’d arrived in the Cove nearly three months ago, investigating the area’s sand and gravel supply for his employer. Within two weeks of checking out the local situation—and meeting Charlie—he’d quit his job, made an offer to buy out her competition and slyly cornered her with a deal she couldn’t refuse: combining their two ready mix companies with a wedding. At first she’d fought him with every weapon in her arsenal, but in the end she’d agreed to a mutually beneficial business arrangement and accepted his marriage proposal.
For a man whose words tended to ramble along in a syrupy drawl, Jack Maguire could do some fast talking when it suited him.
Tess lifted the period knocker and let it fall against the hammered plate, pleased with the solid thwump of the heavy iron. The man had taste. He also had an ego the size of the Pacific, but at least that Southern-fried charm of his helped soften the most outrageous excesses.
More than she could say for the prickly contractor she’d had to deal with before dinner. Nothing soft or charming there.
Charlie opened the door. “Thought you’d never get here,” she said as she snatched the bag from Tess’s hands and tugged her inside. “Addie brought a stack of bridal magazines, and she’s making me look at pictures again. Tell her to stop, or I’m going to shoot you both right now and eat all the cookies myself.”
Tess tossed her jacket over the arm of a club chair and settled beside their friend, Addie Sutton, on the plump sofa. Addie owned a stained-glass shop a block from Tess’s office, where she was creating some fabulous windows for Tidewaters. She had more artistic talent in her dainty fingers than Tess had in her entire body, and yet Tess loved her in spite of it. Everyone loved Addie, in the same way everyone loved puppies and pizza. It was inevitable.
“Where’s Jack?” Tess asked. “I brought one of Marie-Claudette’s cookies just for him. One shaped like a big, fat mouth.”
“Baseball practice.” Addie turned a thick, glossy magazine in Tess’s direction and pointed to a photo of a model buried in clouds of white tulle and baby’s breath. “Isn’t this gorgeous?”
“Yeah, if you’ve got something to hide—like the bride and half the wedding party.”
Leave it to Addie, who could pass for a French bisque doll with her spun-gold hair and long-lashed eyes, to go for the ruffles. But anyone who knew Charlie knew she was allergic to frills. Tess took the magazine and flipped through more pages, looking for something sleek and simple. A classic gown with a touch of pizzazz or a hint of drama, just to keep things interesting. “Do we have a date yet? Or a venue?”
Charlie shrugged. “I’m working on it.”
“That’s what you said last week.” Tess paused to admire a striking bouquet of calla lilies. “You mustn’t be working very hard.”
“Don’t nag.”
“Don’t worry. I figure Maudie and Ben are double-teaming you on a daily basis.” Charlie’s mother, Maudie, had recently announced her own engagement to Ben Chandler, Geneva’s relation by marriage and a distant cousin of Tess’s. But Maudie had made it clear she wouldn’t begin planning for her own wedding until she’d seen her daughter walk down the aisle.
Tess turned the page and sighed over a picture of a dark-haired bride in an elegant sheath with a plunging back. “How about this?”
Addie craned her neck to study the shot. “It would look great … on you.”
“Yes, it would. Too bad I’m not in the market right now.” She closed the magazine with a sigh and slumped against the cushions. “I’ve got news.”
Charlie leaned a shoulder against the arched entry to her dining room. “Champagne news or beer news?”
“Beer doesn’t go with cookies.” Addie wrinkled her turned-up nose in disgust.
“Neither does champagne,” Tess said, “but hey, don’t let that stop us. If you’ve got any,” she added.
“Please.” Charlie grinned. “Jack would be insulted to hear you question the quality of his wine cellar.”
“Jack’s not here.” Tess raised one eyebrow. “And since when did he start missing out on an evening with you?”
“Since he got sucked into his own plot to prove his community spirit and volunteered to coach Little League.” Charlie straightened and headed toward the kitchen. “I’ll go get the party plastic and be right back.”
“What are we celebrating?” Addie tucked a long blond curl behind one ear. “Is this about your waterfront project? About the windows?”
Addie’s shop forever teetered on the brink of bankruptcy, but that wasn’t the only reason Tess had incorporated touches of stained glass in her design. They added a vintage detail that would help the building blend with its Victorian-era neighbors.
Charlie walked into the room carrying a bottle and a small stack of plastic cups and paper napkins. “I hear Quinn got the job.”
“So much for my big news.”
Charlie shrugged. “Small town.”
“Big mouths.” Tess took the napkins and fanned them across the coffee table. “Bigger noses. I don’t know why The Cove Press bothers competing.”
“Isn’t Quinn the contractor who left town a few years ago?” asked Addie. “Something about an accident on a job site?”
“Yeah.” Tess sighed dramatically. “But he’s back.”
“Heard his wife left him.” Addie frowned. “Heard he had a drinking problem, too.”
“Had being the important word here.” Charlie popped the cork from the bottle. “Jack likes him.”
“Jack likes everyone,” Tess pointed out. “He’s been seen buying crushed cans from the crazy guy who sells trash down by the wharf. He even continued to like you while you were trying to run him out of town a couple of months ago.”
