SMITTEN (Loveswept, No 392) Page 9

  The thick, curly blond lashes fluttered open, and he stared at Lizabeth with unfocused eyes. ‘I’m not in my bed,” he said. “Am I in yours?”

  “No. You’re on my couch.”

  “Oh yeah. Now I remember. I was having this awful nightmare that I was chasing the flasher and Ferguson attacked me. And then the flasher stole my motorcycle because I stupidly left the key in the ignition. Then we went on this bizarre ride with Elsie…”

  “It’s all true.”

  He closed his eyes and groaned. “I’m going to kill myself. I’m a failure. I let a potbellied, out-of-shape pervert get away from me. You aren’t going to tell the guys at work about this, are you?”

  “Speaking of the guys at work… it’s after six.”

  “Oh hell, I have a building inspector coming at seven.” He swung his legs over the side of the couch and ran a hand through his hair. “I have a stack of forms to fill out before he arrives.”

  “Will they take long to fill out?”

  “No. It’s finding them that’s going to be the problem.” He shuffled into his shoes and swung an arm around her shoulders. “I’ll give you a raise if you’ll help me look for the forms.”

  Three hours later Lizabeth was still sifting through papers on Matt’s desk. She’d found a half-eaten salami sub, a red wool sock, notice that the lease on his town house was due to expire, and a month-old unopened letter with the return address of J. Hallahan, Scranton, Pennsylvania, but she hadn’t found the appropriate forms for the building Inspector. She pushed her chair back when Matt stomped down the basement stairs. “You need help,” she said. “You’re in big trouble with this paperwork.”

  He slouched in a battered oak captain’s chair, stretching his long legs in front of him. “I know. Did you find the forms?”

  She shook her head. “No. But they’re going to evict you from your town house if you don’t do something immediately. And I found this letter.” She slid the white envelope from J. Hallahan across the top of the desk.

  Matt looked at it and slid it back to her. “Throw it away.”

  “Aren’t you going to open it?”

  “It’s nothing important.”

  Lizabeth leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. “It’s from a relative. Did you read the return address? It’s from a J. Hallahan.”

  “I know who it’s from.”

  “Ah-hah.” She tapped her index finger on the envelope. It seemed to her that copulation carried some privileges—such as the right to be nosy. “So, who’s this J. Hallahan?”

  “He’s my father.”

  Lizabeth’s eyebrows shot up in silent question.

  “It’s a request for money, and I’ve already sent some. There’s no reason to open the envelope. The letters are always the same.” He should tell her about it, he thought, but he hated dragging all those skeletons out of the closet. He didn’t want to seem pitiable in her eyes. And he didn’t want to seem callous. And he knew if he told her he would appear to be both. When he was eighteen he’d literally run away from his past. In some ways he was still running. Always would be. He could see she was concerned about the contents of the letter, so he took it from her, opened it, and glanced over his father’s almost unreadable scrawl. His mouth curved into the tight, crooked smile he reserved for those times when he managed to find some wry humor in distasteful situations. “No surprises here,” he said, handing the letter to her so she could read it for herself. “Someday we’ll sit down with a bottle of wine and tell each other all our grim family secrets. Fortunately, I haven’t got the time to do it right now.” He stood with his hands on his hips, his brows drawn together in a scowl. “Damn, I wish we could find those forms.” His eyes swept over the desk, the file cabinets, the cases of cola stacked on the floor. A guilty smile spread across his face. “I remember! It was raining when I brought the forms back from the municipal building.” He went to the open area behind the stairwell, picked up a pair of rubber boots caked with dried mud, and under the boots he found the forms. “I didn’t want to get the floor dirty,” he explained, wiping at the brown smudges.

  Lizabeth bit her lower lip and considered Matthew Hallahan’s husband potential. He was sensitive, sexy, and he had a decent income, she decided—but he’d be hell to housebreak. She took the forms from him and smoothed them out on the desktop. “Want me to have a go at this?”

