Turn My World Upside Down: Jo's Story (3 page)

“Why should I? I already survived the pukey thing.”

“Yeah,” Jo said, leaning forward and glancing over her shoulder to make sure Sam was still out of hearing. “But she’s like five months into it now. Shouldn’t the hurling be over?”

“What am I?” Mike asked with a shrug. “The baby expert? Sam’s the one who’s done this before.”

“Man,” Jo said, grabbing her coffee and leaning back into the dark green sofa opposite the one Mike
lay stretched out on like the Queen of Sheba. “Can’t see why anyone would want to do it more than once.”

“I can,” Mike said, rubbing her belly. “It’s great. Well, except for the whole ‘lie down and shut up’ thing.” She paused for a minute, then, delighting in a fresh audience, she launched into a whine about feeling like a prisoner.

While her sister complained, Jo tuned her out and glanced around the living room of the Gallagher house. It was a great place, she had to admit. Shining tile floor, arched windows and doorways, and a kivashaped fireplace on one wall.

Less than a year ago, Lucas Gallagher had moved to Chandler to build this house exactly where Mike had planned to build her own dream house. Mike, being Mike, had driven the poor guy nuts, hanging around, changing things, reworking his plans to fit her vision. And instead of strangling her, which Jo had been half expecting, Lucas had fallen for the youngest Marconi.

Apparently, true love could bloom in even the rockiest ground.

Though she had to hand it to Mike. The woman had great taste. The house was beautiful, and because a Marconi had been involved in the building of it, Jo knew the place was built to last.

She and her sisters had been working in the family construction business since they were old enough to swing a hammer and hit the target. Their father had trained them, taught them, and together, they’d built Marconi construction into one of the top outfits in Northern California.

“So how’s Cash working out?” Mike asked.

Speak of the rocky ground.

“Fine,” Jo snapped, studying the lid of her coffee cup as if trying to figure out how it was made. That’s what she got for having warm fuzzy thoughts about her sisters.

“Oooh,” Mike said, gleeful. “Nerve touched and I wasn’t even trying.”

Jo glared at her.

Mike ignored her.

“Thinking about giving Cash a whirl?”

Her insides lit up, but she dismissed that as just hormonal. After all, the man was really built. And really sure of himself. “Please. Cash Hunter is a cautionary tale to women everywhere.”

“Are we talking about Cash again?” Sam asked as she came back into the room, looking a little paler than before, if that were possible.

“Not me,” Jo said, pointing at Mike. “Her.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who goes all defensive the minute the man’s name comes up.”

“Who’s defensive?” Jo winced at the screech in her own voice.

“Right. Nothing to worry about there,” Sam said, and filled with regret, reached for her cup of tea. Coffee just wouldn’t stay down.

“Does pregnancy short out brains?” Jo wondered, glancing from one sister to another. “I’m
so
not interested in Cash.” She shifted on the couch. “Hell, I don’t even want him around. But with the two of you letting me down—”

“Pardon the hell out of us for getting pregnant,” Mike said.

“You know, there are other carpenters in town,” Sam pointed out, grimly taking a swallow of her tea.

“Yeah, but most of them are lined up to work at Grace’s place this year.”

“Thank God that’s not our problem,” Mike said solemnly.

“Amen,” Jo said.

Every year, Grace Van Horn ran the construction crews in and around Chandler nuts. She had more money than sense and the decision-making abilities of a three-year-old. And every summer, the construction companies took turns being at her disposal. The Marconis had been up to bat the summer before, which meant they were in the clear this year. And with most of the crews working for Grace, Marconi Construction would be picking up all the other available jobs.

Great for business.

If she only had her sisters to help.

“So, the Dailys want us to paint the interior of their house,” Jo said, reaching for the binder she’d brought into the house with her. “Seems the Money Fairy showed up last week.”

“Ah, he strikes again!” Mike crowed.

The Money Fairy was legendary in Chandler. Always popping up with anonymous gifts of cash when it was needed most. Whoever it was had excellent sources, because the money that showed up was always just the right amount at just the right time. For more than a year now, people had been trying to unmask the mysterious benefactor—so far, with no luck. It was a nice little mystery that kept everybody guessing.

“I figure I’ll get Kyle Hinckey and Fred Soames for the painting,” Jo said. “They’re good and pretty fast.”

Sam winced. “Wish I could do it,” she said, frowning
at her tea before setting it aside. “I’ve always wanted to get my hands on their family room.”

Jo frowned. Sam was the best painter/faux finisher in the business. Hurt like hell to farm jobs out and only claim a commission, but there just wasn’t any choice. “Maybe when you’re back up to it, you can talk ’em into a mural or something.”

Sam smiled.

“The Caseys’ roof needs replacing and we’ve almost finished the Barclay kitchen and porch.”

“That was fast,” Mike said. “Who handled the repair of the gingerbread trim on that porch?”

Jo scowled. “Cash.”

“Hmmm . . .” Mike slid the tip of one finger around the rim of her coffee cup. “And was he good?”

“Does everything that comes out of your mouth have to sound sexual?”

“Only to the cranky and horny,” Mike said, grinning.

“What about the Santoses’ new bathroom?” Sam asked, reaching for the binder that Jo had color-coded and cross-referenced.

Jo snatched it away. “We start that next week. We’ll need to use a different plumber since
ours
”—she looked at Mike pointedly—“wouldn’t fit into the bathroom itself, let alone under the sink.”

“No need to get nasty.” Mike pouted.

“That’s what you think,” Jo said.