“You shouldn’t lump Charlie in the same sentence with Crazy Ed.” Addie folded back a page in the magazine on her lap and passed it to Tess. “How about this gown? The lace is so delicate.”
“You shouldn’t lump Charlie in the same sentence as delicate,” Tess said, handing back the magazine.
“Don’t bother showing me,” Charlie mumbled around a mouthful of sugar cookie. “I’m only the bride.”
Tess watched her soon-to-be-married friend stack her booted heels on the rickety coffee table. The tom-boyish redhead would be horrified to hear that her pint-size frame and pixie-style nose were two of the most obvious items on a long list of features that could be termed delicate.
“Isn’t Quinn the guy who drives that big black truck?” asked Addie. “The one with the gold shamrock on the door?”
“That’s him.” Tess scowled. “He was at the site tonight when I swung by to gloat. Spoiled a perfectly good mood.”
“Which happens so rarely.” Addie shot her a sideways glance. “He’s kind of …”
Tess narrowed her eyes. “Kind of what?”
“Kind of … hot.”
“Hot?”
“Hot” Charlie said. “H-O-T. Not that I’d notice, being engaged to someone who’s even hotter.”
“Hot. Huh.” Tess shrugged to prove her disinterest, even if she agreed with her friends. “I suppose. If you go for tall, dark and brooding.”
“Who doesn’t?” Addie shared a knowing grin with Charlie. “Especially you, Tess.”
“Brooding gets old after a while.” Tess straightened with a sigh. “I know I’m getting tired of it myself, tonight. Time for some fun. Time to pick out a dress.”
“And flowers,” Addie said.
Charlie groaned and slumped in her chair. “I thought this was supposed to be a party in honor of Tess’s big news.”
“It is.” Tess poured a half inch of champagne into her cup. “And this is how I want to celebrate.”
“By making me miserable?”
“You know what they say about misery,” Tess said. “It loves company.”
“Thanks a lot,” muttered Charlie.
“Any time.” Tess grabbed a sugar cookie and snuggled back against the sofa cushions. “What are friends for?”

CHAPTER THREE
QUINN EDGED his way through his apartment door that night with his arms full of breakfast supplies and a fast-food dinner. “Hi, Neva.”
“Here, let me take that.” Neva Yergin, his elderly neighbor and part-time sitter, shuffled toward him to take one of the sacks and set it on the narrow counter in his tiny kitchen. “You’re back earlier than I expected.”
“Hope I didn’t interrupt Trivia Maze.”
She shook her head. “Commercial break. But I’d better scoot next door before they start round two.”
“Okay.” He pulled the quart of milk and canned cat food she’d asked him to pick up for her from one of the sacks and set them aside. “How’s that disposal working?”
“Like a charm. Thanks again for fixing it.”
“No problem.”
Neva slipped her things into her bulging tote and headed toward the door. “She got home right on time. Been sitting at that computer all afternoon.”
Quinn stopped short of a sigh. He didn’t approve of Rosie’s method for shutting herself away, but he couldn’t ask Neva to drag his daughter out of her room and force her to find something better to do with her time. His neighbor was doing far too much for him already, more than he could repay with the rent he subsidized, or the occasional repair or sack of groceries.
“Thanks, Neva,” he said as the door closed behind her.
He moved into the cramped space that served as a combination living and dining room and switched off the television. The radiator rattled and wheezed and coughed up traces of mildew and aging plaster. Beyond the tall, grime-streaked window overlooking Third Street, a siren’s wail competed with the hum of passing traffic. Not the best place for raising a kid, but he’d had his own needs in mind when he’d signed the lease for an efficiency apartment two floors above the Karapoulis Travel Agency storefront.
And if they moved away, there’d be no Neva a few steps down the hall to keep an eye on Rosie after school. “Rosie,” he called.
No answer.
He set the bucket of chicken on the table and headed toward his daughter’s room, pausing in the doorway. “Rosie.”
“What do you want?” She sat slumped in her desk chair with her back to him, reading a note on her monitor screen.
“It’s time for dinner.”
“In a minute.”
“Now.”
The only part of her that moved was her finger on the mouse as she clicked to another screen.
“Rosie.”
“What?”
“You didn’t set the table.”
“I didn’t know what time you’d be home.”
“I’m home now.” He held his breath and grasped for patience, trying to avoid another fight. Another scene. There’d been far too many of both since her mother had dumped her on his doorstep. “And it’s time for dinner. Now.”
“Okay.” She clicked to a page with a picture of a wild-haired rock guitarist caught in the glare of a gigantic spotlight. A tidal wave of electronic noise flooded the room.
“Turn that off.” He stepped through the door. “It’ll still be there after you’ve eaten.”
“All right.” She blew out a martyred sigh and whirled in her chair to face him. “Chicken again?”
“Yeah.”
“Jeez.”
“We can go to the store this weekend. You can pick out some things you like to cook.”
“I’m not your slave.”
“No. You’re my daughter,” he said, feeling foolish for pointing out the obvious. “And I want you to come and eat your dinner.”
