Molly O'Keefe – The Temptation of Savannah O'Neill (страница 5)

His cheeks turned red and he nodded. “Of course.”

“First,” she said. “I have a few questions of my own.”

“Fire away.” He held his arms out the sides, his gray T-shirt hugging the lean muscles in his stomach.

“Where are you from?”

“St. Louis. I’ve been…working with an architecture firm there for the last few years.”

“What are you doing here?” she asked, trying to ignore a bead of sweat trickling down the side of Matt’s strong, bronzed neck.

“I heard there was a lot of work in Louisiana.”

She couldn’t argue with that—it seemed the state needed to be rebuilt top to bottom.

“You’re, what? Thirtysomething?”

“Thirty-four.”

“And you can just up and leave St. Louis? You have no responsibilities?”

“None that won’t keep for a while.”

“Are you on the run?”

“From the law?” His lip curled as if he was laughing at her and her head snapped back at the insult. The man had no reason to laugh. Not here, not now. He quickly shook his head, his smile gone. “I’m not running from the law.”

“My best friend is police chief in town, she can find out if you’re lying.”

“She’s welcome to,” he said, his dark eyes guileless. “I haven’t broken any laws.”

“A woman? A family? Have you left behind some kids?” She nearly spat the words.

“No,” he said quickly, sounding horrified. “No, of course not. I know you don’t know me, but I wouldn’t do that.”

She had no reason to trust him, but in this area she did. For some reason the earnest horror in his eyes seemed sincere.

He wouldn’t leave behind kids.

She had to give him some points for that.

“Do you have some references?”

“References?”

“Yes,” she said. “I believe it’s standard to offer some proof of your reliability before I give you carte blanche with my garden.”

He laughed. “It’s hardly a garden—”

“References,” she said, not about to listen to him disparage her refuge. She pulled her cell phone free from her shirt pocket. “Let’s start with that architecture firm in St. Louis.”

Perhaps it was a trick of the sun, but Matt seemed to go white.

A PLAN WOULD HAVE BEEN good. Something concrete. Something that wasn’t going to get him arrested, because Savannah was staring at him as though she would like nothing better than to send his sorry butt right to the nearest jail cell.

Prison warden wasn’t even the half of it. Savannah O’Neill was judge, jury and executioner.

“Steel and Wood Architecture,” he managed to say and then, because all she did was arch an eyebrow, he gave her the number. The direct number to his office.

This is never, ever going to work.

Erica, his assistant, was a wizard, but this might prove to be too much. What were the odds that she would remember Howe was his mother’s maiden name?

He watched Savannah from the corner of his eye while pretending to assess the broken cobblestones of the steps they stood on.

“Hi. Erica, is it?” she said into her cell phone and Matt stooped to inspect the ivy overtaking the stones. He touched a gray-green leaf with shaking fingers. “My name is Savannah O’Neill. I’m considering hiring a Matt Howe to do some gardening and repair work around my home and he gave me Steel and Wood Architecture as a reference…Matt Howe. Howe.” She tilted the phone away from her mouth and Matt felt like his head might pop off from the blood pressure building in his neck. “Is that with an e at the end?” she asked.

He nodded, stupidly.

Seriously, Woods. You’re a self-made millionaire, you were on the cover of—

“He did?” Savannah asked, sounding skeptical. “He was?” That didn’t sound much better. Matt wondered what kind of explanation was going to be needed when she called the cops. A cash explanation? “Best employee the firm ever had?”

He swiveled to face Savannah who stared at him, revealing nothing. He shrugged, as if being the model employee was something that came naturally.

She smiled slightly, almost bashfully, the sunshine cutting through her hair and illuminating her skin, making it shimmer.

Matt felt like he’d been sucker punched. This was the woman from the surveillance photo, the woman he’d been talking to. She did live somewhere inside that cold shell.

Something pulled and tightened in his chest. A recognition where there hadn’t been one before.

Her sharp edges seemed softened, blurred somehow as she stood there, sunshine glittering around her. She was Ingrid Bergman, vulnerable and stoic and so beautiful it hurt to look at her.

The fact that he wanted to drown himself in her, the way he had in scotch immediately after the accident, was a bad omen.

It was better that he not recognize her. Better that he not like her. Not care about her. He’d committed himself to this ruse, and liking her would only cloud the waters.

“Yes,” she finally said, still on the phone with Erica, who would be getting a huge raise. “Thank you, Erica. Here he is.” Savannah handed her cell to Matt. “She wants to talk to you.”

I’ll bet she does.

He took the phone as if it were a snake, coiled to strike, and stepped down the broken stone steps for some privacy.

“Thank you, Erica,” he murmured.

“Oh, you’d better thank me, Matt!” Erica cried and he winced at the daggers in her tone. “Where the hell have you been?”

“I—”

“You know, a better question is what the hell are you doing? Applying for some job as a gardener, are you nuts?” Yes. Slightly.

“No, Erica, I’m just…” What? Doing some reconnaissance? A little private investigative work? “Getting some R and R. That’s all.”

“For six months?”

Six months, two weeks, and three days. “Who’s counting,” he said.

“I am!” she nearly screamed. “Your clients are. While you’re getting some R and R,” she spat the words as if they were sour, “I’m trying to keep the bills paid and the money coming in. Your clients, you remember them, don’t you? The people who pay you huge amounts of money to build stuff? Well, most of them are getting antsy and Joe Collins is about to sue for breach of—”

Matt hung up.

It was so simple. He hit the red button with his thumb and his life, that kid, his best friend and partner, his job, the buildings he could no longer build, they went away.

Gone.

Instead there was the whirr and snick of cicadas hiding in leaves so dense, so green they looked black. An orange cat curled around his boots and the sun beat down on his head.

Numb. So numb to all that used to be.

Savannah stood behind him. He could feel her like a shadow over his face on a hot day. A mystery. A cool-eyed, blond-haired mystery.

That was it. That was all his world consisted of right now.

Because outside of this, this moment, this place, this mysterious woman, a point-seven-second nightmare waited for him, pacing the perimeter for the chance to attack.

Point-seven seconds was all it took for a building to come down. For a mistake to be made and a young man to die. Point-seven seconds. It was enough to make a guy go crazy if he thought about it long enough.