The Temptation of Sean MacNeill (3 page)

"No. No, he didn't leave a message."
Myra
beamed. "Don't worry, he said he'd call back."

"Did he." Rachel's voice was nearly expressionless, but Sean saw her fingers tighten on the soft plush arm of the couch. "How did he get your number?"

"Well, I… Heavens, I don't know. He said he worked with Doug."

Doug-the-Late-Husband, Sean guessed.

The fingers relaxed a fraction. "Was it Jerry Kline?"

Myra
tipped her head to one side. "Kline? No. Actually. I don't think he gave his name."

"But you're sure he worked with Doug? At the dealership?"

"That's what he said. Well, that he was a 'business associate of your late husband.'"
Myra
chuckled. "Very formal-sounding, the way he said it."

Rachel's once-flushed face was nearly white. Sean frowned.

Myra
's expression creased with concern. "Honey, I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were out here. Are you upset you missed the call? Because he said he'd be in touch."

"No," Rachel said faintly. "No, I'm not upset." She lowered her end of the sofa again and then looked up at Sean. "You stay, the sofa stays."

Her about-face confused him. For a minute there he'd expected her to tell him to get lost. "What?"

The words almost tumbled out. "My mother feels safer having a man around. Maybe she's right. And the couch isn't such a big deal. Think of it as part of a … a furnished lease."

"This couch? Green velvet In my workshop." A smile ghosted around her mouth, but her dark eyes never wavered. "It would have to be covered with something, of course."

"Of course," he echoed, amused in spite of himself.

She had some nerve, he'd give her that. He wasn't even sleeping with her, and she already wanted to move in her furniture. Even Trina, in the nine months he thought they were setting up their household— Don't go there, he ordered himself. He didn't want Rachel's sofa. He didn't want to get sucked into her problems, either.

He tugged the hoop in his ear. "Do I get a break in the rent?"

"No." Her quick smile was almost conciliatory. "I don't think one couch requires a lease negotiation, do you? But it would be a place for you to sleep tonight."

"I've got a place to sleep tonight."

"Oh." She looked embarrassed. "I see."

He wasn't explaining Lori Tucker, even assuming the real estate agent had decided to keep his barstool warm. "My brother, Patrick, lives about forty minutes southeast from here. I can grab a bed from him tonight, if I need one, and move in some stuff I need tomorrow."

"That's settled then," she said with evident relief.

* * *

But nothing was really settled, Rachel thought later, listening to the truck's engine rev away into the warm, soft twilight Nothing was settled at all. Guilt clutched at her. If she hadn't been late with that one payment… If she'd been a better wife to Doug… If she'd gone to the police in the first place…

Rachel shivered. No. She couldn't do that. Carmine Bilotti had made the danger of contacting the police very clear.

And so Rachel found herself agreeing to let Sean MacNeill stay, as if his presence in the garage could somehow deter the bad guys. But she wondered uneasily if the tall young carpenter, with his pirate looks and his wicked smile and his air of lazy challenge, wasn't danger of another kind.

"I'm so glad you changed your mind about Sean. dear,"
Myra
said, popping open the oven door to check on the meat loaf. Heat rolled out into the kitchen. "Are you sure he couldn't stay for dinner?"

"He had plans. And I didn't really change my mind, Mama. I mean, it's your house. Your decision. I hardly know him."

"Well, you're going to like him once you get to know him,"
Myra
declared. She lifted a pot lid, poked at the greens inside. "He's a nice young man."

"Too young."

"Twenty-nine."

"So he told me."

Myra
smiled with satisfaction. "There, you see? You're getting to know each other already."

"Mama, you're not thinking…" Rachel sighed. She knew exactly what her mother was thinking.
Myra
Jordan
believed human beings should walk paired, like animals on the
Ark.
Once Rachel had thought so, too. Before Doug's deception had shattered her world and her trust and left her alone, yoked to her obligations.

"Forget it, Mama." she said.

"Why?"

"I'm not looking for a relationship right now." Ever, she amended silently.

"Honey.
Douglas
died a year ago. Is it so wrong for me to want to see my only daughter happy?"

Rachel rattled open the silverware drawer. "
Douglas
died in
debt
, Mama. I'm still dealing with that."

"But things will be better now that you've sold the house."

Rachel wished. She tightened her grip on the forks. "Not really. Most of that money had to go back into the business."