“I said all right.”
He slid his hands into his pockets and watched her, waiting, praying she’d give in and walk through the door, promising himself he wouldn’t move a muscle or say another word until she did. He searched her face—that long, pale face dusted with her mother’s freckles and framed with his own dark hair—looking for the sweet, cheerful little girl he’d known so long ago. But she wasn’t there.
“Are you just going to stand there all night?” she asked.
“No. Just until you come to dinner.”
She rolled her eyes and shoved to her feet. “Jeez.”
He followed her back to the kitchen, dreading the nightly routine. Questions about homework, answers he didn’t trust. Conversation conducted in monosyllables and resentment hanging so thick in the air it seasoned every bite of food he swallowed. An argument about the cell phone, or bedtime, or something she wanted to buy, or whether a ten-year-old needed a babysitter—any-thing but the one topic he knew she really wanted to fight over: her mother, and when she was coming back to rescue her.
At times, the pain was unbearable. He wanted to keep his daughter here, with him, wanted to get to know her again, wanted to break through the walls she threw up in his face, wanted his love to matter, to build solid memories for her to take with her when she’d grown and gone. He wanted to gather her close and hold her tight, to make her pain disappear, to feel her thin arms wrap around his neck and hug him tight, the way she’d hugged him so many years ago. A lifetime ago.
But he couldn’t take away her hurt, and he couldn’t offer the comfort she wanted right now. All he could do was reach deep, deep down below his murky emotions and haul up another handful of patience and love. And pour his invisible offering over the sad and sullen child whose stony expression reminded him of all his failures.
He asked her what she’d done at school that day, but she wasn’t talking to him tonight. So they sat in uneasy silence as they picked the meat from the bones.
TESS GLANCED up from her monitor two days later when the door to her office clicked open, admitting a gust of rain-specked wind and a dripping, frowning Quinn. He raked long, scarred fingers through his wet hair and ran an assessing look around her office.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Is that how you greet all your customers?”
“Is that what you are?” she asked as she rose from her chair. “A customer?”
“What kind of customers do you get in here, anyway?” he asked as he stepped farther into the room. His gaze traveled over the sketches pinned to the wall, the fan suspended from the tin ceiling, to the models displayed on tall white cubes and the massive ficus arching over one corner of the red Persian rug on the old plank floor.
“The serious kind.” She folded her arms and waited as he leaned over a model of a tasting room she’d designed for a Paso Robles winery.
He straightened and met her stare with a particularly grave expression. “I’m serious.”
“Yes,” she said as her lips twitched to hide a grin. She wondered if she’d just witnessed a miserly sample of his sense of humor. “You are.”
“I like this.” He bent again to study the winery model. “It’s clean.”
“Clean?”
“Uncluttered. French without the frills.”
“The client asked for sleek and no-nonsense, with an Old-World feel.”
“You gave it to him.”
“Giving my clients what they ask for is what keeps me in business.”
“Even if you know better than they do what they should be asking for?”
“That’s where a touch of diplomacy comes in handy.” Tess tilted her head to one side, pleased with his subtle compliments but wondering what he wanted. He had to be working some angle, or he wouldn’t have spared the time to stop by. Everyone who knew him said he was a straightforward kind of guy. “It works wonders,” she said. “You might give it a try.”
“Waste of time.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and straightened again, facing her. “I want to change the approach to the parking area. Straight shot, northeast corner.”
“The curve from the street on the south will slow traffic and show the building to best advantage. I want visitors to savor their entry into the space.” Tess strode to the model set in the wide bay window and pointed to the overlapping layers representing the site grade. “A curving drive will give the landscape design team a more interesting flow to work with. And this bend in the road will be the perfect place for an ornamental tree.”
“We can get more parking spaces if we come in straight from the street.” He crossed the room to where she stood and sliced a finger across the softly cascading form. “Here.”
“We’ve already provided for the number of parking slots the city required.”
“There’s room for more.”
“No.”
He glanced at her. “Now might be a good time to try some of that diplomacy you mentioned.”
“I don’t have to be diplomatic about this.”
“You do if it’s not cost-effective.”
“Everything I’ve mentioned is in the budget.”
“About that budget.” He narrowed his eyes. “There’s no room for delays.”
“Yes, there is.”
“Not enough.”
Now it was her turn to aim a dark look in his direction. “Are you planning on inefficiency?”
“No. But weather happens. Shit happens. It always does.” He leaned toward her. “If you’d spent any time around a construction site, you’d know that.”
“I’ve spent plenty of time around construction sites,” she snapped, temper edging her closer to him, “and I’ve never had any problems with my budgets.”
“Because the contractor covered your butt?”
“Don’t worry, Quinn. You’re the last person I’d ask to cover any piece of my anatomy.”
Too late, she realized the direction the conversation had taken. So, obviously, did Quinn. His gaze dropped to her lips a fraction of an instant before hers dropped to his.
She watched, helplessly fascinated, as one corner of his mouth slowly turned up, deepening the groove in his cheek. Her breath snagged, and she was glad that was only half a smile. She had a feeling the complete version would be devastating.
