A Small-Town Homecoming. Terry McLaughlin
moments later she jerked to a stop at the edge of the site and stepped from her car. Trap Hunter’s excavating equipment chugged and roared and clawed at the ground, tearing through the reddish-brown earth with steel talons. Beyond the ragged ditches of the footings, one of Quinn’s crew—Ned Landreau, she thought—nudged an elbow into Quinn’s ribs as he leaned to gaze through a laser level.
Quinn straightened and waited, his pose casual and his expression grim as Tess picked her way across yards of tracked-up, clodding earth. Her heels sank into the pungent soil, coating her navy slingbacks with grime, and she cursed him with every shoe-sucking step.
Especially since the way Quinn looked, with his muscular form outlined by the fabric of his chambray shirt and his tool belt slung low over one jean-clad hip, nearly made her mouth go dry.
“Glad you could make it,” he said after she’d de-toured around the deep gash of the western footing. “But you might want to rethink your choice of outfits if you’re going to make a habit of dropping by. Things can get pretty messy around a construction site.”
She swiped a speck of mud from her pencil-slim skirt and tugged at her coordinating shantung-silk jacket. “I wasn’t planning on stopping by. I heard the police were here this morning. And I’ve been around plenty of construction sites.”
“Good. Then I won’t have to remind you to bring a hard hat. I don’t have one to spare.” He turned back to his level, squinted into the scope and gestured to a crew member holding a marker near a footing.
She took another careful step closer. “Why was a patrol car here?”
“Because I called to file a report.”
“About what?”
“Vandalism.”
“What?”
He paused and leisurely added a note to his clipboard, but the ripple of muscle along the edge of his jaw betrayed the effort he was making to control his anger. “Someone poured some sand in an oil filter.”
“That sounds serious.”
He flicked a frigid glance in her direction. “It is.”
“What do you intend to do about it?”
“Rent another backhoe until I can get mine fixed.”
“I mean,” she said as she folded her arms across her chest, “what are you going to do about getting better security so this kind of thing won’t happen again?”
“What do you mean, security?” He shifted closer and angled his head toward hers. “Are you suggesting I hire a guard?”
She held her ground, though she could nearly feel the temper and heat pumping off him. “Pouring sand in an engine is a lot more serious than the typical mischief at a site like this. Things like graffiti or materials theft.”
“I know what goes on at sites like this.”
“It could happen again.”
“I know that, too.”
“Tell me,” she said sweetly, “is there anything you don’t know?”
The corners of his mouth turned up in an unfriendly grin, and his gaze roamed over her features. “Plenty. Particularly about female architects.”
“If I were you,” she said, recklessly following the shift in the argument, “I’d be in a big hurry to figure things out.”
His eyes darkened. “What makes you think I’m not?”
He bent again at the waist and squinted into the scope. Tess was proud of herself for not noticing the way the back of his jeans curved behind his tool belt.
“Look, Quinn, I—”
“If you don’t think I can handle this job, well, you’re entitled to your opinion.” He made an adjustment to the level and checked the scope again. “But you’re not the one who hired me to do it. And the woman who did hire me wants us to work together.”
“Believe me, I’m aware of that.”
“So work with me.”
He shot one of his penetrating looks at her, the one that made her feel as though he could see deep inside her to that place where she hid all her doubts and insecurities. She detested that look, nearly as much as she detested the fact that he was right. She had to work with him.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll work with you. And I’ll expect the same. A phone call when there’s something—anything—to report.”
He nodded solemnly. “You got it.”
“Now, about the security—”
“Already taken care of.” He called another instruction to the man with the marker. “I discussed it with Geneva.”
His words stung like a slap. Tess tried not to show it, to keep her eyes on his, but she knew from the way his frown deepened that he’d noted her flinch.
“Well,” she said when she’d recovered, “now you can discuss it with me.”
“Look, Tess, this isn’t—”
“Later. At my office. Five o’clock.” She turned on her soggy, muddy heel and walked away.
STILL in a temper a quarter of an hour later, Tess shoved her way into her office and then swore when her Macho-Mex mocha sloshed over the edge of the cup. Chocolate spatters layered over the dusty red splotches on her slingbacks. “Aww, for cryin’ out—”
The phone on her desk rang, and she carefully speed-walked to the back of the room, holding the coffee at arm’s length. “Roussel Designs, Tess Roussel speaking.”
“You’ve obviously made it back to work,” Geneva said with a hint of sarcasm.
“Not all my work is done in the office.” Tess set the cup on the desk and reached for a tissue to wipe her hand. “Thank you for returning my call.”
“Anytime, dear.”
Tess frowned as she toed off her shoes. Her grandmother didn’t sound all that upset by what had happened at Tidewaters that morning. Not that she wanted her grandmother to be upset—not unless she was upset with Quinn. Then she could erupt like a Fourth of July fireworks display and fire his nicely shaped ass. “I wanted to touch base with you about what happened at the site this morning.”
“The vandalism,” Geneva said with a disgusted sigh.
“Yes.” Tess tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder and snatched another tissue from her apple-red dispenser. “I understand Quinn has already discussed everything with you.”
“Yes, he has. It’s all terribly distressing, all the trouble and expense involved in setting things right. But he assures me there won’t be any delays. And he’s handled everything quite satisfactorily, with no need for your attention.”
“He may not have needed it, but he got it.” Tess picked up one of her shoes and began to scrub at the stains. “Finding out from one of the shopkeepers downtown that the police had been called to Tidewaters got my attention pretty damn quick.”
“Really, Tess, must you use that kind of language?”
“I beg your pardon. Sorry.” She chipped a nail on her shoe heel and swore under her breath as she tossed the soiled, crumpled tissue toward her waste bin. The wad bounced off the rim and tumbled to the floor. This just wasn’t her day. “I tend to get upset when my job site is the scene of a criminal investigation, and I’m not notified.”
“Although I appreciate your enthusiasm for this project,” Geneva said in a terrifyingly frigid tone, “I must remind you that Tidewaters belongs to me, not to you.”
Tess stiffened and dropped the shoe. “Yes, Mémère.”
“You