Myra
's eyes widened. "The dealership? Why?"

Rachel hesitated, reluctant to dump her load of worry on her mother. To feed his gambling habit, Doug had "borrowed" thousands of dollars from his business. Once she'd accepted
executorship
. Rachel had taken it upon herself to pay her late husband's debts.
All
his debts. Some she paid because it was her legal and moral responsibility. And some she paid from fear.

"Some sort of claim against the estate," she answered vaguely. "Anyway, it's cheaper to live down here. And once I start teaching, we can look for an apartment."

"If that's what you want…" her mother said doubtfully.

It was what she had. "All I want is some security. Some stability. The children have had enough changes in the past year."

"What about you? Heavens, Rachel, you didn't used to he such a—well, such a stick. You used to climb trees and talk back to your teachers and drive that little car of yours too fast. Maybe I complained you were giving me gray hair, but at least you used to he able to have a little fun. Take a few chances."

Rachel shivered, remembering.
Take a chance
, Doug used to urge her, his blue eyes alight.
Live a little
. Until his own compulsive risk-taking had bankrupted their future and driven him to his death.

She shrugged the memories away. "I guess I grew up."

"Nonsense. You're still a young woman. What about fun?"

"I don't have fun," she said harshly. Too harshly, she recognized. "I have responsibilities."

"What about love?"

The question hurt like a finger poked in an unhealed wound. Rachel drew a shaky breath. But she put down the flowered plates she remembered from her childhood and walked around the dark pine table and put her arms around
Myra
's shoulders. Even barefoot, she was a full head taller than her mother.

"I love you, Mama. I love Lindsey, and I love Chris. And that's all the love I need. Al I can handle."

The wall phone shrilled. Rachel stiffened. Oblivious to her tension, her mother bustled across the kitchen to answer it. She listened a moment.

"It's for you, dear." Beaming.
Myra
covered the receiver with her hand and whispered, "I told you he'd call back."

Chapter 3

«
^
»

"
D
id the caller threaten you, Miz Fuller? Or your children?"

Sean stopped dead in the hall, his right hand curling as if it held a hammer. He wasn't involved, he reminded himself. He wasn't getting involved. But even without the black-and-white police cruiser pulled up in front of the house, he would have made the speaker as a cop.

Rachel's voice, stretched tight as a coping saw wire, carried from the kitchen. "No. Nothing like that. I told you, it was nothing."

"Your mother said you were agitated."

"Agitated? No. Well, I mean … I shouldn't have been. I'm a teacher. New in town. It was probably just some kids, playing a prank."

"Miz
Jordan
said the caller was a man. With a northern accent, she said."

"I guess."

"And you're from
Pennsylvania
."

"That's right."

"Did you recognize the caller?"

Her voice jumped. "No!"

Sean, listening in the hall, thought she made a lousy liar. He felt a familiar protective surge in his gut: the same damn chivalrous impulse that had driven him in kindergarten to defend five-year-old Jenny Lopez's honor, the guy-in-the-white-hat routine responsible for most of the trouble and half the relationships he'd stumbled into in the past twenty years.

Don't be a chump, he reminded himself. So, Rachel Fuller didn't want the police to know she had a secret admirer. Her decision. Her problem.

"Any idea how he got hold of your mother's number?"

"She's in the phone book. Listen, Officer, I know she made it sound like I'd been attacked or something. And I was a little upset. But I'm fine now."

"Yes, ma'am. You let us know if the problem persists, and we can put you in touch with the phone company's annoyance call center. They can trace the calls if…"

An accusing whisper shot from the top of the stairs. "What are you doing here?"

Sean tipped his head back. Rachel's dark-haired daughter crouched halfway down the first flight, her elbows on her knees and her pointed chin in her hands. She had her mother's mouth, he thought. Full and stubborn.

"Eavesdropping," Sean said. "Same as you, I guess. You okay?"

She sniffed. "I'm fine. Grandma's making a fuss because some man called Mom again."

Sean frowned. Again?

"You think?" he asked easily. "You listen in on the phone call, too?"

She glared at him.

And like a boxer too dumb to skip town at the sound of the hell, Sean winked at her and ambled into the kitchen.

"Hi, honey, I'm home."

Rachel straightened in her chair. Sean's breezy entrance lightened the heated atmosphere like an unexpected gust on a sweltering day. The man was outrageous. Intrusive.