“Are we going to be doing this every day for the next nine months?” she asked when she could suck in air again.
“Arguing?”
Arguing. That’s all he’d been doing. She turned and moved toward her desk to put some distance between them. And tossed her witchiest smile over her shoulder, just to get back at him. “What did you think I meant?”
“We only have to argue when you’re wrong,” he said, his serious expression back in place, “and too stubborn to admit it.”
“I’ve explained my reasons for keeping the plan the way it is.”
“Yeah. Got it. Stubborn.”
“It’s not stubborn. It’s better.”
“It’s more expensive.”
“But worth it. And it’s in the budget.”
He paused to study her, and she studied him right back, admiring the lean, rugged, oh-so-masculine shape filling out his rumpled jacket and weathered jeans.
“Straightening that drive would trim enough to cover a host of unforeseen delays and cost overruns.” He slid his hands back into his pockets. “In addition to providing more parking, which would make the customers happy and earn extra points with the city.”
“Very practical.”
“And hard to argue with.”
“Arguing’s rarely all that hard for me.” She settled in her chair. “I’m stubborn, remember?”
“Yeah. I remember.”
Those sky-blue eyes of his tracked her every move as she crossed her legs and smoothed her short, straight skirt. She swiveled to the left, and she swiveled to the right, giving him an interesting view, waiting for his next salvo.
“All right,” he said at last.
“All right?”
“Yeah.” He walked to her door. “All right.”
“That’s it?” She stood so quickly her chair bumped the backs of her knees. “You’re leaving?”
“I have a site to clear.”
“Oh. Well. All right, then.”
He grabbed the knob and then stilled, staring at her. “You sound disappointed.”
“I’m not.”
“Good. I wouldn’t want all my diplomacy to go to waste.”
“Is that what you were doing here, Quinn? Being diplomatic?”
“Yeah,” he said in his deadpan manner. “Couldn’t you tell?”
“Now there’s an interesting question.” She smiled and shifted her hip over the edge of her desk, enjoying the conversation—and the company—entirely too much. “With any number of equally interesting answers.”
“Seems to me all it needed was a yes or no.”
She tilted her head. “Or a maybe.”
“Like I said. Diplomacy is a waste of time.”
“Later, then.”
“Yeah.” The look he shot her arrowed a blast of heat right through to where it counted. “Later.”
GENEVA SETTLED into her favorite booth at the Crescent Inn on Friday after her morning water aerobics class and pulled a smooth linen napkin into her lap.
“The usual, Mrs. Chandler?” asked the waitress.
“Yes, thank you, Missy.” Geneva smiled at Gordon Talbot’s youngest daughter, amazed she was old enough to be working. Time seemed to pass so quickly these days.
These years.
“Hello, Geneva.”
Geneva glanced from her list of the day’s specials to see Howard Cobb, real estate developer and member of the city council, frowning at her. “Good afternoon, Howard.”
“I wondered if I’d find you here.”
“Are you stalking me?” She set her menu aside and gave him her blandest smile. “Should I be disturbed?”
His frown deepened. “Mind if I join you?”
“For lunch?” she asked with just a touch of dismay.
“For a moment. Or two.”
“Through the iced-tea course, then,” she said as Missy delivered her drink.
He settled heavily into the booth across from her, his oversize belly brushing against the table edge. “You know, there are plenty of folks around here who don’t look too kindly on Chandler money forcing things they don’t want down their throats.”
“What an unpleasant image, considering I was about to order my lunch.” She delicately dabbed her napkin to the side of her mouth. “I wonder how many of those same folks are cashing paychecks earned with jobs that Chandler money created for them.”
“There’s no question your husband and his father did some good things for this community.” Howard shifted forward as far as his paunch allowed. “But people who built businesses fifty or sixty years ago didn’t have the same kinds of concerns that people do today.”
“Are you talking about the businesses, or the building of them?”
“We both know what I’m talking about.”
She picked up her tea and sipped. “Then this will be a very short conversation.”
“You can’t get your way all the time, Geneva.”
“You’re right, of course, Howard,” she said with a thin smile. “I’d be a fool to expect that. And I’m not a fool.”
“That’s right. That’s why you should seriously consider backing off this Tidewaters project while there’s still time. It’s the right thing to do, and you know it.”
“If I thought it was the right thing to do, I would have quit before I started. And certainly before investing so much Chandler money in the development phase.”
For months she’d poured funds into the pockets of marine biologists, geologists and engineers. She’d battled federal agencies, the state’s coastal concerns, the city’s commissions and committees and codes and several local environmental activist groups. But for too many environmentalists, the objective scientific evidence didn’t outweigh their emotions. And for too many politicians, the promise of community benefits didn’t compensate for the possible loss of their constituents’ support.
Cobb’s complexion darkened. “The harm this project will cause to the environment will far outweigh any possible economic benefits.”
“That’s a strange comment, even for you.” Geneva took another sip of her tea. “And particularly strange considering that the environmental impact report and the city’s financial analysis indicate precisely the opposite.”
