wall of windows
behind his desk at the sleek office buildings that made up
Enterprise Drive and hadn’t heard a word Jake said. Mac frowned and
tried to recall the thread of the conversation. “I’m sorry, what
were you saying?”
“If you have other things on your mind, we
can discuss this issue later,” Jake offered. He rose from his chair
on the other side of Mac’s desk.
Mac shook his head briefly. “No, no. Stay. We
need to get this ironed out. I don’t want to begin the work week
with the Chenille Street issue hanging over my head.” He kicked his
abandoned chair from his desk, and sank into it. Jake settled back
into his chair.
“I was just saying that the residents on
Chenille Street are still pursuing landmark status for that house.
They’ll never get it, of course. The fact that some obscure
historical character stayed there when he passed through Huntsville
umpity-ump years ago won’t be sufficient. And, of course, all our
permits are in order. Legally speaking, it’s a done deal. My
concern is the stink the opposition can stir in the media.”
Mac’s frown deepened. “We don’t want that if
it can be prevented.”
“I got a call this morning from a fiend at
the Times . They’ve gotten three letters to the editor on the
issue. He has to print at least one of them. I asked him to hold
off until next week, to give us a few more days to resolve it.”
“Good thinking,” Mac agreed. John had known
what he was doing when he’d selected Jake Larsen as McFerrin
Enterprises’ legal representation in Huntsville. “I plan to check
out that site again today. Maybe I’ll up the demolition date. Get
the work done before it becomes a public issue.” He shook his head.
“I just don’t see what’s so great about those old places. Termite
traps, most of them.”
Jake nodded in agreement. “I’m with you.”
Mac’s thoughts strayed back to Friday before
last and his gypsy neighbor’s silly stories. Tell me what you
see in this room. A man and a woman making long, slow love. Free’s words echoed inside his head. Mac hadn’t seen a damned thing
but a dilapidated old house that needed to be torn down before it
became a safety hazard. But she had seen more, much more. She was
like the people on Chenille Street, stuck in the past. Mac wanted
nothing to do with the past. He wanted to keep moving
forward—straight into the future. He didn’t let anything tie him
down or slow his progress. The preservationists on Chenille Street
wouldn’t change his mind, nor would his bewitching neighbor.
“I’ve lost you again,” Jake said, his words
bringing Mac once again to the conversation.
Mac blew out his frustration and massaged his
right temple. “Sorry. I just can’t seem to concentrate.”
“I know that symptom all too well
myself.”
Mac stilled. “What symptom?”
“Lack of ability to concentrate,” he said
flatly. “With guys like us it can be attributed to only one thing—a
woman.”
Mac straightened in his chair, the leather
complaining almost as loudly as his sensibilities. “There is no
woman at the moment and even if there was, I never allow my
personal life to interfere with business.”
“Now you’re insulting my intelligence,” Jake
said. “I saw you and Free Renzetti together, remember? It was
impossible to miss the attraction between the two of you.”
Mac narrowed his gaze at his new
associate—and friend, if truth be told. He didn’t make friends
easily, but Jake just seemed to slide into the part without any
effort. “And you think I’m having difficulty keeping my mind off my
strange neighbor?”
“Are you denying the charge?” Jake countered
with complete self-assurance.
Mac shot out of his chair and paced back and
forth between his desk and the credenza. “Yes, counselor,” he
growled. He rubbed his temple again and arrowed Jake an irritated
glare. “No,” he conceded reluctantly.
Jake grinned, then stood and shoved his hands
into his pockets.
behind his desk at the sleek office buildings that made up
Enterprise Drive and hadn’t heard a word Jake said. Mac frowned and
tried to recall the thread of the conversation. “I’m sorry, what
were you saying?”
“If you have other things on your mind, we
can discuss this issue later,” Jake offered. He rose from his chair
on the other side of Mac’s desk.
Mac shook his head briefly. “No, no. Stay. We
need to get this ironed out. I don’t want to begin the work week
with the Chenille Street issue hanging over my head.” He kicked his
abandoned chair from his desk, and sank into it. Jake settled back
into his chair.
“I was just saying that the residents on
Chenille Street are still pursuing landmark status for that house.
They’ll never get it, of course. The fact that some obscure
historical character stayed there when he passed through Huntsville
umpity-ump years ago won’t be sufficient. And, of course, all our
permits are in order. Legally speaking, it’s a done deal. My
concern is the stink the opposition can stir in the media.”
Mac’s frown deepened. “We don’t want that if
it can be prevented.”
“I got a call this morning from a fiend at
the Times . They’ve gotten three letters to the editor on the
issue. He has to print at least one of them. I asked him to hold
off until next week, to give us a few more days to resolve it.”
“Good thinking,” Mac agreed. John had known
what he was doing when he’d selected Jake Larsen as McFerrin
Enterprises’ legal representation in Huntsville. “I plan to check
out that site again today. Maybe I’ll up the demolition date. Get
the work done before it becomes a public issue.” He shook his head.
“I just don’t see what’s so great about those old places. Termite
traps, most of them.”
Jake nodded in agreement. “I’m with you.”
Mac’s thoughts strayed back to Friday before
last and his gypsy neighbor’s silly stories. Tell me what you
see in this room. A man and a woman making long, slow love. Free’s words echoed inside his head. Mac hadn’t seen a damned thing
but a dilapidated old house that needed to be torn down before it
became a safety hazard. But she had seen more, much more. She was
like the people on Chenille Street, stuck in the past. Mac wanted
nothing to do with the past. He wanted to keep moving
forward—straight into the future. He didn’t let anything tie him
down or slow his progress. The preservationists on Chenille Street
wouldn’t change his mind, nor would his bewitching neighbor.
“I’ve lost you again,” Jake said, his words
bringing Mac once again to the conversation.
Mac blew out his frustration and massaged his
right temple. “Sorry. I just can’t seem to concentrate.”
“I know that symptom all too well
myself.”
Mac stilled. “What symptom?”
“Lack of ability to concentrate,” he said
flatly. “With guys like us it can be attributed to only one thing—a
woman.”
Mac straightened in his chair, the leather
complaining almost as loudly as his sensibilities. “There is no
woman at the moment and even if there was, I never allow my
personal life to interfere with business.”
“Now you’re insulting my intelligence,” Jake
said. “I saw you and Free Renzetti together, remember? It was
impossible to miss the attraction between the two of you.”
Mac narrowed his gaze at his new
associate—and friend, if truth be told. He didn’t make friends
easily, but Jake just seemed to slide into the part without any
effort. “And you think I’m having difficulty keeping my mind off my
strange neighbor?”
“Are you denying the charge?” Jake countered
with complete self-assurance.
Mac shot out of his chair and paced back and
forth between his desk and the credenza. “Yes, counselor,” he
growled. He rubbed his temple again and arrowed Jake an irritated
glare. “No,” he conceded reluctantly.
Jake grinned, then stood and shoved his hands
into his pockets.
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