Welcome.

Facing her across the kitchen table, Officer Gary Miller sat to attention. Rachel knew the patrolman slightly. Well, she remembered his brother. They'd taken American History together in high school. The police officer had the same baby face imperfectly concealed by a bristly brown mustache, the same wrestler's body, the same stiff, light brown hair. The badge was new, and the gun at his hip, and the nightstick-up-his-back attitude.

"Who is this?" he asked.

Sean strolled forward. Rachel watched as the patrolman took in the disreputable jeans, the movie star stubble and the earring.

"Sean MacNeill. I live here," he added.

A slight flush crawled under the officer's tan. "Do you mean you, uh…"

It was almost funny. Rachel felt as if they were back in high school and the young policeman was deciding whether or not to scrawl her phone number on his gym locker.
For a good time call…

"Sean rents the garage from my mother," she explained.

Miller made a note. "New to these parts. Mr. MacNeill?"

"You could say so. I've been working construction in the Triangle the last couple of years."

"Where are you from originally?"

"
Boston
."

"And where were you last night around…" The policeman consulted his notebook. "Seven-thirty?"

Sean leaned one hip against the counter, crossed his arms over his chest. "Out."

Oh, for heaven's sake, Rachel thought She couldn't afford to have the police questioning her about her mystery caller. But she couldn't let them suspect Sean, either. "It wasn't him. The first call came when he was helping me move in."

Sean looked at her, brown eyes steady. "What's this all about, anyway?"

Miller tapped his pen against his notebook "Miz Fuller received an annoying phone call. I asked her for the names of possible suspects."

"And that would be me," Sean guessed, an indefinable edge to his voice.

"I never said you did it," Rachel said quickly.

The officer shrugged. "New to the area. Northern accent. It was worth checking out."

Sean raised an eyebrow, looking like every woman's bad boy fantasy. "What, exactly, haven't I done?"

Rachel hesitated. Carmine Bilotti had made it clear she wasn't beyond his reach yet. She should warn Sean, tell him … what? She couldn't say anything with the policeman there ready to jot down every word.

She shook her head. "Like the officer said, I got some unpleasant phone calls. Mother called to report them, and I'm taking care of it. We don't need your help."

"Well, that's a relief."

He pushed away from the counter. This time his smile didn't reach his eyes. "You know where to find me if you change your mind. Or if Officer Friendly here needs me for questioning."

She watched him go, his stride easy and his shoulders tight, and an unaccustomed regret echoed inside her like footsteps in an empty classroom. Something in Sean MacNeill's pose of concern, the strength implicit in his wrists and his voice, pulled at her.

She sighed. Right Like he could do something for her. Like she had anything to offer him. She was a widow in debt to small-time criminals, struggling to provide for two children and living with her mother. She would handle this the way she'd learned to handle everything else.

Alone.

* * *

It
was
a relief, Sean thought, to get back to the simple, physical chore of unloading his truck He'd always found peace in things he could touch, things he could mold, things that yielded to sweat and labor. Good with his hands. his cousin Ross the builder had said, and scores of former girlfriends could attest that it was true.

He pulled the canvas back from the sides of the truck He'd only brought a few pieces from his brother's barn along on this trip: a chimney cupboard, the skeleton of a desk, several variations of a—side table? night table?—he was just about satisfied with. But the simple, elegant pieces appeased some ache inside him that all his amiable liaisons hadn't touched.

"Wow. You have a lot of furniture."

At the sound of the child's voice, he turned. It was the boy, he saw. Chris. About his nephew Jack's age but smaller, with short brown hair and hazel eyes and his mother's cautious expression.

Sean smiled, to show he wouldn't bite, and dropped the tailgate. "It's not all mine," he said, spreading the quilted padding to protect the red paint, the unfinished wood. "The cupboard's for my sister-in-law, and two of those tables are going to a shop."

"What for?"

"To sell."

The boy nodded. "We sold our furniture. Lindsey was mad, and Mom cried."

Sean grunted. He didn't want to know, didn't want to picture those soldier's shoulders defeated, that full mouth thinned with grief. He lifted a table from the back of the truck, careful to keep the tapered legs clear of the sides. Why had she sold their furniture?

We don't need your help.

"Can I help you?" Chris asked suddenly.