“Studies bought and paid for,” Howard said as he stabbed a beefy finger at the table. “By you.”
“Which doesn’t make them wrong. Merely purchased. Another part of the cost benefit noted in that financial analysis.”
“Some folks might say that smacks of corruption.”
“And some might wonder about the conflict of interest for a city councilman who is involved in the construction of a similar commercial building in a different part of town. A building that may soon be in competition with mine for tenants.”
Missy hovered near the table, her order pad in her hand. Howard glared at Geneva as he pushed to the side and exited the booth. “This isn’t over.”
“Oh, I think it will be, in about nine months,” Geneva said pleasantly. “When Tidewaters opens its doors amid a buzz of community curiosity and to the delight of its retail tenants. Tenants who may prefer waterfront views and the benefits of tourist foot traffic.”
“We’ll see about that.” He turned and stalked out of the inn, dropping a few bills on his table as he passed it.
“Nasty man,” whispered Missy.
“But a good tipper, from the looks of it,” Geneva said. “I’m sure he means well.”
“Everyone means well when they’re trying to get their way.”
“Why, Missy,” Geneva said as she raised her glass, “may I quote you on that?”
“Only if it’s off the record.” The waitress shook her head. “I don’t want any of that guilty-by-association stuff.”
Geneva sipped her tea in silence, feeling wonderfully guilt-free. It seemed there were, after all, a few benefits to having time pass so quickly.

CHAPTER FOUR
QUINN WAS in a foul mood on Monday morning as he headed toward the Tidewaters site. An early-morning conference with Rosie’s teacher had left him frazzled and frustrated and a bit shaky. Mrs. Thao had told him his daughter wasn’t working up to her potential. When he’d examined samples of Rosie’s classwork, he’d discovered she wasn’t working much at all. Half-finished math papers, half-assed compositions.
Turning down Front Street, he muttered a curse. He could check her homework for completion; he couldn’t monitor what she did in the classroom. And he couldn’t expect Mrs. Thao to fuss over Rosie, one-on-one. Rosie would have to quit her game of slow-motion sabotage or risk failing the year. He’d have to lay down the law, arrange to check in with her teacher on a regular basis, show his daughter he could be damn stubborn when it came to succeeding at something that mattered.
Just what they both needed: more tension at home.
He’d hoped Rosie would have begun to settle down, to resign herself to the situation and the fact she’d be staying with him for a while. Quite a while, if he could make it stick. But it seemed she’d decided to shut down in addition to shutting him out. And he didn’t know how to reach her.
Maybe he needed some help. Maybe that was what they both needed.
Too bad the idea tangled his gut and yanked on the knots. His morning coffee nearly bored a hole in his stomach lining at the thought of seeing a counselor. Rosie might shift tactics to open rebellion. Nancy would probably use it as a weapon in a custody battle. And he damn well didn’t want to dredge up all the bitter mistakes of his own past, just when he was able to focus on the future.
He swung into the job site, ready to sweep aside the mess of his personal life and concentrate on work he knew how to do, with tools he knew how to wield. Ready to make tangible progress to offset his failures.
He expected to see Rusty, one of his crew members, digging footings with Quinn Construction’s brand-new backhoe while Trap and Wylie Lundgren cleared the rest of the site with their excavating equipment. Instead, he saw the Lundgrens standing with his own men near the backhoe. Rusty trudged toward Quinn’s truck, a frown on his face and worry in his eyes.
With another muttered curse, Quinn grabbed his tool belt and hard hat, stepped out and slammed the truck door. “Problem?”
Rusty’s cheek bulged as he shifted his habitual wad of gum. “Yep. With the backhoe.”
“What kind of problem?”
“Best have a look for yourself.”
Quinn followed him toward the equipment, nodding at the wiry, grizzled Lundgren brothers as he passed. “Morning, Trap. Wylie.”
Trap answered with a scowl. “Too bad it’s such a pisser.”
Quinn strapped on his belt and stared at the men loitering around the equipment, wasting valuable time. “What’s going on here?”
“Take a look,” Rusty said again.
Quinn leaned in to peer at the engine. Grains of sand lay scattered over the engine block. “What the hell?”
“It seized up a few seconds after I switched on the ignition. Figure the bastard poured sand in the oil filter.” Easygoing Rusty had murder in his eyes. “He didn’t have to look too far. We’re standing in a yard full of the stuff.”
Sand in the oil filter meant sand spreading through the engine—scoring the pistons, ruining the chambers and turning the entire engine into a worthless hunk of metal.
An expensive hunk of metal. Quinn began running the figures in his head, estimating the costs of delays on the site, the time lost on paperwork and the added expense of a rental to replace this piece. The long-range damage to his insurance rates. Fury surged through him as he slowly straightened and scanned the rest of the equipment on the site. “Anything else wrecked?”
“Nope.” Wylie lifted the rim of his gimme cap to scratch at his forehead with grimy fingers. “Everything else seems okay. And we aim to keep it that way.”
“What does that mean?”