  “That’d be great.” He noticed the neat piles of papers on the desk. She’d cleaned up the dried splotches where he’d spilled coffee and chicken noodle soup, and she’d gotten the smear of roofing tar off the telephone. The salami sub had been removed from his out box, and had been replaced with a batch of stamped, unsealed envelopes.

  Lizabeth gestured to the envelopes. “There were a few things I felt comfortable handling, but you’d better check everything just to make sure. I’ve tried to divide the rest up into categories. Bills, bids, contracts. I’ve filed the catalogs and advertisements.”

  She’d shut off the air-conditioning and opened the sliding patio door, letting the moist morning air pour into the basement. Her hair had begun to curl in ringlets that pressed against her temples and straggled over her forehead, and her face was alive with a sense of accomplishment. Matt watched her push the hair back from her face, and felt himself go breathless. Every movement she made excited him, every part of her seemed perfect, exquisite. He wanted to reach out and tangle his hand in her hair. He wanted to kiss the spot of downy-soft skin in front of her earlobe. He wanted to hear the little catch in her throat that meant passion had caught her by surprise, had overwhelmed her, had rushed through her like a flash fire. Another time, he told himself. He wasn’t in the mood to start something he couldn’t finish. Three hours of sleep had left him with a short fuse. He was trying to impress the lady with his compassion and sensitivity. So he struggled to keep up the casual attitude they normally fell into during work hours.

  She was the sort of woman who always rose to a challenge, he thought. And she took pride in a job well done. He liked that in a person. He didn’t have a bunch of fancy degrees behind his name, but he knew everything there was to know about building houses. He could figure out a mortgage payment faster than a calculator. And he knew about people. He knew talent when he saw it, and he knew he needed Lizabeth in the office almost as badly as he needed her in his life. “Lizabeth, you’ve just been promoted to General Office Manager. You’re going to like this job. It pays twice as much as your old one.”

  “Can you afford to do that?”

  Matt glanced down at the wrinkled forms on the desk. “I can’t afford not to. I’m sinking. I build beautiful houses, but I’m an unorganized slob.”

  It was the truth, Lizabeth thought. He was a slob, and he was sinking. From what she’d seen this morning, bills were going unpaid through negligence, several bids had expired, and food poisoning had to be a constant danger. “Do I work the same hours?”

  “You work whatever hours you want. If you can get the job done in three hours and want to go home, that’s fine by me. I’ll pay you for a full day anyway.” And she would be rested by evening, he thought. He had plans for her evenings.

  She was still working at five-thirty. “I’m almost done,” she said, running her finger down a column of numbers. “I’ve made out tomorrow’s payroll checks, and I think I’ve got your accounting system figured out. It’s no wonder you couldn’t run this office while you were building houses. Five years ago, when you and Frank went into business for yourselves, you were building one house at a time, and the paperwork was manageable. You’re now building three houses on this site, and you have a fifteen-acre parcel of land seven miles south of here that you’re having partially cleared for future development. You’ve expanded your business, but you haven’t expanded your support staff. For starters, I think you need a professional accountant. And I think you need to upgrade your office equipment.”

  “I know. Frank and I had been talking about it, and then he broke his hip, and I didn’t h
ave time to look into any of that stuff. Maybe you could do it for me. Find us an accountant, and buy whatever you think we need.” He closed the ledger she was studying. “Right now, we need to go home. You know how Elsie hates people being late for dinner. If I don’t get you home by six she won’t feed me.”

  Lizabeth stood and stretched and realized they’d driven to work on the Harley. That meant they were going to have to go home on the Harley. Unless she chickened out and walked. The thought prompted a small groan that was caught and squelched midway in her throat. She wasn’t sure what the groan represented. Fear? Excitement? Embarrassment? She followed Matt up the stairs and said a silent prayer that a miracle would happen and they could sneak into her driveway without anyone noticing. If she was going to hyperventilate, she’d prefer to do it with some privacy.

  “Lord, Lizabeth,” Matt said, “you look like you’re going to keel over, and you haven’t even gotten on the bike yet.” He massaged the back of her neck. “You have to relax.”

  “I’m relaxed,” Lizabeth said.