Sean set the table down and gripped the handle of the garage door. "Shouldn't you he giving your mom a hand?"

The boy looked down and away. "She's busy."

With the police. Although as far as Sean could tell, Rachel Fuller was always busy. The pity was that beyond the slight support of her mother, he couldn't see that she had anyone to help her. Not that he was applying for the job. He wasn't that big a chump.

He hauled on the door and then stopped with his arms extended above his head. Something was different.

Over the past week he'd put in several sixteen-hour days hauling trash, scrubbing and sealing the walls and the floor, installing lights, shelves and fixtures. His planned living area in the loft would have to wait until he rigged the plumbing from the mud sink below. But along the back wall where he'd cleared a space for his larger pieces, somebody had somehow maneuvered the fancy dragon-claw sofa. Two pillows and a folded quilt rested on the cushions.

He glanced over his shoulder at the boy. "You do this?"

Chris shifted from foot to foot, uncertain with attention. "Mom did. But I helped."

So, Rachel Fuller had been busy again. On his behalf, this time.

"Well." Green velvet. He grinned. What in hell was he supposed to do with green velvet? "It looks good. Thanks."

The boy bobbed his head. He stood there, not really in the way, not ever out of sight, while Sean unloaded two tables and a cot.

It was probably pretty lousy moving to a new town right before the start of the school year. Frowning, Sean went back for the chimney cupboard. The boy slid out of his way.

Hell. Chris Fuller's social life was none of his business. Sean needed to unload the truck and haul butt back to work. Walt Baxley, still stewing over yesterday's argument over load calculations, had only grudgingly granted him the morning off. Being late would really tick him off.

The police officer came out of the house and down the steps. With a nod to Sean, he backed up his weather-beaten cruiser and drove away.

Sean angled the cupboard to avoid the overhang, taking small careful steps, watching the roof.

"Look out!" the boy said suddenly.

Sean stopped.

Chris darted forward, crouched, and then stood, dragging away a fold of packing cloth. "You were going to trip."

"Thanks."

Sean grunted, lifting the lathe.

The kid didn't go away. "What is that?"

"Heavy?" Sean suggested. His nephew would have cracked up at the feeble joke. Chris merely watched him with those too solemn hazel eyes. "A lathe," he said. "It's a lathe."

"What does it do?"

"Turns and carves things. Table legs, stuff like that."

The boy nodded.

Sean set the lathe along the garage wall. He had a sudden memory of Patrick, kinglike in his generosity, and Con, smiling with amused tolerance, heading out for a game of catch, for sodas at the corner drugstore, for a Friday night cruise in Patrick's car. It didn't matter what, as long as they were out and together. Sure, buddy, you can come along.

He sighed. "Hey, sport, I could use a hand here."

Bingo. The sport's smile switched on like a utility lamp.

"Sure," he said.

* * *

Rachel pushed open the screen door, blinking against the flood of sunshine that slanted under the eaves of the porch and poured over the driveway. A dark blot formed in the center of the brightness, taking on shape and substance and power. A man's shape, she identified a moment later, lifting something—a box—from the back of a truck. Sean MacNeill, in a T-shirt with the arms ripped out and a faded baseball cap, moving like Apollo in the heart of fire.

Her knees, her spine and her jaw all sagged. She caught herself reacting to him for a moment purely as woman to man, warmed by the glow of his tall, dark and blatantly sexy good looks. It was totally involuntary. It was … stupid, she reminded herself.

Doug's death had trapped her in a high-stakes game with uncertain rules and her children's future on the table. A joker like Sean MacNeill wouldn't help her odds at all. But, goodness, he was gorgeous to watch.

He saw her. Setting down the box, he straightened, pushing back the brim of his cap with his forearm. His slow smile thumped into her midsection and quivered like an arrow.

"Hey, beautiful."

"Oh, please." She flapped her hand. "You can call me Rachel."

"Rachel." He lingered wickedly over the name, rolling it in his mouth like something delicious. "Well, it suits you. But then, so does 'beautiful.'"

She was amused. "Me, and everyone else you know?"

He came up to the porch, all long bones and male muscle, and tipped back his head to look at her. Her heart actually fluttered. "How do you figure that?" he asked.

"Well, for a man who must spend his time in the company of a lot of women, 'beautiful' is convenient. I mean, it saves you the trouble of remembering who you're … with."