“Means we’re going to be trailering our equipment off-site every evening. We can’t afford to lose one of our machines to some crazy dude who thinks dumping sand in an engine is an evening’s entertainment.”
Trailering fees hadn’t been included in the Lund-grens’ subcontracting bid for the excavations. Quinn figured they’d tack on the added expense when they sent the bill. He nodded, his gut on fire as he took another hit. “All right, then.”
He glanced at the operators. “Let’s get going here. Rusty, Jim, get a cable hooked to the backhoe and haul it up on that trailer. I want the rest of the building site cleared for the footings by the end of the day.”
He waited while Trap and Wylie moved off to their excavator and bulldozer and the rest of the men got back to work. And then he trudged over to his office trailer, jogged up the steps and shut the door behind him. He pulled his cell phone from a pocket and paused, pinching the bridge of his nose. A headache was coming on, riding a wave of anxiety.
And then the dark, seductive need flowed in beneath it, urging him to walk out of his office, climb into his pickup, drive away from his troubles and find a few moments of peace. His crew could take it from here. Wylie and Trap—they knew what to do. Hell, what if he’d phoned in sick? The work would still get done. Time to himself, that’s all he needed. No one would know or care if he took a drink to settle his nerves. Just one. One hour, one drink.
A bead of sweat trickled down his spine as he battled away the demons buzzing inside. Steady, steady. Breathe. Think.
Damn, damn, damn.
He stared at the phone lying like a lump of lead in his palm, struggling for the strength to make a call. The crisis passed, and he slumped against the counter, feeling bruised and sour and old as dust. He willed himself to concentrate on the job, to plan for some action that would drag him back into the real world, the world outside his shaky, hollow being.
Wylie’s bulldozer rumbled past the office, vibrating the thin metal walls and sloshing the cold coffee in the mug beside Quinn’s elbow. The familiar odors of diesel exhaust and fresh-turned clay floated through the air, and the productive clang and roar of the excavator hung in the background. He needed to call the police—yes, call and file a report about what had happened here this morning. But before he made that call, there was someone else who had to be notified. Someone who could help clear his mind and get him on track again, to do what he needed to do today.
He took another deep breath and punched in a number from memory. “Geneva,” he said when she picked up. “It’s Quinn. Sorry to be calling so early.”
AFTER MEETING Addie at her shop to discuss wedding-shower plans over takeout salads, Tess hadn’t planned on extending her lunch break in Dee Ketchum’s Pink Boutique. But she’d paused to drool over the cutest pair of shell-studded flip-flops arranged in Dee’s shop window. And after she’d spied a vintage-style purse with shimmering beads fanning in the colors of a peacock’s tail, she hadn’t been able to resist stepping in to peek at the price tag. And once she’d walked into the tiny store, she’d decided she might as well take a few minutes to check out the other tempting items Dee might have tucked inside her treasure-box store.
And wasn’t it a good thing she’d taken the time to drape that gauzy, cherry-dotted scarf over the black boat-neck sweater she was carrying to the dressing room? She might not have overheard Celia Kulstad telling Dee about the patrol car she’d seen parked at the Tidewaters site that morning.
Now Tess was speeding toward the waterfront, her cell phone to her ear, waiting for Geneva to pick up. She braked and skidded to a stop, clicking her nails on the steering wheel as Crazy Ed lumbered across the street, headed to the marina. He waved and gave her a gap-toothed grin, and she waggled her fingers in response. “Get a move on, Eddie boy,” she said. “I’m in a hurry here.”
When she got Geneva’s voice mail, she tossed the phone into her purse, her irritation growing. She’d rather talk with Grandmère about this in person, anyway. Later, when her temper had eased a bit. Or when it had ratcheted higher, if she discovered Quinn had handed her a reason to give him some grief.
A few moments later she jerked to a stop at the edge of the site and stepped from her car. Trap Hunter’s excavating equipment chugged and roared and clawed at the ground, tearing through the reddish-brown earth with steel talons. Beyond the ragged ditches of the footings, one of Quinn’s crew—Ned Landreau, she thought—nudged an elbow into Quinn’s ribs as he leaned to gaze through a laser level.
Quinn straightened and waited, his pose casual and his expression grim as Tess picked her way across yards of tracked-up, clodding earth. Her heels sank into the pungent soil, coating her navy slingbacks with grime, and she cursed him with every shoe-sucking step.
Especially since the way Quinn looked, with his muscular form outlined by the fabric of his chambray shirt and his tool belt slung low over one jean-clad hip, nearly made her mouth go dry.
“Glad you could make it,” he said after she’d de-toured around the deep gash of the western footing. “But you might want to rethink your choice of outfits if you’re going to make a habit of dropping by. Things can get pretty messy around a construction site.”
She swiped a speck of mud from her pencil-slim skirt and tugged at her coordinating shantung-silk jacket. “I wasn’t planning on stopping by. I heard the police were here this morning. And I’ve been around plenty of construction sites.”
“Good. Then I won’t have to remind you to bring a hard hat. I don’t have one to spare.” He turned back to his level, squinted into the scope and gestured to a crew member holding a marker near a footing.
