Anthology: Bad Boys Of Summer Part 19

Then again, maybe "pleasure" was taking it a step too far.

Outside, the sound of gravel kicking up in the driveway was followed by the rumble of a truck. Tucking her hair behind her ears, she ran down the hall to the front door, trying to remember what the contractor's name was. Leo...something. Leo Dawson! That was it. He'd sounded reasonable and competent over the phone, but that didn't mean much when he was the only contractor she could afford who was available immediately. And she had very specific ideas about what she envisioned for the studio, which she wanted to explain to him, so when she opened the door her fingers were crossed that he would be easy to work with.

She swallowed hard as she stared at him. Well, one thing was certain. Leo Dawson was very definitely easy on the eyes.

"Mackenzie Pruitt?"

She nodded without a word, stepping back to let him into the tiny foyer. She couldn't remember the last time she'd struggled for words, but her brain was too busy processing the man standing in front of her to form a single syllable.

She'd been expecting something else entirely-thinning hair, beer breath, grimy nails. Plumber's crack, probably. Apparently her imagination had heard "contractor" and taken a detour on Stereotype Street.

But Leo Dawson looked nothing like that. He was, in a word, beautiful.

More than six feet tall, he was tanned and gorgeously sculpted, his muscles clearly the product of hard work instead of weight lifting. His head was shorn to a light fuzz, outlining the shape of his skull, and his angular jaw was rough with dark stubble. A bright silver stud pierced one ear, and his eyes were a dark, intense green flecked with gold. In his jeans and T-s.h.i.+rt, his sungla.s.ses dangling from one hand, he didn't look like a contractor at all. He looked like the kind of guy who roared up on a motorcycle and made your mother cringe. He looked...dangerous. A little bit bad. But a whole lot delicious.

"Ms. Pruitt?"

"Yes," she said quickly, fighting the hot blush on her cheeks. She shut the door and motioned to the sofa in the cozy living room just beyond them. "Please, sit down."

"Actually, it might be easier if we went out to the shed," he said with a smile, hooking the sungla.s.ses into the collar of his black T-s.h.i.+rt. "It is the shed you want renovated, right?"

"Oh. Right." She led him through the kitchen to the back door, wis.h.i.+ng she was wearing something other than grimy shorts and an old T-s.h.i.+rt, and cursing herself for not even bothering to brush her hair. Which was stupid, because this was business, not a date. Who would think to dress up for her contractor?

You will, next time he's supposed to show up.

But it was business, she reminded herself as they crossed the sun-warmed lawn to the shed. Even if the idea of watching him work, sweaty and gleaming, hammer in hand, was enough to make her a little breathless.

"Well, this is it," she said needlessly when they were standing in front of the structure in question. It looked even more lopsided up close, she noticed with dismay.

"Uh-huh." He c.o.c.ked his head to one side, considering it, and started to circle around the little building, squinting and frowning.

"It's withstood hurricanes," she offered, noticing for the first time that the hinges on the door were rusted nearly through.

"By the skin of its very ancient nails," he replied, coming back to stand beside her, his arms crossed over his chest. He smelled freshly showered, clean and slightly spicy. "You sure you don't want to rip it down, start fresh?"

"That's always more expensive than renovating, isn't it?"

"Most of the time. Depends." He cast a wary eye back at the shed. "You wanted to use this as some kind of studio, right? All year round? You're going to need insulation, possibly heat, this close to the beach."

"It's going to be a photography studio, yes," she said, biting back a frown. d.a.m.n it. She wanted this shed renovated because she wanted to preserve some of its character. She didn't want something new. She could see what this one would look like finished, and even if it was going to cost her an arm and a leg, she'd just have to figure out how to grow new ones.

And right now, she wanted Leo Dawson, skeptical or not, to understand that.

She was working up to explaining it to him when he tilted his head at her, those clear lake-water eyes regarding her with what looked like amus.e.m.e.nt. And then he grinned. It started slow, just a quirk in one corner of his mouth, but when it spread, it was warm and full and so incredibly s.e.xy she suspected other women had actually melted under its influence.

Those eyes would look fabulous in a close-up black-and-white photo, she realized suddenly. And that jaw, too. All shadows and angles, the sun behind him...

"Okay. Show me around inside?" he said, one eyebrow c.o.c.ked in invitation.

"Glad to," she replied with a rush of relief, opening the creaky shed door and brus.h.i.+ng away a sticky net of cobwebs as he preceded her inside.

Maybe this summer's work was going to be closer to pleasure. Because a new idea was forming, and it involved her favorite Leica and Leo Dawson.

Two.

There were very few things as dangerous as a client who knew exactly what she wanted, without having any idea what it would entail. Especially one who was as s.e.xy, and innocently persuasive, as Mackenzie Pruitt.

Mackenzie. It was a big name for a little person, but it fit her, he thought, cutting his glance sideways as she wandered toward the window, trailing one finger along its rotted casing. The name was unusual, but pretty, just like she was.

