A Crazy Kind of Love (2 page)

He folded his arms over his chest. “I wanted that balcony where
I
put it, damn it.”

“You won’t like it.”

“Hell, I’ll like it just because
you
won’t.”

“That’s mature,” she muttered.

“And even if I don’t like it—I’ll tear it down later with my bare hands. But
I’ll
do it.” He pointed over at the house just behind him and said, “You know, I had plans. Good plans. Designed by the top architect in San Francisco. And every damn time I turn around, you’re changing something.”

“For the better,” she countered, just as hotly. “Your architect might be the shiznit in the city, but he doesn’t know squat about Chandler. Or this property.”

He barked out a laugh. “And you do?”

She leaned in farther, almost brushing her nose with his. “You’re damn right I do,” she snapped. “I know every inch of this property. I know the lake and where it crests during a rainy season. I know which way the land drains during the storms. I know everything there is to know about this place because it was supposed to be
mine
.”

He ground his back teeth together, sucked in a gulp of air, and said, “But it’s
not
yours, is it, Mike? It’s
mine
.”

Yes, damn it. It was his. All of it. Her special place. Her thinking spot. The one place in the world she’d
always run to when she needed to get away from whatever was happening in her life.

And now she was a trespasser.

“You don’t have to rub it in.”

“Apparently, I
do
.”

“Fine. Your house. Just tell the guys to go back to the original plans if you have to. But I’m warning you, you won’t be happy.”

“Hell,” he shouted, “I just won an argument with
you
. I’m
already
happy!”

“Sure, until the solar flares in your bedroom kick in.”

“You just never give up, do you?”

“Not when I’m right.”

“Which you always are, of course,” he said wryly.

“Usually,” she agreed, then cocked a hip, tilted her head, and looked up at him. “What? Do you want me to apologize again for having an opinion?”

“
An
opinion?” He laughed shortly. “You have
an
opinion on
everything
.” He blew out an exasperated breath. “What’s the point? You’ve been coming out here at least once a week for the last two months. You’ve stuck your nose into every little detail of my house. You’ve ‘apologized’ before and then gone right on and done whatever the hell you wanted to anyway and something tells me you’re not going to quit no matter what I say.”

“True,” she admitted, then squinted into the sunlight to stare up at him. “But admit it. You were glad to have me here.”

“Glad?”

She shrugged. “Okay, maybe ‘glad’ is a little strong.
But I was right about the kitchen, wasn’t I? The new layout’s more efficient and the bay window overlooks the lake and you’ve
got
to admit the cabinets are way better now.”

His jaw worked as if he were chewing on words he couldn’t quite make himself say. In the distance, Mike heard the telltale crash and slam of hammers and the whine of a saw. She felt right at home. Of course, that was Lucas’s point.

“Yes. Fine,” he said. “You were right about the kitchen. About the window. About the cabinets. Oak was better than pine.”

“And the arched doorways . . .”

He scrubbed one hand across his jaw and blew out a breath. “Them, too.”

“And . . .”

“Never mind.” He lifted both hands in surrender. “You were right. Right about all of it—
except
the balcony. Happy?”

Mike grinned at him. “What woman wouldn’t be happy to hear a man say those three little words that mean so much . . . ‘you were right’?”

He scowled at her, but the fury in his eyes was already dissipating. “Do you torture
everyone
building a house around here?”

“Nope,” she said, “you’re special.”

“Lucky me.”

“You know,” she said, “I think you’re beginning to like me.” She felt another tiny ping of guilt. She really shouldn’t enjoy these little “discussions” of theirs so much.

“Hey, Mike!”

They both turned to look at a workman standing beneath the shell of the balcony jutting out from the second-story master bedroom.

“What is it, Charlie?”

The older man hooked a thumb beneath his tool belt and jerked a nod toward the balcony over his head. “You decide whether you wanted iron or wood railings on the balcony?”

She opened her mouth to answer, but Lucas spoke up first.

“
My
house,” he pointed out, but Charlie just shrugged as if he couldn’t care less
who
gave the order, as long as
someone
did. “Wood.”

