Yes, he did know. Rand would be alone, just as he’d wanted to be since he’d bought this house after his first year at a successful medical practice. It had taken him the eight long years after that to get his three rambunctious younger sisters safely launched into the world.
Then there was his mother. Rand loved her dearly, but the obstinate Marjorie Barclay had clung to Rand and this house like a tic on a hound dog. He had used every persuasive trick he could think of to get her to move to South Carolina’s most posh retirement village, where she could meet people her own age and develop some interests apart from her children. Fortunately, she’d adjusted quickly and now pretended the move had been all her idea.
Rand contemplated the stacks of research books that had grown like stalagmites around his office during the past six months. He’d been setting the stage for the massive task of writing his book—collecting papers and articles on rare skin diseases, tracking down subjects, accumulating stacks and stacks of statistics. But he had yet to commit a single word to paper.
Who could write with little kids underfoot and assorted females coming and going all the time, their high-pitched laughter and mindless chatter constantly in the background? One of his medical journals, he noticed, had a half-eaten lollipop stuck to it.
But that was all over now. As of today, he was embarking on a new life, one of total independence. For a while, at least, Rand Barclay was going to focus on Rand Barclay. He was going to do what he wanted, buy what he wanted, work, sleep and eat when he wanted—in blissful solitude.
And the first step was new bookshelves for his office—custom-made for his medical books and notes. Clark had already consulted a carpenter and negotiated a fee. Rand had signed off on the plans, which had arrived by messenger two days ago. Today the carpenter would start work.
Rand could hardly wait until the shelves were done. He could organize his research materials instead of pawing through unruly stacks every time he wanted to find a piece of information.
Clark came back into the room with a feather duster and went to work on Rand’s desk without saying a word.
“So what time is the carpenter getting here?” Rand asked.
“Should be any time.” Another mysterious smile. “But I still don’t see why you chose now to have bookshelves built. You’re supposed to finish your book…when?”
“End of next month,” Rand said, trying to sound matter-of-fact. But whenever he thought about his deadline, his stomach swooped.
“And how much have you gotten written?”
Rand didn’t answer.
“These bookshelves are just another excuse to procrastinate,” Clark said. “You can give a man a license to practice medicine, set him up at a primo research lab, but deep down he’s still a college kid, cramming for an exam at the last minute, finishing up a term paper at six in the morning—”
“I did not get through med school by procrastinating. And you have no idea what’s involved in writing this textbook. It’s not like writing a term paper. You have to lay the groundwork for something like this. If you don’t make the proper preparations, the whole thing will get out of whack.”
Clark rolled his eyes. “You can be the most pompous ass sometimes. And you don’t call this out of whack?” He made a sweeping gesture, encompassing every last untidy pile.
“Yeah, yeah, put a sock in it.”
Clark just smiled. They bantered like this all the time, and neither of them took offense. Clark had earned the right to insult Rand. He’d known Rand when he was “that no-good Barclay kid,” knobby knees and ill-fitting shoes and clothes that never quite went together.
And yes, all right, Rand did procrastinate. He couldn’t fool Clark, who’d been witness to Rand’s time-management impairment since high school.
But the job always got done. And the treatise would get written, too, just as soon as he had proper bookshelves.
SUSAN KILGORE CLIMBED into her truck and cranked open the window before starting the engine. The weather was unseasonably warm for October, even in South Carolina. She checked the mirror, put her truck in gear and backed out of the driveway, waving to her landlady.
Harriet Regis was a dear, and Susan hated the fact that she had to move out of the Regises’ attic apartment. But Mr. Regis was ill, and he needed a quiet tenant. Susan hadn’t even waited for Harriet to bring it up. She’d already gone out and found another apartment. It wasn’t as nice as this one, but it included a garage where she could set up her woodworking shop.
As she drove past a convenience store, Susan thought longingly of a cup of coffee. How long had it been since she’d had one?
No sense dwelling on all the things she couldn’t or didn’t have in her life right now, she lectured herself. Better to focus on what she did have, which was her first significant paying job since her father’s death more than a year ago.
She’d quickly discovered that potential customers had no faith in a woman’s carpentry abilities. During the past few months, she’d scrounged up a little bit of work. She’d framed in a new door for her landlords, and she’d put new facings on the neighbor’s kitchen cabinets. But the big jobs had eluded her. And, in truth, she hadn’t tried as hard as she should have to get work.
But the little nest egg her ex-boyfriend had left her—purely out of guilt—was gone, along with almost all of her own savings. If she didn’t revitalize the carpentry business immediately, she would have to get a nine-to-five job. And, let’s face it, who was going to hire her at this point?
Thank goodness Clark Best had called, not realizing her father had passed on. She’d been completely honest with him, and then she’d had to grovel to get the job. But he’d given her a chance, bless his heart.
Now it was up to her to convince Dr. Rand Barclay that she could build him the most awesome shelving unit he’d ever seen—solid mahogany, brass hardware…
Oh, hell, who was she kidding? The minute he laid eyes on her, she would be out the door on her fanny.
CLARK WAS BUSY IN the kitchen when the doorbell rang, so Rand answered it himself. A tall woman with long, dark hair in a sleek ponytail stood on his front porch, looking around uncertainly. She carried a huge sketch pad in front of her, so he could see nothing of her figure, but from the shoulders up she was breathtaking.
She wasn’t a classic beauty—her face was a bit too angular for that. But her skin was flawless, her lips pink and moist, and her eyes—they were hard to look away from. A startling blue, they seemed to hold emotional depths Rand could never fathom.
She blinked a couple of times at him. “Is this the Barclay residence?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m Rand Barclay.”
“Hello, Dr. Barclay. I’m Susan Kilgore.” Clutching the sketch pad against her with one hand, she extended the other in an awkward handshake. Her hands were long, strong, and not very pretty, especially with those bitten nails. Yet Rand felt something odd when she touched him. He supposed it was because he wasn’t used to a woman shaking hands like a man.
He waited for her to state her business. The silence stretched an uncomfortable length of time, and it seemed as if she expected to be invited in. Then he saw the truck in the driveway and the logo on the door: Kilgore Woodworking.
“Oh, the bookshelves,” Rand finally said, feeling like an idiot. “Come right in.” He looked past her out to the driveway, expecting her father or brother to appear, but apparently she was alone.
She stepped into the foyer and looked around. “This is a fine old house,” she said, almost wistfully. “I imagine it’s