  “Honey, you’re not breathing. Listen, we could walk. Or I could zip on home and come back for you in the truck.” He felt her spine stiffen, felt determination push aside fear. She was a fighter. She wasn’t a woman who gave in to weakness. Hawkins blood, Elsie would say. And she might be right. The thought brought a smile to his lips.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I was just thinking that you and Elsie are a lot alike.”

  “Omigod.”

  Ten minutes later they pulled into Lizabeth’s driveway, and a silver Lincoln pulled up behind them. Matt and Lizabeth got off the bike, removed their helmets and watched Paul Kane emerge from his air-conditioned car. His hair was dark, peppered with gray at the temples. His features were classic all-American and as bland as white bread. He was wearing a gray pin-striped, summer-wool, custom-tailored suit, starched pinpoint oxford-cloth cotton shirt, burgundy silk foulard tie. The first expression to register on his face was surprise, quickly followed by undisguised disgust.

  “My ex-husband,” Lizabeth said.

  Matt squinted at him. “It’s eighty-five in the shade. How does he manage to look like that?”

  “Paul Kane’s pants wouldn’t dare wrinkle.”

  So far Matt hadn’t liked anything he’d heard about Paul Kane, and now that he saw him he liked him even less. He especially didn’t like the way he was looking at Lizabeth. “Suppose I punch him in the nose.”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary. Seeing the mother of his children on the back of a motorcycle had to be the equivalent of a good punch in the gut.”

  Matt slid a protective arm around her shoulders. “Sorry he caught you rolling in on my Harley. Are you embarrassed?”

  Lizabeth tipped her head back and laughed. “Are you kidding? This Harley has class! It’s a hog. I never really appreciated it until I saw the look on Paul’s face.”

  “He was horrified,” Matt said.

  “Mmmm,” Lizabeth mused. “I probably looked like that the first time I saw your Harley sitting in your living room. But I’m better now,” she added. “I can run across a board in the rain, and I can almost have fun on a motorcycle.”

  She closed the gap between the two men and extended her hand. “Nice to see you again, Paul.” He gave her the required hand squeeze and cast a glance at the house. He withheld comment, but the glance was enough. Five years ago she would have been devastated by that dismissal, Lizabeth thought. Today she found it amusing, maybe even satisfying. Her house didn’t measure up to Paul Kane’s standards and to her that seemed to be a step in the right direction. Paul Kane was a snob, a stuffed shirt, a shallow person. And to quote Elsie, he was a horse’s behind.

  “Seems to be a family-oriented neighborhood,” Paul said. “I imagine you feel comfortable here.”

  “It’s perfect,” Lizabeth said. “The boys have lots of friends. They can walk to school, and I can walk to work.”

  Concern flicked across Kane’s brow. “What sort of job do you have that you can walk to work?”

  His mouth tightened. “You’re not a domestic, are you?”

  “No,” Lizabeth said, “I’m a carpenter. Actually, I suppose I’m not a carpenter anymore. I just got a promotion.”

  “Wonderful. What were you promoted to? Back-hoe driver?”

  “Office manager,” Lizabeth said, enjoying the moment, knowing Paul wouldn’t think any more of office manager than backhoe driver. “And this is my boss. Matt Hallahan.”

  The two men measured each other. When it became obvious neither was going to observe the usual amenity of a polite handshake, Lizabeth took over. “Elsie will be serving dinner in a few minutes.” She turned to Paul. “Would you like to join us? It will give you a chance to say hello to the boys.”

  Color suddenly stained his cheeks. “Elsie’s here? Crazy Elsie Hawkins? The woman who talks to pigeons?”

  Lizabeth smiled. This was getting better and better. “Elsie’s spending the summer with us. I needed a baby-sitter for Billy and Jason.”

  “I suppose Lizzie Borden was your first choice.”

  “Very funny,” Lizabeth said. “I’m going to tell Elsie you said that, and she’ll make you eat pork-chop fat.”

  Elsie met them on the front porch. “You come all the way up from Virginia just so you could mooch a pork chop?” she said to Paul.

  Paul made a strangled sound in the back of his throat. “Nice to see you again, Elsie.”