“Iron,” Mike shouted right over him, “it’s already been ordered and the Donovans are bringing it around tomorrow.” Then when Lucas turned to fix her with a furious glare, she reached out and patted his arm. “Wood rots. Iron might rust, but you can paint it with a sealant and it’s good to go. It’ll last as long as the house and, seriously, salt water is death on wood.”

“Oh, for—”

“Whatever you say, Mike,” Charlie shouted and headed back to work.

Lucas grabbed her again and Mike felt every one of his fingers digging into her skin right through the fabric of her
MARCONI CONSTRUCTION
T-shirt. He had long, narrow fingers that were, apparently, electric, since she felt the hum of singing warmth right down to her bones. He was so tall and wiry, a person wouldn’t really expect him to be this strong. But Mike had always known. See? Just something else she’d been right about. In the last
two months, she’d learned enough about Lucas Gallagher to know that he was some kind of scientist and knew diddly about building a house.

But this was the first time she’d seen the caveman side of him.

She kind of liked it.

But that was beside the point. “Gonna manhandle a woman because you can’t talk your way out of something?” she taunted. “You know, they say ‘violence is the refuge of the incompetent.’ Actually, I forget who said it.”

He released her instantly. “
Nobody
said it.”

“I just did.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“Of course it counts,” she said. “But that’s not what you’re mad about anyway, you’re just mad because I’m right about the house.”

His dark eyes flashed behind the lenses of his glasses, and his jaw muscle twitched as if he were gritting his teeth. “Will you cut it out?”

He was still furious, but Mike could deal with fury. Anger to an Italian was like a week at a spa. Adrenaline rushed, senses cleared, and blood pumped.

“You know, I figure I’ve been a heck of a good sport about all of this.”

“Is that right?” he demanded. “How’s that?”

“You stole my land, you’re building a house here that isn’t
mine
, and to top it all off, you’re doing it
wrong
.”

“Your opinion.”

“Heck, you’re lucky I’ve only been coming around once a week!”

“Yeah,
lottery
lucky.”

“Hey, if my sisters and I hadn’t been off dealing with Grace Van Horn’s place all summer, I’d have been here on site every damn day whether you liked it or not.”

He stared at her, stupefied. “Where do you get off thinking you can just slam into someone’s life and take over?”

“I’m not trying to take over your
life
.”

“Just my
house
?”

“I’m trying to
save
your house. Big difference.”

“Who asked you?”

“You didn’t have to ask me, because I’m a fabulous human being.”

He choked out a laugh.

“This whole fight started over that stupid balcony, so I can’t even understand why you’re so pissed,” Mike said, trying for a calm she wasn’t really feeling. “Because you don’t know anything about balcony railings.” She lifted one hand and pointed at him. “Oh, and off the subject for a second—just so you know—don’t grab me again unless I
want
you to grab me. Which, by the way, isn’t going to happen.”

Muttering darkly, he dropped his chin to his chest and sucked in a breath rattled with frustration. Then he blew the breath out again. Lifting his head, he glared at her. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to grab you.”

“ ’S’okay,” Mike said, “I don’t break that easy.”

But he wasn’t listening. Shaking his head, he grumbled, “Look what you’re doing to me. I
never
lose my temper. Never. Ask anyone. I’m a
scientist
, for God’s sake.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Mike wondered aloud.

“I’m a calm, rational man.” His gaze slid back to her and narrowed again. “But for some reason, every time I get around you, I want to—”

“Punch something?”

He glared at her. “No.”

She tipped her head to one side and stared at him. “Too bad. Sometimes it helps. Trust me.”

“Why would I trust you?” he demanded. “You’re taking over my
house
.”

“Look, I know you didn’t want the iron railing, but you’ll like it. The Donovans are practically
artists
with wrought iron.” Absently, she patted his arm again. “You’ll thank me later.”

He looked at her, wild-eyed—then glanced around the empty yard helplessly, as if searching for
someone
to help him deal with her. When he didn’t find a soul, he looked back at her. “You keep saying that.”

“And will keep right on until this house is finished.”

“There’s just no chance of getting you to go away, is there?”

