“Maybe we could talk about it over dinner tonight?” he suggested. “The restaurant on West Charles isn’t bad.”
She was on the verge of accepting—just to discuss the project, of course—when she remembered her brother. There were times when she’d left him home by himself for a couple of hours, but she didn’t think it was a good idea tonight. She wouldn’t put it past him to sneak out and go to the party anyway—and she wasn’t going to give him that opportunity. The boy throwing the party was a notorious troublemaker, and Brad was too easily led into mischief. There had already been one occasion when he’d been escorted home by Officer Dodson; she didn’t intend for it to happen again tonight.
“I’m afraid I can’t tonight,” she said.
If Mac was disappointed, he didn’t show it. “When would be a good time for you to meet?”
“I can spare a couple of hours tomorrow afternoon, if you’re free then.”
He straightened away from the counter. “I’ll be out at the site tomorrow meeting with subcontractors. If you want to join me there, we can do a walk-through. It will give you a chance to look the place over, too.”
Definitely intrigued—and more comfortable with the thought of discussing the job at the site rather than over dinner—she nodded. “What time?”
“Two o’clock?”
“I’ll be there.”
He was already moving toward the door. “Until tomorrow then.”
“Mr. Cordero—”
“Mac,” he reminded her over his shoulder.
“I want to thank you again for helping me Friday night.”
He gave her a sudden, full smile that nearly melted the soles of her shoes. He didn’t smile often, apparently, but when he did—wow. “Not necessary. See you tomorrow, Sharon.”
She hadn’t given him permission to use her first name, but it would be churlish to remind him of that now. She wasn’t usually one to insist on formality—but with this man, a little distance might not be such a bad idea.
He was just reaching for the doorknob when the door opened and a plump blonde bustled in, nearly crashing into Mac. “Oh, sorry,” she said, catching herself just in time.
His smile fading into a more somber expression, he nodded politely. “No problem.” And then he let himself out, leaving the two women staring bemusedly after him.
“Who,” Tressie Bearden demanded, “was that?”
Dragging her gaze away from the glass door, through which she could see him walking purposefully away, Sharon cleared her throat and turned to her employee. “That was Mac Cordero.”
Tressie’s eyes widened. “Cordero-the-hero? Oh, man, he’s even better-looking than I’ve heard.”
Sharon frowned. “I wish you wouldn’t call him that. It’s such a silly nickname.”
“Hey, you were the damsel in distress he rescued,” Tressie replied with an impish grin. “I would think you’d consider the nickname appropriate.”
Though she was tempted to argue again that Mac had only assisted her, Sharon resisted the impulse. “How did your doctor’s appointment go? Everything check out okay?”
Glancing again toward the door, Tressie answered absently. “She said I’m a healthy, red-blooded woman in my prime. So I guess it must have been Mac Cordero’s gorgeous dark eyes and delectable bod that made my heart rate go crazy, hmm?”
Since Sharon had been experiencing similar symptoms during the past twenty minutes or so, she couldn’t argue with Tressie’s conclusion. Apparently, they were both healthy, red-blooded women. Now that they’d settled that, it was time to put adolescent foolishness aside and get back to work. “About those wall sconces you ordered…”
Tressie waved a hand impatiently. “We can talk sconces later. What was Mac Cordero doing here? What did he say? What did you say? Did you find out anything interesting about him?”
Tressie was an active participant in local gossip circles and her membership in the Honoria Community League gave her an inside track to the most juicy tidbits. Her gift of gab and easy way with people made her an asset to the shop, but Sharon sometimes found her co-worker’s chatter exasperating. If she told Tressie that Mac had offered her the decorating job, the news would be all over town within the hour, and Sharon hadn’t even given him an answer yet. She settled for half the truth. “He said he wanted to make sure I’d recovered from the incident Friday night.”
“Really? That was nice of him.”
“Yes, it was.”
Tressie’s expression turned speculative. “Do you know if he’s married or anything?”
“No, I don’t know. The subject didn’t come up.” For some reason, Sharon would have bet he was unattached. Educated guess—or wishful thinking? she wondered with a slight wince.
Looking disgusted, Tressie shook her head. “I’d have made sure it came up. Why didn’t you ask him?”
“Because it’s none of my business.” Sharon could only hope the hint got through as she moved across the shop to straighten a display of clearance items. “So why don’t you call and check on those sconces? They should have arrived two days ago.”
Tressie hesitated a moment, reluctant to drop the subject, but then she nodded and moved toward the telephone. As much as she loved to gossip, she was efficient and hardworking, and Sharon was still grateful that Tressie had come to work for her.
Feeling a little guilty for not telling Tressie about the decorating offer, Sharon went back to work, herself, her thoughts divided between details of her business, worry about her brother and anticipation of her next meeting with Mac Cordero.
THE MAN in the gutted-out kitchen with Mac was young—no more than twenty-six—golden-blond, blue-eyed with glasses and a little on the thin side. Picturing his own solid build, black hair, dark eyes and brown skin, Mac was well aware that he and Trent McBride could not have looked more different. No one could have guessed from looking at them that they shared a blood relationship—and no one but Mac knew about that relationship. Even he didn’t know exactly how close the connection was.
“So you want a state-of-the-art modern kitchen concealed behind solidly built, period-appropriate woodwork,” Trent summed up with a comprehensive glance around the large, shadowy room. The electricity wasn’t turned on yet, so the only light came through the filthy windows and from the two battery-powered lanterns Mac had brought with him.
The house had been empty for years, and the deterioration was pervasive—so much that there were some who openly doubted the renovation was worth the time and expense. With his experience, Mac knew better. He’d taken on more daunting projects, and the results had been both satisfying and profitable. There were plenty of people who were willing to pay for history and quality. Of course, Mac’s previous jobs had been in areas with a bigger money base and more historical interest—Atlanta, Savannah, Charleston, Birmingham. It might take a bit longer to find a buyer here. But he wasn’t too worried about it. He’d come to Honoria for reasons that were far more personal than professional.
Even if it cost him every dime he’d managed to accumulate in the past few years, he would consider it money well spent if he finally got some answers to the questions that had haunted him all his life.
Because Trent was still waiting for a response, Mac nodded. “I want every modern convenience, but I don’t want it to look like a restaurant kitchen. We’ll use appliance garages and custom cabinetry to camouflage the equipment.”
Trent