After Dark. Wendy Etherington
“Do you always come to business meetings at nearly nine at night, dressed like that?” he asked, drawing his eyebrows together.
“I preserve the past, Mr. Kendrick,” she said huskily, stepping closer, so that their bodies nearly touched. “But I live very much in the present.”
His eyes shone with interest for a split second, then he stepped back.
She walked past him, the faint scent of whiskey brushing by her nose. Drinking alone in a dark old house? Aidan Kendrick certainly lived up to his eccentric reputation.
“I bet you were surprised by the working electrical system,” she said, walking across the foyer’s wood floors and into the parlor, where she flipped on the switch for the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. “Old Doc Marcus replaced it about twenty years ago.”
“Nothing surprises me, Miss Caldwell.” He paused. “At least not until you appeared on my porch.”
Smiling, she glanced over her shoulder at him. “I have that effect on some men.”
He nearly succeeding in looking amused. “I’ll bet.”
She wandered around the room, noting the stacks of boxes in one corner, the collection of hand and power tools gathered in another. Wondering about the lack of furniture, she strolled past him. She peeked into the dining room on the opposite side of the foyer, but finding nothing but a creaking and broken chandelier and an impressive collection of cobwebs, she moved into the central hallway and headed toward the back of the house, where she knew the kitchen was located.
Here, at least, there was a battered oak table and a set of chairs that looked reasonably sturdy. There was also evidence that someone actually lived in the house.
A brand-new stainless-steel refrigerator took up one corner. Empty water bottles were strewn across the scarred, yellowing, linoleum countertops. A partial loaf of bread sat next to a plate bearing a half-eaten ham sandwich. A nearly empty bottle of whiskey rested beside a stack of red plastic cups.
The whole place was depressing. It was hard to believe the Atlantic Ocean ebbed and flowed only a few blocks away.
She lowered herself into one of the chairs, set her briefcase beside her, then looked up at him. “It was rude of you not to invite me in. I thought you were from Atlanta.”
He frowned. “I am.”
“They never taught you Southern hospitality up there?”
“We’re a rare breed, I guess,” he said, his sarcasm clear. “For instance, we rarely come uninvited to someone’s house, then walk around like we own the place.”
She shrugged. “I came to see the house. I didn’t see any point in not getting started. Do you ever offer uninvited guests something to drink?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I have whiskey and water.”
She needed water for her dry mouth. Heavens, the man was so tempting. But she knew he’d smirk at that request. “I’ll have whiskey.”
“One finger or two?”
“One.”
Without comment, he moved to the counter, then poured a splash of the amber liquid into a fresh plastic cup. When he returned to her, he held out the cup.
She didn’t quite suppress a wince. “No ice?”
“I haven’t hooked up the ice maker yet.”
She took the cup, glanced into it, then tossed back the contents in one swallow. Her throat burned, then her chest. But she didn’t cough or flinch.
On occasion, she liked the rich, smoky taste of whiskey. However, she preferred it with a serious game of poker. Or a hot fire and a warm guy. Or, even better, a hot guy and a blazing fire.
“Do I pass?” she asked, handing him back the cup.
“Pass what?”
“The test on not being afraid of you.”
“I’m not testing you,” he said, his annoyance intensifying. “I’m not doing anything with you.”
But you could be. She’d never gone after a guy who clearly wanted to see the back of her. In fact, she’d had enough of guys she wanted, but who’d suddenly realized they didn’t want her.
Guy, really.
After wallowing in Rejected Land a few months back, she’d decided she liked her guys fun, enthralled and uncomplicated. Which Davis had been. Before he’d decided to run off to Atlanta after some other woman—and a job with the man glaring at her now.
Which brought up a whole new complication. Why had Aidan Kendrick decided to come to Palmer’s Island? Did it have anything to do with Davis? How well did the two men know each other?
When her life decided to come full circle, it had apparently chosen to jump on the upside-down roller coaster, rather than the merry-go-round.
“Oh, so you’re not trying to intimidate me into running back to town and leaving you to your brooding and hammering?”
“Sure I am.” His lips curved. “And, yes, you would greatly aid my efforts if you’d saunter back to town.”
The effort at humor was intriguing. Appealing. If he could be any more appealing, that is. “I don’t saunter.”
“Yeah, well, I’m renovating, not hammering.”
“What about brooding?”
He lifted his shoulders in a careless shrug. “The Irish are entitled.”
“I suppose we are.”
“We?”
She held out her hand. “Sloan—warrior.”
This time he took her hand and shook it. The contact sent a bold shock up her arm. “Aidan—little fire.”
He looked pretty cold to her, but there was heat in there somewhere, behind the ice of his eyes. No man could have been through what he had, come through still standing, and not have a flame burning deep inside.
“And I doubt there’s much you’re afraid of,” he added.
“True.” She reached for her briefcase, and—again—wished he wasn’t so sexy, amazing…dangerous. “The blue-steel Glock nine millimeter I carry in my glove compartment doesn’t hurt.”
SOMEHOW, Aidan found himself sitting opposite her at the beat-up kitchen table. Unwanted desire crawled over his skin, even as part of him craved her brightness.
She was the very last thing he needed.
And the very thing he longed for.
“I’m sorry to call so late,” she said briskly, flipping her long blond hair over her shoulder, then digging into her bulging briefcase. “My day job forces me to keep irregular hours when dealing with the historical society business. And since you have no phone, I had to—”
“Day job?”
She glanced up. “I’m a librarian.”
“No way.” He’d figured pole dancer. Well, her body screamed pole dancer. Maybe, subconsciously he was hoping for a pole dancer. He let his gaze drift over her buxom figure—all that he could see above the table. Beneath, he knew there were miles of firm, tanned legs. “No damn way,” he added.
“I’m beginning to think you’re a man who leans toward stereotypes.” Casually, she pulled a yellow-paper legal pad from her case before setting the bag on the floor. “I’m sorry I can’t oblige you,” she said as she uncapped a pen and met his gaze. “But if it’s important, I can tell you that our town historical society doesn’t have the cachet of nearby Charleston. They have the wealthy past, the port and the bustling tourism industry, after all. We have our own place in