She took another careful step closer. “Why was a patrol car here?”
“Because I called to file a report.”
“About what?”
“Vandalism.”
“What?”
He paused and leisurely added a note to his clipboard, but the ripple of muscle along the edge of his jaw betrayed the effort he was making to control his anger. “Someone poured some sand in an oil filter.”
“That sounds serious.”
He flicked a frigid glance in her direction. “It is.”
“What do you intend to do about it?”
“Rent another backhoe until I can get mine fixed.”
“I mean,” she said as she folded her arms across her chest, “what are you going to do about getting better security so this kind of thing won’t happen again?”
“What do you mean, security?” He shifted closer and angled his head toward hers. “Are you suggesting I hire a guard?”
She held her ground, though she could nearly feel the temper and heat pumping off him. “Pouring sand in an engine is a lot more serious than the typical mischief at a site like this. Things like graffiti or materials theft.”
“I know what goes on at sites like this.”
“It could happen again.”
“I know that, too.”
“Tell me,” she said sweetly, “is there anything you don’t know?”
The corners of his mouth turned up in an unfriendly grin, and his gaze roamed over her features. “Plenty. Particularly about female architects.”
“If I were you,” she said, recklessly following the shift in the argument, “I’d be in a big hurry to figure things out.”
His eyes darkened. “What makes you think I’m not?”
He bent again at the waist and squinted into the scope. Tess was proud of herself for not noticing the way the back of his jeans curved behind his tool belt.
“Look, Quinn, I—”
“If you don’t think I can handle this job, well, you’re entitled to your opinion.” He made an adjustment to the level and checked the scope again. “But you’re not the one who hired me to do it. And the woman who did hire me wants us to work together.”
“Believe me, I’m aware of that.”
“So work with me.”
He shot one of his penetrating looks at her, the one that made her feel as though he could see deep inside her to that place where she hid all her doubts and insecurities. She detested that look, nearly as much as she detested the fact that he was right. She had to work with him.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll work with you. And I’ll expect the same. A phone call when there’s something—anything—to report.”
He nodded solemnly. “You got it.”
“Now, about the security—”
“Already taken care of.” He called another instruction to the man with the marker. “I discussed it with Geneva.”
His words stung like a slap. Tess tried not to show it, to keep her eyes on his, but she knew from the way his frown deepened that he’d noted her flinch.
“Well,” she said when she’d recovered, “now you can discuss it with me.”
“Look, Tess, this isn’t—”
“Later. At my office. Five o’clock.” She turned on her soggy, muddy heel and walked away.
STILL in a temper a quarter of an hour later, Tess shoved her way into her office and then swore when her Macho-Mex mocha sloshed over the edge of the cup. Chocolate spatters layered over the dusty red splotches on her slingbacks. “Aww, for cryin’ out—”
The phone on her desk rang, and she carefully speed-walked to the back of the room, holding the coffee at arm’s length. “Roussel Designs, Tess Roussel speaking.”
“You’ve obviously made it back to work,” Geneva said with a hint of sarcasm.
“Not all my work is done in the office.” Tess set the cup on the desk and reached for a tissue to wipe her hand. “Thank you for returning my call.”
“Anytime, dear.”
Tess frowned as she toed off her shoes. Her grandmother didn’t sound all that upset by what had happened at Tidewaters that morning. Not that she wanted her grandmother to be upset—not unless she was upset with Quinn. Then she could erupt like a Fourth of July fireworks display and fire his nicely shaped ass. “I wanted to touch base with you about what happened at the site this morning.”
“The vandalism,” Geneva said with a disgusted sigh.
“Yes.” Tess tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder and snatched another tissue from her apple-red dispenser. “I understand Quinn has already discussed everything with you.”
“Yes, he has. It’s all terribly distressing, all the trouble and expense involved in setting things right. But he assures me there won’t be any delays. And he’s handled everything quite satisfactorily, with no need for your attention.”
“He may not have needed it, but he got it.” Tess picked up one of her shoes and began to scrub at the stains. “Finding out from one of the shopkeepers downtown that the police had been called to Tidewaters got my attention pretty damn quick.”
“Really, Tess, must you use that kind of language?”
“I beg your pardon. Sorry.” She chipped a nail on her shoe heel and swore under her breath as she tossed the soiled, crumpled tissue toward her waste bin. The wad bounced off the rim and tumbled to the floor. This just wasn’t her day. “I tend to get upset when my job site is the scene of a criminal investigation, and I’m not notified.”
“Although I appreciate your enthusiasm for this project,” Geneva said in a terrifyingly frigid tone, “I must remind you that Tidewaters belongs to me, not to you.”
Tess stiffened and dropped the shoe. “Yes, Mémère.”
“You may be my granddaughter, but you are also, where Tidewaters is concerned, my employee.”
It was that fact, more than her grandmother’s scolding, that heated Tess’s cheeks with embarrassment and guilt. An angry phone call wasn’t the best way to display her professional abilities to her biggest client to date.
