He set me unceremoniously on my feet. Yards of glorious Scalamandré fabric billowed about us. I watched as it settled on the floor, burying my sneakers and his dirty workboots.
“Be careful,” I cried. “Don’t move. Don’t get that fabric dirty! It costs a fortune.”
He snorted. “Tell me about it. I got the bill yesterday.”
I carefully lifted the drapery off his boots, laying it over one of the plaid slipper chairs. I examined it minutely and couldn’t see any dirt on the pale-cream background. Relief washed over me.
I turned to my rescuer. Now that I could spare him a glance, I saw he was what Dad always called a man’s man: big, physically fit, ruggedly handsome with dark eyes and wavy dark hair that needed a haircut. He wore jeans and a white T-shirt, and he had a phone clipped to his belt and a pair of sunglasses hanging from the neck of his T-shirt.
All in all, very impressive, but I’d given impressive men a wide berth since Glenn. Once burned was more than enough.
A pad of lined paper filled with notations and a black leather carrying case holding what I assumed was a laptop lay on the floor where he’d dropped them when he grabbed me.
“That would have been a nasty fall,” he said, picking up his tablet and case.
I nodded. Of course I wouldn’t have fallen at all if he hadn’t scared me to death, but I decided not to mention that little fact. “Thanks for the rescue.”
He grunted, frowning at me. “What are you doing standing on something as unstable as that ladder? It looks like it’s going to collapse under you at any moment.”
“What’s the matter with my ladder?” I looked at the paint-splattered contraption. It was my father’s. He’d used it for all his home projects for years, as had Granddad before him. It bordered on family heirloom.
Dad had loaned it to me almost ten years ago when, to help pay college expenses, I began sewing curtains, slipcovers, pillows and anything else a customer wanted for her home. I was now long out of college, but the ladder was still with me, as was my part-time business, Anna’s Windows Plus. When I’d picked that name years ago, I’d never given Bill Gates and his Windows program a thought. I didn’t get too many calls about malfunctioning computer programs.
“What’s the matter with your ladder?” He looked amazed I would ask. “You’re kidding, right? The brace on one side is broken. It has more potential splinters on it than a porcupine has quills.”
Yowzah! The guy spoke in poetic images.
“In short, it’s an accident waiting to happen, and when you break your neck, I’ll get the blame.”
I blinked. “Why would you get the blame?” But I was pretty sure I knew since I’d just figured out why he looked so familiar.
“Because I’m the contractor, and Freedom’s Chase is my project.”
“You’re Edward Grayson.” Just as I’d thought. I’d seen his picture in the News often enough. I’d guess everybody in the Amhearst area knew his name, probably everybody in Chester County, if not Philadelphia and the whole Delaware Valley. He built wonderful homes like the one we were standing in and sold them at outrageous prices, though rumor had it he didn’t need the money. His family was supposedly drowning in Texas oil or something.
Maybe that’s where he got the financial backing for the massive renovation of downtown Amhearst he had planned and which City Council had just approved after much dispute. All the deteriorating buildings in the four-block area that had once been a thriving shopping and business district were to be torn down, and condominiums and apartments built, with all the facilities such a community would need.
I had followed the newspaper reports about the huge project every step of the way. I loved Amhearst, and anything that would make it a more healthy community had my support.
“You’re younger than I thought, Mr. Grayson.” Not too much older than I was. Mid-thirties to my late twenties, I thought. Young for such responsibility.
“That’s Mr. Edwards, not Mr. Grayson,” my rescuer said. “My name’s Grayson Edwards. Gray Edwards.”
“You’re named after a color.” As an artist I liked that idea, though gray wasn’t the color I would have chosen for him. Nothing so soft, so muted. Black maybe. Strong and powerful. Or Green, a deep, forest shade. Too bad I’d never been asked my opinion. I looked at Gray Edwards. Like he’d ever want my opinion.
What if I were named after a color? I could be Rose Volente or Violet Volente. The thought made me grin.
“I am not named after a color.” There was enough pique in his voice to indicate he’d dealt with this comment before. “Grayson is my mother’s maiden name.”
Mom’s maiden name was Rasmussen. Thank goodness she had realized there wasn’t any possibility of a first name for her only daughter to be found there. Suddenly Anna looked very good indeed.
“As I was saying before you interrupted—” he said.
I frowned at him. I’d hardly classify my comment about his name as an interruption. He frowned back.
“—this is my project.” He waved his hand, tablet and all. I understood he meant not the living room in which we were standing but Freedom’s Chase with its mini-mansions under construction, each house all but overflowing its mere quarter-acre lot. There’d never be much call for a lawn service around here. There weren’t any lawns.
“If you fall and kill yourself,” he said, “your survivors will doubtless sue me for all I’m worth.” He looked as put upon as if the suit were already in progress.
Thinking he needed to lighten up a bit, I asked oh-so-sweetly, “And you’re worth how much, Edward? Just so I can tell the family an amount to ask for if the unthinkable comes to pass.”
He stared at me, dark eyes narrowed. “Cute.”
I grinned. “Thank you.”
He shook his head and reluctantly grinned back. My heart went pitter-pat as if I were sixteen, and the star quarterback had deigned to smile at me.
“Will you be much longer?” He glanced at his watch. “It’s eight o’clock. Past time to go home.” He practically vibrated with impatience.
I turned to the fabric, carefully lifting the beautiful, pricey Tuscan Vine. The large clusters of aubergine grapes, the green leaves and the brown vines were embroidered on cream silk. I loved the pattern. I glanced at him over my shoulder. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be. It depends on whether I have the peace and quiet I need to do my job.”
“Ha-ha,” he said.
I searched for and found the top edge of the drapery. “You don’t have to wait for me, you know.” I pointed to the other long windows. “I managed to hang those all by myself. I’m sure I can manage this one, too.”
He flicked a glance at the windows I indicated. As he did, the sofa caught his eye. “The couch is purple!” He sounded offended.
“Aubergine,” I corrected, glad I wasn’t the one who had picked the color. The interior designer who had subbed out the windows to me had made that selection. I decided not to mention that I thought it went well with the grapes in Tuscan Vine and the purple in the Sinclair plaid on the slipper chairs.
“It’s purple. Bright purple.”
“It’s not bright purple,” I said patiently. “It’s aubergine.”
He sniffed, walked to it, and ran his hand over the seat. “It’s slippery!”
“It’s