Matthew’s mind suddenly skidded, trying to accept the implications of her pronoun choices. “I” had to let him go, she’d said. “I” was going to finish the work. Good God. Was it possible that this young, beautiful woman was Natalie Granville? Could this fragile slip of femininity really be the owner of this weird mansion, custodian of all this decrepit glory?
Surely not. She didn’t look much older than a coed, a completely normal twenty-something, celebrating summer break by sunbathing and getting looped.
“Is this your house?”
She nodded. “Unfortunately, yes. I’m Natalie Granville, the last of the Granvilles, and the proud owner of every crumbling stone you see. Sorry about falling into your arms.” She grinned. “But you certainly proved that you’re a very handy man. Thanks.”
“My pleasure.” He held out his hand. “I’m Matthew Quinn.”
“Hello, Matthew Quinn. You’re hired.”
His first thought was that the sheriff had been right. Natalie Granville was too naive to live. Hired? She didn’t have any idea who Matthew was. She hadn’t asked a single question, requested a single reference. She didn’t even know if he could tell a pair of needle-nose pliers from a monkey wrench. For all she knew he could be jack-of-no-trades. Or even Jack the Ripper.
But his second thought was that, absurdly, he wished he could say yes. There was something inexplicably appealing about her, and it wasn’t just how great she looked in that bikini.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “But I had already decided not to apply for the job. I’m afraid it’s a little out of my league.”
She frowned. “Oh, no, don’t say that! You’re perfect for it.”
“No, really. I couldn’t tell, from the flyer, how extensive your needs were. I’m okay at the little stuff—painting, patching drywall, replacing gutters, fixing a leaky drain, stuff like that. But this—”
“I’ve got plenty of leaky drains,” she put in desperately. But then, catching his raised eyebrow, she sighed. “And a leaky roof. And a leaky foundation. And of course the water all leaked out of the pool years ago.”
He looked at her heart-shaped face, with the sprinkle of freckles she probably despised standing out against her pale skin. She looked absolutely forlorn.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I really do wish I could help.”
“You can! I’m not expecting anyone to tackle everything. Just do what you can. I’ll pay whatever you ask.” She bit her lower lip, catching herself. “Well, I guess I can’t really promise that, because as you may have noticed this house just gobbles money. But I’ll pay what I can, and you can live in the pool house for free, and I’ll cook the meals—”
She stopped herself again. “Unless you like to do your own cooking. I’d let you use the kitchen, of course, and I’d buy the groceries, so even if I couldn’t pay you a whole lot in salary it would still be a good deal, and you—”
“It’s not the money, Natalie,” he said. It seemed silly to call her Ms. Granville when his fingers were still slick from holding her oiled body. “It’s that I don’t have the necessary skills to do this job well.”
“I think you do. Please, Matthew.” She squeezed her hands together. She suddenly looked very pale. “Please say yes.”
He was amazed to discover how difficult it was to resist her. Her artless chatter and sweet smiles might merely be the result of the booze, but he didn’t really believe it. He thought he could still recognize honest-to-God goodness when he saw it.
Even in his old life, back before prison, when he had been making millions in the stock market, both for himself and for a lot of other rich people, innocence had been pretty rare. He had hobnobbed with dazzling genius and indescribable beauty. He had shaken hands with raw ambition and insatiable greed. He had kissed the sleek cheeks of glamour and power and sex.
But he hadn’t ever met anyone as open and guileless as Natalie Granville.
Of course, he reminded himself wryly, she was very drunk. She might be a lot more cynical when she was sober. She probably had a ten-page application for the handyman inside, requiring everything from his blood type to his shoe size.
Or she might be just plain crazy. After all, somebody had dressed that statue up in a wedding gown.
“You know,” he said gently, “smelling good doesn’t exactly qualify me to reroof an Italian villa.”
“I know, but still.” She put one hand against her heart earnestly. “I know it sounds crazy, but I know it’s the right thing. I need you here. It’s just a feeling I have.”
A feeling that probably had much more to do with the Jack Daniel’s than it did with Matthew himself. But he refrained from saying so. She had begun to look a little green around the edges, and he thought what she needed most of all might be a couple of aspirin and a long nap. When she woke up, she probably wouldn’t even remember dancing on the balustrade…or begging a total stranger to live in the pool house and fix her leaky drains.
The sound of a sports car rumbling up the back driveway interrupted whatever she’d been going to say next. She looked over at the long-nosed car, a shiny model of British racing green that Matthew recognized as costing as much as a small house.
“Damnation.” She groaned. “I told him not to come. Well, I didn’t exactly tell him, but I didn’t answer when he called, and surely he ought to know—”
“Nat?” A long, lean young man unfolded himself from the car and smiled over at Natalie, pointedly ignoring Matthew. He was dressed in the official rich young stud uniform of khakis, polo shirt and boat shoes. “I called three times, honey. But you didn’t pick up.”
“That’s because I was busy interviewing my new handyman,” she said, drawing herself erect and obviously trying to sound haughty and businesslike. The effect was spoiled somewhat by her saying “thatsh” instead of “that’s” and “hannyman” instead of “handyman.” And of course the wild hair and the bikini weren’t exactly her most professional look.
The man took it all in. He was clearly trying to size up the situation, and finding himself unable to make the pieces fit. He looked over at Matthew narrowly. “Handyman?”
“Yes,” Natalie said, working hard to get the s right. She tugged self-consciously at her bikini pants, trying to cover her hipbone, but merely succeeding in exposing an extra inch of thigh in the process. “Matthew, meet Stuart Leith, city councilman for Firefly Glen. Stuart, Matthew Quinn.”
“Hello.” Stuart’s voice was flat. “Quinn, did you say? And you want to be Natalie’s new handyman?” It was the same tone he would have used to say, “You want to fly to the moon on a bumblebee’s back?”
For a minute, Matthew considered saying yes, just because he’d like to wipe the smug look from Stuart the Stud’s face. God, had he ever looked that self-satisfied? He should have spent three years in prison for that alone.
But he couldn’t play macho games right now. It wouldn’t be fair to Natalie. “Actually, no,” he said, forcing himself to smile politely. “I had thought of applying, but when I got here I could see I’m not quite right for the job.”
“Matthew,” Natalie began plaintively. A few beads of sweat had formed on her brow. She was going to be sick. He knew the signs.
“I see,” Stuart said firmly, closing the door to his car carefully and coming around to stand by Natalie. “So. You were probably just about to leave, then, weren’t you? Don’t let me hold you up.”
Natalie made a low sound of distress. “Oh, dear. I’m afraid I don’t feel very good.”
“Come