At least so far, he reminded himself, drawing a small notepad out of his back pocket and making a few notes with a capless Bic he'd shoved into another pocket. There was never any telling when a client would turn into a demon from h.e.l.l, snarling and growling at every additional nail and every extra minute spent on a job.

He couldn't imagine Mackenzie Pruitt snarling, though. That lush little mouth wasn't made for it. Whatever itwas made for was none of his business, though. She was a client. And that, as the saying went, was that.

She turned to face him in the gloom of the unlit shed. Her dark swing of hair fell forward over one shoulder as she rested a hip against the windowsill. "So we can do it?" she said suddenly, startling him.

Do it? Do what?

Oh. c.r.a.p, he was losing it.Focus, Leo.

"Yeah, we can...do it," he said, nodding. "I may have to adjust a few prices here and there, and I need to give you a detailed quote, but I can make you a studio. No problem."

She smiled, although the effect was muted in the dim light. "So what's next? The quote, I guess, and then...well, when do you start work?"

"You want to see the quote first," he told her gently, stuffing his notepad back in his pocket. "You always need to see the quote first."

She nodded, biting her bottom lip as she led the way outside, squinting in the bright sun. Out in the yard, the salt tang of the ocean was sharp. "I'm just excited to see it happen, you know?" she said, tilting her head to one side as she looked up at him. Her eyes were brown, he noticed. A deep, luscious brown, like very good chocolate, or polished mahogany.

"I know," he said, biting back a grin. "You can see it all now, right?"

She flashed him a curious look, her delicate brows drawing together. "I can, actually. I mean, I have this vision of what it's going to look like. I always do, though. It's the photographer in me, I guess."

He considered that for a moment, watching as she turned to glance back at the shed. Seeing it finished, taking a snapshot in her head, he guessed. Framing it, judging sunlight and shadow, making it perfect.

It was a dangerous thing to do. At least that was his take on it. Life very rarely cooperated with imagination or expectations, at least in his experience.

Before he could comment, she'd turned back to him, her hands clasped loosely, a very dangerous smile on her lips. Dangerous in a pretty-please-don't-deny-me way. He'd seen that look before. And it was h.e.l.l to say no, especially when the woman flas.h.i.+ng that smile was as appealing as Mackenzie Pruitt.

"Speaking of photography," she said, her tone casual, "I have a proposition for you."

A warning bell went off in his head. Several, if he was going to stop to count them. A "proposition" could mean a lot of things, but one that involved a camera was a definite no.

She plunged on, ignoring what he was sure was the beginning of a scowl. "I'm branching out, or trying to. I want to do more than weddings and company brochures and birthday parties. I've had my work in a few galleries, and I've done a few commercial shoots here and there, but I'm...well, I'm boring you, I can tell." She smiled again, and he noticed a dimple in her right cheek.

s.h.i.+t. She really was cute.

"The thing is, I just had a great idea for a photo essay," she continued. The muscle in his jaw clenched, and he folded his arms over his chest, waiting. "I'd like to take pictures of you working on the project, black and white, kind of an exploration of form and function, you working, the tools, the shed coming back to life..."

She finally trailed off, the dimple disappearing as her smile faded in the face of his complete lack of enthusiasm. "Mr. Dawson?"

"Sorry, but no," he managed, mentally subtracting the money he'd make on the job from his checking account. "I'm a carpenter, Ms. Pruitt, not a...model." He nearly choked on the word, it was so unbelievable. If she had any idea how long he'd worked to keep his face out of the papers...Christ, maybe she was talking about a magazine, something national.

"Well, I know that." She c.o.c.ked an eyebrow at him, amused. "You wouldn't have to actually do anything, just whatever you need to do to the shed. And the PR could be great. I'm thinking of a local North Carolina magazine, but there are a few other places I'd love to try and-"

She bit off the last word when he held up a hand and shook his head. He struggled to keep his tone calm when he said, "No. I have all the PR I need-thanks, anyway. I'm not interested. And I think you'd better find someone else for the job."

He was already halfway across the lawn when she found her voice and raced after him, her fingers tentative on his elbow. "Wait! Look, you have to take this job. You were the only carpenter available on such short notice, and I need to get this place finished by the end of the summer. Please, Mr. Dawson."

He turned around, even though he knew he would be toast when he did. The pleading voice was hard enough to resist, but those eyes?

Yeah, there they were, big and round and innocent. Not even messed up with any of that mascara and other stuff women wore. Naked eyes, just the way they were meant to be.

He took a deep breath and shook his head as she gave him a sweet smile. Maybe if she promised...

He growled, "No pictures, though. No photo essay, or whatever you call it. I mean it."

Her shoulders slumped in relief. "You won't regret it. I promise," she said. Her dimple flashed, teasing him like a wink.

