She wanted it all gone.
So she started on the baseboards, wiping them clean. Next, she moved every piece of furniture and vacuumed underneath, took down the drapes, removed pictures from the walls, dusted the leaves of live plants and silk plants alike. Nothing was spared.
For three hours, she cleaned and scrubbed and polished until the living room shone in the sun that came through the curtainless, sparkling windows. And while she cleaned, she was aware of Cutter Matchett in the next room tearing her pantry apart.
She’d just decided to take a break for a cup of coffee when the vibrating sound of something being applied to what sounded like an essential part of her house had her edging toward the kitchen. She peered around the pantry door to find all the shelves gone, revealing a larger than expected room, and her carpenter using what looked like a giant jigsaw to cut a hole in the floor.
The vinyl shook under her feet until he finally removed his finger from the trigger. It took another moment for the noise to finish echoing in the enclosed room. He pulled his hammer from a loop on his tool belt and gave one quick, sharp blow to the floor. A neat square fell into the crawl space below.
“Mr. Matchett, would you like some coffee?”
He looked up at her, and she knew with a sudden certainty that he wanted to say no. He didn’t like her. He didn’t want coffee. He wanted nothing to do with her. But then his face closed, his dark eyes became even more shuttered and he nodded his head. “Thanks, that would be nice. And the name’s Cutter.”
She busied herself pouring coffee while he crossed the floor and settled himself at the table. She pulled out a chair and sat across from him, noting how unnaturally still he sat, his wide-palmed hands unmoving on the table. Now she regretted her impulsive decision to ask him to join her and his inexplicable change of mind. What kind of small talk could they possibly make for the next ten minutes?
Cutter took the matter out of her hands when he asked, “Was your husband Harvey Rhodes by any chance — the accountant?”
“Why, yes. Yes, he was.”
“A friend of mine recommended him at tax time last year. I was sorry to hear about the accident.”
“Thank you.”
“Must be tough. Had a friend whose husband died. No insurance. She’s still trying to recover.” He paused. “You must be doing okay, though. Able to do a little remodeling with the insurance money?”
Adrianne felt her lips compress and she took a quick sip of coffee. Harvey had canceled his life-insurance policy without consulting her. She’d had no idea until after his death that she’d have to handle the mortgage, Lisa’s college, everything from now on with just her salary and what they had in savings. She’d returned Cutter’s contract in the mail last week with a lump in her throat at the number on the bottom line. It would put a major dent in her savings account.
“We’re fine,” she said, not about to discuss her financial situation with this man. Instead, she said with all the politeness she could muster, “It’s almost lunchtime. Can I fix you something? A sandwich?”
So she wasn’t going to get cozy over a cup of coffee, Cutter thought, not really surprised. There were many women who, given the opening he’d given her, would have cussed their husband up one side and down the other for leaving no insurance. Told him all about it, with crocodile tears in their eyes, hoping to get him to cut his bill a little in sympathy.
But not our Southern beauty here. He was still trying to get used to the little jolt he felt each time those amber eyes lifted to his. He reminded himself of Marcia’s baby-blues. They’d cooed that same innocence — while she’d hidden a bottle under her pillow and a lover under her bed. Adrianne Rhodes had a honeyed drawl, honey hair, honey eyes, but underneath all that gold could easily beat a larcenous little heart.
“No, thanks,” he said to her offer of lunch, remembering the key he still had in his pocket. “I’ll —”
The front door burst open, and a teenager in black came into the kitchen, followed by an older woman.
“I’m starved. Lunch ready?”
“In a minute,” Adrianne replied. “Lisa, I want you to meet Cutter. Cutter, this is my daughter, Lisa, and my mother, Blanche Munro.”
He stood up to shake hands with the girl, noting her strawberry blond hair, freckles and stocky build. She took after her father, he decided.
He turned to the woman behind her, taking her hand. Now, here was a dame who knew how to play the game. She was obviously fighting the clock every step of the way, and it looked as if she won more often than not. He placed her in her midfifties, but she hardly looked older than his own forty, thanks to a great highlighting job and a fairly recent tuck around the eyes.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said. “Munro Realty, by any chance?”
“Why, yes.” Her handshake was cool and firm.
“I’ve seen your signs here and there.”
The flirting smile Blanche had started to give him, woman to man, evaporated instantly. Her eyes were shrewd now, sizing up a potential client. “Are you in the market for a new home, Cutter?”
“Not right now.” Blanche’s accent was pure South, born and bred, he noted, while Lisa had the Arkansas twang of a native. A twang he’d spent the first six months in intelligence trying to lose.
“Do keep me in mind,” she said. “I’m sure I could find something you’d like.”
So, the grandma was sharp as nails under all that bleached hair, he thought. He filed away the information. It was too soon to know what was important and what wasn’t, so he treated every snippet, every impression, as if it were the key to the puzzle of the missing money.
“Darling, I see you’ve started your cleaning crusade already,” Blanche said, helping herself to the coffee. “How tiresome. I know I said I’d help, but I just had my nails done. Why you want to spend your vacation this way is beyond me.”
“I told you, you don’t have to help, Mother.”
“I’ll do my room myself, I promise,” Lisa chimed in. “Although this is not how my friends are spending their half-day off, trust me. Teacher’s workdays are supposed to be reserved for the mall.”
Cutter looked around the kitchen, bursting to the brim with chattering females. He suddenly longed for the days of smoky bars, coded greetings and silent black limos easing out of the mist. He sighed and unbuckled his tool belt, thinking dark thoughts about Jonathon Round and his insurance cases. Might as well go to lunch—in peace and quiet It was obvious he wasn’t going to get his hands in any more pantie drawers today.
Chapter Two
Cutter ladled gravy into the crater he’d made in a mountain of mashed potatoes. “So if I bring that three-quarter-inch copper across for the tub, I’ve got to drill through the joists.” He reached across to his father’s plate and poured a spoonful onto his similar mound, then carefully set the gravy boat with its delicate rose pattern on the tablecloth next to the peas.
“Sometimes that’s just the way it is with a remodel,” Peter Matchett told his son, waiting patiently while his wife cut his roast into bite-size pieces and buttered him a roll. “Reinforce it with plywood and it should be all right.”
“Who is it you’re doing this bathroom for, dear?” Mary Matchett asked as she bent