She folded her arms over her chest, cocked her head to one side, and said, “Nope.”

“I could call the cops. Have you removed.” His face lit up at the thought. “Get a restraining order.”

Mike smiled slowly. “The cops. Hmm. You mean the sheriff of Chandler?”

“Yeah.” He folded his arms across his own chest and stared right back at her.

“You mean Sheriff Tony Candellano? The man who dated my sister Jo back when they were in high school?
The man who went fishing with my father last weekend? That sheriff?”

As slow, horrible realization crossed Lucas’s face, Mike started walking toward the side of the house, to check on the back deck. “Just let me know when you want to call him.” She glanced over her shoulder at the man standing silent behind her. “I’ve got his number on speed dial.”

“What’s this about us doing a job for Cash Hunter?”

Samantha “Sam” Marconi looked up from the baseboard, paintbrush in hand. She scowled at her older sister and said, “I’m almost finished in here. Can this wait?”

“Uh,
no
.” Josefina, “Jo,” stomped across the gleaming wood floor until she was alongside her sister, then went down on one knee to look her square in the eye. “Grace just told me that you agreed to do a rehab of some old barn for Cash.”

Sam blew a stray lock of red-brown hair out of her eyes, rubbed the back of her hand under her nose, then said, “Yeah, I did. It’s a good job.”

“For
him
?”

Sam had known this would be coming. She’d just hoped to put off the confrontation for a couple of days. Figured Grace would talk, though. The older woman never met a pause in conversation that she didn’t rush to fill.

Jo’s pale blue eyes were sparking with indignation and her dark brown ponytail swung at the back of her head like a pendulum during an earthquake.

“Look,” Sam said, turning her attention back to the detail work she’d almost completed. “We both know, now that the summer’s over and our work here at Grace’s place is, thank God, almost done, we need to line up new jobs.”

“But work for
him
?”

“We work for who pays us, remember?” She shot Jo a glance, but kept her paintbrush, loaded with soft-yellow semigloss, moving gently along the baseboard. “That’s the whole point of running a business? Getting customers?”

Disgusted, Jo bounced up and started pacing, her heavy work boots pounding out a frantic rhythm. The big room had great acoustics, so in moments, the echo alone made it seem as if an army were marching through the place.

“It’s just—” Jo stopped abruptly, stared out a window, and said, “He’s dangerous. And a pain in the ass.”

“He’s only dangerous if you sleep with him,” Sam pointed out with a grin.

Cash Hunter, mystery man. A carpenter, he’d been living in a house at the far edge of Grace Van Horn’s property since he blew into town and pretty much kept to himself. Except, of course, for the women who were drawn to him like metal shavings to a magnet.

In the eight months Cash had been in Chandler, the man had built a reputation that was bordering on the scope of legendary. Every woman he’d taken to bed had awakened the following morning announcing that she’d seen the light or whatever and promptly gone off to do good works. One was now working for the Literacy Foundation, one was currently in Chechnya, working
on foreign adoptions, and one had gone home to build houses for Habitat for Humanity.

Jo’d been keeping a wary eye on the guy for months—ever since their last secretary had been bitten by the Cash bug and gone off to save the world.

Although, Sam thought now, as she looked up at her sister again, maybe it wasn’t so much wariness as
interest
that had Jo’s radar bristling.

“You’re not thinking about sleeping with him, are you?” she asked point-blank.

“Are you serious?” Jo gave her a look that said she suspected Sam was feverish. “The man’s a walking cautionary tale. He’s dangerous. He’s sneaky. He’s—”

“Apparently
very
good,” Sam finished for her, then smiled wistfully. “Not that I need to find out about that personally, you understand. Not with Jeff and I so—”

“Yes, I know you’re happily married,” Jo said quickly, hoping to stave off another blissful round of listening to Sam sigh over the resurrection of her marriage. “And I’m glad for you, Sam. Honest. Glad the Weasel Dog made good and came through. Glad you found Emma and glad you’ve got the life you always wanted. It’s just that—”

“Will you and Mike please stop calling my husband ‘Weasel Dog’?” Sam interrupted.

“Old habits die hard?”