  “He wants something,” Elsie said to Lizabeth when they were alone in the kitchen. “The man’s a taker. Never could understand why you married him. The first time I laid eyes on him I thought he was a pig’s patoot.”

  Lizabeth took the buttermilk biscuits from the oven and dumped them into a basket lined with a white linen napkin. She and the boys had lived alone for over a year now, and Paul had called only a handful of times. He’d sent their Christmas presents UPS and completely missed Jason’s birthday. Lizabeth had to agree with Elsie. There was no possibility that this was simply a friendly visit. She filled a big bowl with mashed potatoes that had been warming on the stove and filled another bowl with steamed green beans. She took the pork chops and cooked apple rings from the oven and arranged them on a ceramic platter. Ferguson quietly inched his way up behind her and grabbed a pork chop.

  “Damn dog!” Elsie shouted, smacking Ferguson on the top of his head with her wooden spoon. Ferguson opened his mouth in surprise, and the pork chop fell onto the linoleum floor. Elsie picked the pork chop up and brushed it off. “It’s okay,” she said, carefully setting it apart from the others. “We’ll give it to Paul.”

  Matt might have cheered up some over dinner if he’d known Paul was eating dog drool. As it was he was having a difficult time dealing with the emotions Paul Kane triggered in him. He was overwhelmed with protective instincts and powerless to act on them. His anger simmered as he watched two of the most gregarious children he’d ever met turn excruciatingly shy. Jason and Billy hadn’t mumbled more than three words throughout the entire meal. They kept their eyes on their plates, fiddling with their meat and pushing their beans into their mashed potatoes. Matt understood the sudden personality shift. He knew what it was like to be ignored by your father. And he knew all the manifestations of rejection: denial, animosity, self-doubt. People like Paul Kane didn’t deserve to have terrific kids like Billy and Jason, and Billy and Jason didn’t deserve to have a father like Paul Kane. Matt almost felt sorry for Kane. The man had to be a total imbecile to have let Lizabeth, Jason, and Billy walk out of his life. A mistake he didn’t intend to make, Matt thought. He wanted to give them all the love he’d never received. All the support. All the understanding. He wanted to teach the boys to paddle a canoe, and he wanted to buy them ice-cream cones on hot summer nights, and he wanted to be there when they split their lips trying to do wheelies on their dirt bikes.

  The evening was growing painful for Lizabeth as well. The earlier joy at shocking her ex-husband had t
urned to despair as she watched her sons struggle through the meal. She’d forgotten how tongue-tied they became when they were with their dad. She shouldn’t have invited him to dinner, but she’d honestly hoped for a warm reunion. Actually, Paul wasn’t behaving badly, she thought. He was being the perfect politician, making innocuous dinner conversation, smiling at the appropriate moments, easing around Elsie’s occasional barbs. It was the sort of performance that had first piqued her interest in him. He could be gracious and charming when he wanted, and fool that she was, she had married him, not realizing that the interest in others was feigned and the kindness self-serving. Paul Kane was an entirely selfish man.

  Billy and Jason Kane knew all this. And it didn’t matter. He was their dad, and they waited like street urchins, silently begging for crumbs of affection and acceptance.

  “Well, what have you accomplished this summer?” Paul asked Jason.

  Jason looked at his father with wide eyes. At age eight he still had a soft, baby’s mouth. The mouth opened, but no words emerged. He blinked once and held tightly to his fork. “Nothin.” he finally whispered.

  “Surely you’ve done something?”

  “No sir.”

  Paul Kane looked pleased. “I think you’ll find the next two weeks a nice change of pace then. For the next two weeks you’ll have lots of interesting things to do.”

  Lizabeth leaned forward slightly. “What are you talking about?”

  “Surely you haven’t forgotten. These are my two weeks with the boys. It was very clearly spelled out in the divorce agreement.”

  Panic prickled at the nape of Lizabeth’s neck and expanded in her chest, making it difficult to breathe. “But you’ve never called! You’ve never mentioned it. You’ve never shown any desire to spend time with them…”