"You promise there won't be any pictures," he repeated, sticking out his hand there on the tiny lawn, with the breeze rolling off the ocean, warm and full of brine, riffling her hair away from her face like a glossy flag.

She stared at his hand for a moment, and although it didn't seem possible, she managed to look even more innocent when she returned his gaze. "I promise," she agreed somberly, taking his hand and shaking it.

She had a nice, firm grip, businesslike and no-nonsense, he noted, holding her hand a moment longer than necessary, enjoying the feel of her soft skin against his palm, her long, delicate fingers against the inside of his wrist.

Not that it mattered, of course. Because no matter what she said, he didn't believe her for a minute.

Well, d.a.m.n it, Mackenzie thought, leading Leo back to the house. She hated to shake on something when she had no intention of fulfilling her promise.

Not that it would stop her, of course. She wasn't going to paparazzi him and shoot film in secret, but she wasn't above a bit of persuasive wheedling. Even cajoling, if it was necessary. Begging wasn't entirely out of the question.

It was simply that she couldsee how gorgeous the photo spread would be, she thought, as Leo wrote up a quote at the kitchen counter, his brow furrowed over those amazing eyes, the pencil in his hand far too small for the size and strength of his fist. In her mind's eye, the photos were arrayed on a long table, all black and white, the muted grays and shadows giving dimension to the shed, and to the man. The juxtaposition of the sharply defined curve of his bicep against a straight-edge was so real, she almost believed she would find the shot in her camera later.

Why on earth would anyone be against something like that? It wasn't as if she was asking him to pose nude. At that thought, her cheeks heated, and she realized her gaze had rested on his a.s.s. His very firm, very finely shaped a.s.s. Which she could imagine all too well without its current covering of very well-fitting, faded blue denim.

"This is the ballpark," he said, and she yanked her head up to meet his eyes. "A few things may change here and there, depending on available materials and unexpected problems, but this is the figure you should expect." He slid the piece of paper across the counter toward her and she took it, amazed by the jumble of numbers and notations. The grand total was neatly circled at the bottom, and it wasn't too much more than she'd antic.i.p.ated.

Of course, at this point she'd probably mortgage something just to get Leo Dawson and his tool belt into her backyard for a few weeks.

"It looks fine," she said, hoping her blush had faded. "When can you start?"

He folded his arms across his chest, and tilted his head at her. "Thursday, if that's good for you."

"That's great," she said, folding the quote and sticking it in the pocket of her shorts.

"Without photo doc.u.mentation."

d.a.m.n it."Of course," she said, making her expression as innocent as possible. It wasn't easy when those s.e.xy green eyes were trained on her in suspicion. "I already told you."

"I'm going to hold you to it," he said, arching an eyebrow.

She didn't doubt it. But she was beginning to suspect that she'd be happier if he'd just hold her, period.

Three.

Heaving his toolbox out of the back of his truck on Thursday morning, Leo considered Mackenzie's black Jeep, parked in the driveway in front of him. She was here, then.

He bit back a frown and opened the battered gate to the backyard, wiping his forehead with his forearm. Just nine o'clock and it was already steamy. The air was thick, nearly soggy, and the sun over the ocean was shrouded in haze.

It didn't matter if she was here. He had work to do, and he'd accomplished plenty of jobs with the homeowner around. It wasn't like he had anything to hide.

Except his face, he thought ruefully. Not to mention his curiosity about this particular homeowner and her adorable dimple. He'd actually dreamed about her the other night, and the dream definitely hadn't been rated PG. Not even PG-13.

He would just head out to the shed and start working-that was all, he told himself. If she wanted to talk to him, she could come find him. It was simple, really. She wasn't a problem.

And definitely not a temptation. She was a client. Even if she was an adorably s.e.xy, fascinating one.

Just as he opened the door to the shed, though, a splintering crash from inside the cottage brought his head up in alarm. What the h.e.l.l?

m.u.f.fled cursing followed, along with a dull thud.

d.a.m.n it.

Dropping his toolbox in the dewy gra.s.s, he covered the distance between the shed and the back steps in moments, and squinted through the screen door. "Mackenzie? You okay in there?"

Another thud. "d.a.m.n it! But yeah, I'm okay." There was a silent pause, then, "Leo?"

He shook his head in exasperation and pushed the door open, making his way through a mountain of cardboard boxes piled on the kitchen floor, and into the living room, which was littered with even more boxes among furniture that seemed to belong somewhere else. She was nowhere in sight. "Mackenzie?"

"Here." She popped up from behind a particularly big box, hopping on one foot. "I had a little run-in with a box of china."

That explained the crash, all right. It didn't exactly explain her outfit, which was an ancient pink T-s.h.i.+rt paired with a loose, floral-print skirt. The fact that the flowers were blue was the problem, he thought. For a photographer, Mackenzie seemed to focus on everything other than herself.

Not that she didn't look tasty, anyway. All that glossy hair was piled in a loose knot on top of her head, and her toenails were painted...was that purple?