She detested being caught making an error in judgment. She despised weakness, especially in herself, and she loathed the shriveling remorse that swamped her at times like this. That was why she worked so hard, took such care, fussed over the details. Stayed in control. There were fewer mistakes that way.
She shut her eyes and rubbed her forehead. “I want—I need—to be kept in the loop. I have to be a part of this, each step of it, all the way through. It’s not just the way I want it. It’s my job. And if I’m going to do a good job, I need to be informed about everything—all the progress and all the problems.”
“I don’t suppose,” Geneva said, “it would do any good to ask you to be civil to Quinn when you discuss this with him.”
“I can be civil.” Tess slowly sank into her chair. “I can be anything I want to be.”
“Except punctual.”
“Except that.” Her smile was faint. “But I’m working on it.”
“Good. Now,” Geneva said with a brisk change of tone, “I have some unrelated news I think will please you.”
“About Charlie’s wedding shower?” Tess had left an earlier phone message asking if she could host the party at Chandler House. Tess’s own house was too small for the event she had in mind, and Addie’s apartment was literally a hole in the wall behind her shop.
“About her wedding,” Geneva said.
“Her wedding?”
“I’ve offered Maudie the opportunity to hold Charlie’s wedding here. There’s plenty of space in the garden, near the pergola.”
“I’m sure she was thrilled. Charlie will be, too.” Tess swiveled in her chair and stared out her windows, seeing white chairs in neat lines and pastel ribbons twined with wisteria instead of the pale wisps of late-afternoon fog drifting across Main Street. “And that means the pressure’s on now. Charlie will have to choose a summer date.”
“That’s what Maudie and I thought, too.”
“She didn’t have a chance, not with you two plotting against her.” Tess grinned. “Besides, who wouldn’t want a wedding at Chandler House?”
“My granddaughter, for one.”
Tess released a silent sigh. They’d had this discussion before. “I never said I didn’t want to get married there.”
“You never said you wanted to get married.”
“There are things I need to do before I’m ready to think about it. And one of those things is finding a man I want to marry.”
“Find one,” Geneva ordered as if she were instructing her gardener where to place a rosebush. “Before I get too old to dance at the reception.”
Tess grinned. “Yes, Mémère.”

CHAPTER FIVE
QUINN GUIDED his pickup to the curb outside Tess’s office door a few minutes before five o’clock and switched off the ignition. He sat in the cab for a moment, banking his temper. It had been a long, frustrating day, and there was plenty of it left—he still had to fix dinner, start a load of laundry and deal with Rosie. But first he had to go another round with the only woman he knew who could scramble his thoughts and senses until he forgot how much he wanted a drink.
She’d been wearing a dark blue suit today, and something that made her smell like a bucket stuffed with flowers. Fresh, white flowers drooping with early-morning water drops, like those tiny, bell-shaped flowers sprouting up from a mass of fat, grassy green in the shade under Mrs. Brubaker’s maple tree.
And pearls, for God’s sake. On the site. Dangling from her pretty pink ears and slipping and sliding between her breasts. With the rumble and clang of Trap’s excavator and the diesel stench of Wylie’s bulldozer failing to block the punches she’d landed on his senses.
She sure knew how to push his buttons—coming to the job in that getup, distracting his crew, arguing with him in public, questioning his judgment. And crawling under his skin, making him so hard he’d had to keep bending over and peering through the level’s scope as if his life depended on what he could see across the footings.
Once she’d left and he’d cooled off, he’d had to acknowledge her point. But the fact was, he’d owed Geneva a phone call. She was the client. The owner. He’d need to meet with her later, to discuss the details and negotiate the financing for the site’s security.
Still, he supposed he should have called Tess.
Which only pissed him off again.
With a curse, he exited his truck. Rue Matson waved as she locked up her tiny gardening shop, and he nodded as he stepped up onto the curb. How someone could make a living selling birdseed and fancy shovels was a mystery. “Evening, Rue.”
“It’s a pretty one, isn’t it?” She squinted at a faded blue sky dotted with dingy white clouds and then glanced at the flower boxes tucked below Tess’s three-sided office window. “Nearly as pretty as those arrangements. Tess sure knows how to put a planter together. There’s a trick to doing it right, you know.”
“Is there?”
“Oh, yes.” Rue rambled on in her friendly shopkeeper voice about color and texture and layers and a bunch of other things Quinn didn’t care about. But he had to admit, as he waved goodbye to Rue, that they were pretty planters. As sassy and colorful as the woman who’d planted them.
And he had to admit, as he stalked through her door, that Tess had made her office space pretty, too. Not too fussy, not too plain. Not too much emphasis on the business, but enough drawings and models to give a quick impression of competence and skill. Just right, just the way an architect’s office should look. The woman had class.
She was also sitting too close to Don Gladdings, who had pulled a visitor’s chair to Tess’s side of the desk. Don was taking advantage of his maneuver to lean over her shoulder and peer at something on her computer monitor, while she made her pitch for redrawing a section of his new car dealership. Clever phrases delivered with a subtle appeal to Don’s pride in his business—architectural design as ego gratification.

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