Read Online House of Strangers (Harlequin Super Romance) by Carolyn McSparren - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Carolyn McSparren
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bar with stools. A harvest table and two benches constituted the dining room, and a heavily carved Victorian credenza served as a room divider from the living area, which was delineated with a soft, worn Oriental rug. To the right white duck curtains obviously divided the public space from bedroom and bath. The walls were theoriginal rose brick, and overhead naked trusses held up the roof.
“Take a seat.” Ann pointed to one of the steel stools in front of the counter. She rummaged in a stainless-steel refrigerator and came out with bacon, green onions, sweet bell peppers and a carton of eggs.
“May I help?”
“Nope. I’m used to juggling stuff.” She set everything on the counter. “Would you like something to drink? Beer? Wine?”
“White wine if you have it.”
“Sure.” She reached into the refrigerator, brought out a bottle and poured them each a glass. “Salut.”
He looked up into those wonderful gray-blue eyes of hers. Their glances locked and held for too long. He felt his body tighten and knew that she felt the same pull he did.
He should never have come up here, never have allowed himself to see her in her own habitat. Not if he intended to keep his promise to keep her at arm’s length.
She broke eye contact first with a tiny gasp. The tips of her ears were red, and she sounded brusque. “Okay, now, you can help me chop the bell pepper.” She seemed to skitter away from him. The reluctant female, aware of him but not certain she wanted to go any further.
Nor was he.
His gaze lighted on a pencil drawing in a simple black frame hanging on the wall beside the refrigerator. He was instantly certain it must be one of the caricatures his father was noted for. He wanted to leap over the counter, rip it down and stare at it for any revelation of the hand behind it. Instead, he said casually, “The drawing. Is that Buddy?”
She laughed. “Look closely.” She reached up, took it down and handed it to him.
He’d have known Buddy anywhere. The big bullet head with only a fuzz of hair, the black sunglasses. He wore his police uniform, but instead of a Sam Browne belt, he wore a tool belt, and instead of aiming a revolver, he pointed an electric drill. His fierce expression said he was definitely going to “drill” somebody.
In spite of himself, Paul laughed. “I’d know him anywhere. It’s really good.”
“Kinder than a lot of Uncle David’s sketches. If he didn’t like somebody or thought they needed taking down a peg, he could be really wicked. I like that one. It’s Buddy to a T.”
“I guess he didn’t want it hanging in the police station.”
“Actually, I had to beg him for it. He gave it to me for Christmas a few years ago. He couldn’t very well refuse his own kid, now could he?”
Paul turned slowly toward her. “His kid?”
“Yeah. Buddy’s my father. Didn’t you know?”
“I had no idea. How come you call him Buddy?”
“I started when I was a teenager because I knew it got his goat. Then when we started working together, it seemed an easier way to maintain a professional relationship and reassure the clients. It’s better for me to yell ‘Hey, Buddy,’ than ‘Hey, Daddy.’ Would you trust a contractor who hired his own daughter to restore your woodwork?”
“I would if the contractor were Buddy. But I understand clients might feel uncomfortable, especially if they had a complaint about your work.”
“Never happens. I’m too good.”
“Do you work with your father—Buddy—exclusively?”
“I try to give him first dibs, is all.” She began to break eggs into a glass bowl with one-handed expertise. “He has to bid for me just like everybody else. I’ve just gotten back from three months in Buffalo restoring the proscenium arch of an old movie theater that’s being converted into a community theater. Before that I spent a couple of months in Colorado Springs redoing woodwork for a prairie mansion that’s being restored. This is actually the
“Take a seat.” Ann pointed to one of the steel stools in front of the counter. She rummaged in a stainless-steel refrigerator and came out with bacon, green onions, sweet bell peppers and a carton of eggs.
“May I help?”
“Nope. I’m used to juggling stuff.” She set everything on the counter. “Would you like something to drink? Beer? Wine?”
“White wine if you have it.”
“Sure.” She reached into the refrigerator, brought out a bottle and poured them each a glass. “Salut.”
He looked up into those wonderful gray-blue eyes of hers. Their glances locked and held for too long. He felt his body tighten and knew that she felt the same pull he did.
He should never have come up here, never have allowed himself to see her in her own habitat. Not if he intended to keep his promise to keep her at arm’s length.
She broke eye contact first with a tiny gasp. The tips of her ears were red, and she sounded brusque. “Okay, now, you can help me chop the bell pepper.” She seemed to skitter away from him. The reluctant female, aware of him but not certain she wanted to go any further.
Nor was he.
His gaze lighted on a pencil drawing in a simple black frame hanging on the wall beside the refrigerator. He was instantly certain it must be one of the caricatures his father was noted for. He wanted to leap over the counter, rip it down and stare at it for any revelation of the hand behind it. Instead, he said casually, “The drawing. Is that Buddy?”
She laughed. “Look closely.” She reached up, took it down and handed it to him.
He’d have known Buddy anywhere. The big bullet head with only a fuzz of hair, the black sunglasses. He wore his police uniform, but instead of a Sam Browne belt, he wore a tool belt, and instead of aiming a revolver, he pointed an electric drill. His fierce expression said he was definitely going to “drill” somebody.
In spite of himself, Paul laughed. “I’d know him anywhere. It’s really good.”
“Kinder than a lot of Uncle David’s sketches. If he didn’t like somebody or thought they needed taking down a peg, he could be really wicked. I like that one. It’s Buddy to a T.”
“I guess he didn’t want it hanging in the police station.”
“Actually, I had to beg him for it. He gave it to me for Christmas a few years ago. He couldn’t very well refuse his own kid, now could he?”
Paul turned slowly toward her. “His kid?”
“Yeah. Buddy’s my father. Didn’t you know?”
“I had no idea. How come you call him Buddy?”
“I started when I was a teenager because I knew it got his goat. Then when we started working together, it seemed an easier way to maintain a professional relationship and reassure the clients. It’s better for me to yell ‘Hey, Buddy,’ than ‘Hey, Daddy.’ Would you trust a contractor who hired his own daughter to restore your woodwork?”
“I would if the contractor were Buddy. But I understand clients might feel uncomfortable, especially if they had a complaint about your work.”
“Never happens. I’m too good.”
“Do you work with your father—Buddy—exclusively?”
“I try to give him first dibs, is all.” She began to break eggs into a glass bowl with one-handed expertise. “He has to bid for me just like everybody else. I’ve just gotten back from three months in Buffalo restoring the proscenium arch of an old movie theater that’s being converted into a community theater. Before that I spent a couple of months in Colorado Springs redoing woodwork for a prairie mansion that’s being restored. This is actually the
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