“You could hear it all the way upstairs?”
Her grin wrinkled her nose. “I have the ears of a bat.”
The doorbell chimed. “Ruthie! What are you doing in there? Please, get the door.”
The redheaded assistant made a face, mouthing, “Duty calls.” She hurried around the corner. “On my way, boss.”
Cole turned to his work. During the next fifteen minutes, he slowly, soundlessly replaced the washer, his attention focused more on the interview in the living room than on the repair job. He couldn’t make out every word, but what he did hear he found difficult to believe.
It sounded as though Miss Sancroft was interviewing for a husband. Finished with the repair, he laid the flats of his hands on the cool granite and shook his head, strangely disappointed. He wasn’t surprised by much, but that surprised him. He had a hard time restraining his irritation. Why in the name of all that was nuts in the world, would she resort to such a stupid, sterile plan? With eyes like hers? And those lips! Surely some of the men she’d dated would have looked past her drab, frumpish clothes and seen—
“Well—thank you for your time, Mr. Robertson.”
Cole glanced over his shoulder. Miss Sultry-lips sounded closer.
“It was—interesting,” the man said with a tense laugh. “Goodbye, Ms. Sancroft. Good luck.”
“Thank you for coming.”
Cole heard the door close, then silence.
“When’s the next appointment, Ruthie?”
“Not for fifteen or twenty minutes. He called to say his flight had been delayed.”
“Thank heaven.” Cole heard her sigh. “I need a break. I think I’ll have a health nut bar and a cup of instant—” She rounded the corner into the kitchen. Her sentence and her forward movement ended when she saw him. Outrage transformed her features. “You!”
He shifted to fully face her and lounged against the counter. Crossing his arms over his bare chest, he eyed her critically. She wore a white blouse with long sleeves and a high, Puritan neckline. Her shapeless, gray skirt hit her midknee. Between the skirt hem and her sensible pumps, he saw slender, attractive legs that could be shown off to better advantage.
She wore her hair slicked back the same, sexless way she’d worn it on Saturday. Even so, the extremely unattractive style couldn’t quite make her plain. Her vivid, jade eyes, full lips and great bone structure were difficult to spoil, no matter how hard she might try. He wondered why she was trying so hard.
The stillness crackled with tension. Cole was unaccustomed to being glared at by women. He ignored the prickle of irritation and eyed her without smiling. “Afternoon.”
His chilly greeting seemed to revive her from her paralysis and she threw him a stiff-armed point. “You are not supposed to be in here.”
Another thing Cole was unaccustomed to was being told he wasn’t supposed to be somewhere. His irritation billowed, but he didn’t let it show. “I didn’t make noise.”
She gasped. “You—that’s not the point! You were not supposed to come inside during my interviews! I specifically ordered you not to!”
He stared for a count of ten. During the stretched-out silence she exhaled with agitation, plainly upset by his dawdling to get on with his groveling and apologizing. Well, she’d have a long wait.
“I don’t take orders well,” he said, then turned away, dismissing her with body language. Hefting his toolbox he strode around the eating bar toward the rear door. With his hand on the knob, he halted and glanced back. “Why in Hades are you interviewing for a husband?”
Her mouth dropped open at his bluntness. “Get out!” she demanded, her voice as rusty as an old tin can.
Jen felt shell-shocked. After nearly three days holed up inside that house, she needed to get out, walk off her frustrations. Even if it meant chancing a run-in with the insolent handyman. Why should she hide? She was the sanctioned occupant here, legally leasing this place. She had a right to enjoy the beach. After the horrendous day she’d had, if she didn’t do something besides stare at the walls, she would scream. She was customarily optimistic and confident, but today both her optimism and her confidence had been sorely tested.
She vaulted off the sofa where she’d held so many unproductive interviews. “I’m going for a walk, Ruthie.”
Her secretary sat on a wing chair placed at an angle to the couch. She looked up, flipped her notepad closed and nodded. “It’s about time you got out and enjoyed the nice weather.” She stood. “I’m going upstairs to call Raymond, see how he and the kids are dealing with his parents’ visit.” She rolled her eyes. “I can hardly stand the suspense.”
“Fine,” Jen murmured, too preoccupied with today’s futile interviews to say more. She was out of the living room and almost to the kitchen before Ruthie called after her.
“Boss?”
Jen glanced back. “Yes?”
“Should I order take-out for dinner?”
Jen shrugged, not feeling much like eating. “Sure.”
“For about an hour from now?”
“Sure.” She glanced at her watch. Five-thirty. She had plenty of time to walk off her anxieties. Well, at least she had some time. She didn’t think all the time in the world, or all the strength she could muster, would allow her to walk off all her troubles.
She went out the back door and stood for a moment on the wood deck. Wicker furniture with red-and-blue-striped cushions brightened the shady area. Potted gardenia plants, with glossy green leaves and a multitude of white blossoms, lent delicate beauty to the space, their breeze-tossed, flowery fragrance mingling agreeably with the briny tang of the Gulf.
The rustling of a wind through the sea grasses on the dunes beyond the freshly painted pickets, the rush of the surf, eased her stress slightly. How miraculous that only a moment in the relaxing magic of nature’s grandeur could have an effect.
She inhaled, deciding this walk on the beach was days overdue. Provoking handyman or not, she needed this, needed the gentle relief of sun and surf to ease the coil of anxiety that had taken up residence inside her.
She walked down the steps to the lawn, focusing determinedly on the beach. She strode to the fence, unlatched the gate and headed over the dunes to tawny sand. She came to a stop just out of reach of the skittering surf. The high-pitched cry of a seagull swooping nearby attracted her attention. She watched the bird dip and soar over the boundless Gulf. The view was gorgeous, with the brilliance of a late-afternoon sun glinting off the azure blue. It was so quiet, so restful, she could feel the pressures of the distressing day melt away.
Edgy, worrisome thoughts tried to intrude—of the reason she had to be there, of all that depended on these next weeks. She tried not to let her anger and frustration over the unfairness of the world come to the surface. She’d spent too much time lately letting it get to her.
Here she was, on a pristine beach, breathing in fresh, sea air, her face caressed by sunshine. She shouldn’t contaminate the moment by dwelling on her troubles. Through exhaustively long work days and total devotion to her career, she’d becoming the youngest, and only female, of three vice presidents. Then last week, when the current president abruptly announced he was leaving for a job out of state, Jen knew, by any fair measurement, she deserved the presidency.
It was her tough luck that the owner and absentee CEO of the firm had ruled with raging conservatism over the years, never promoting a bachelor to the presidency—let alone a female—always opting for a settled, family man. Though the elderly owner recently passed away, and control passed to his son, Jen feared