“You could call Andy Bremer,” Sam suggested, making another grab for the folder. “His wife’s expecting number four. He’s looking for extra work.”

Jo shook her head. “What is up with this town? It’s like a major population explosion all at once.”

“Hey,” Mike said, “cold winter nights equals cuddling equals sex equals babies.”

She wouldn’t know about that.

“Will you hand over that binder for a damn minute?” Sam snapped, and made a lunge for it, prying it out of Jo’s determined grip.

Jo frowned at her. “Don’t mess it all up. I’ve got everything lined up according to dates and cross-referenced by customer names.”

“Of course you do,” Sam muttered, shaking her head as she glanced over the first of the job orders. “Why are you so damn territorial about our files, anyway?” she demanded, leaning back in the cushions to study the work orders that were neatly tucked into their own manila envelopes.

Mike laughed. “You know how she is with paperwork. Like foreplay or something.”

“True,” Sam agreed solemnly.

“Is
everything
about sex to you?” Jo demanded, glaring at Mike while taking a slug of her still hot coffee. Inevitably, talks with her sisters turned to the glories and wonders of sex. And since Jo couldn’t really identify, she usually just changed the subject.

“Better than
nothing
being about sex.” Mike shook her head sadly and reached for another muffin, dropping crumbs onto the floor as she shifted her girth. “God, Jo, do everybody a favor and take Cash out for a test-drive, will ya?”

“Not gonna happen,” she said firmly, despite the flash of heat that swamped her in a quick and thorough wave.

“Then stop torturing yourself and
tell
him that.”

She looked at Sam. “Don’t you think I
have
?”

“Not clearly enough, apparently.”

“Yeah,” Mike said. “You’ve never had trouble getting your point across—even if it meant using a hammer! So if you’re
not
being clear, maybe you’re not as disinterested as you think you are.”

Oh crap
.

That was a helluva thought.

Cash Hunter focused his frustration and funneled it into his work. Hell, no wonder people called him a master craftsman. With this kind of energy pumping through him, he could probably tear down and rebuild the Louvre inside a week.

A tall man, with black hair that always needed a good trimming, he had shoulders broad enough to carry the chip that had been lodged there since he was a kid. His dark eyes promised pleasure and guarded secrets. His smile charmed, but didn’t necessarily welcome.

He liked his privacy, and there was nothing wrong with that. He preferred keeping a distance between himself and the rest of the world and figured that it saved a lot of trouble—both for him and everyone else.

But then he’d gone and shattered his nice, easy life by running into Josefina Marconi.

No matter how many times he told himself to steer clear of her, he somehow ended up wandering back into range. The woman had a temper that could melt steel at a hundred yards and a disposition better suited to a pit bull.

And, she had blue eyes that looked like a cloudless summer sky and lips full enough to tempt a man to taste them, despite the danger involved.

“Damn it.”

Shaking thoughts of her out of his mind, Cash gathered his focus again and concentrated on the work in front of him. His hands gripped the planer tightly, until his knuckles stood out white against his darkly tanned skin. He regulated his breathing, steady, even, fighting for control over the roar of aggravation within. But he’d had years to practice. Years to refine his technique for mentally compartmentalizing whatever happened to be bugging him. This he knew. This he was good at.

Over and over again, he stroked the precision tool over the edges of the rich teak wood. Inch by painstaking inch, he shaved away the excess, smoothed the rough edges. Small curls of wood rose up and dropped away, littering the workshop floor and the toes of his battered boots.

Aerosmith pumped from the radio, the clashing instruments jangling along his nerve endings, soothing in a weird sort of way. Afternoon light slid through the open double doors and lay in a long rectangle of gold across the brick-colored concrete floor of the massive workshop behind his house.

Immune to the beauty around him, Cash centered his mind and tried to tuck all thoughts of Josefina Marconi into the tidy little compartment he’d reserved for her in his brain. Unfortunately, though, thoughts of Josefina just wouldn’t be contained.

The woman irritated him on every possible level and
attracted him on even more. Hardheaded and funny, generous and loyal, she snarled at him every time they crossed paths and had a body that kept him locked in sweaty dreams night after night.

The woman was wound so tight, she practically gave off sparks. She vibrated with energy even when she was still—which wasn’t that often. She kept her long, thick dark brown hair tied back in a ponytail that never failed to capture his attention.

He’d even been watching that fall of hair to judge her moods. It measured her emotions like a damn metronome did music. When she was angry, it flew around her head in vicious swings. When she was thoughtful, she tipped her head to one side, letting that fall of hair hang there, like string dangling over a playful kitten.

He wanted to know what that hair felt like. What it looked like, spread across his pillow. What it smelled like when he buried his face in it.

“Great. Good job.” Muttering darkly, he shifted uncomfortably, trying to adjust his jeans to ease the ache in his suddenly hard, uncomfortable body.

There was no relief in sight and he knew it.

He wanted her and he couldn’t have her.

That was the plain, simple truth of it.

Lifting his head, he inhaled sharply, deeply, in and out, several times until he felt control sliding back into place.

It wouldn’t last.

He knew that.

Accepted it.

Since the moment he’d first seen Jo Marconi, she’d
been able to tap into something in him that Cash really didn’t want to encourage. She made him
want
. And damned if he was going to go that route again.

He’d had his hard lesson a few years ago. He’d learned that as much as he wanted to be a part of a town like Chandler, the safest way was to remain an outsider. Someone who lived on the fringes.

Trouble was, the fringes weren’t as comfortable as they used to be.

Turning around, he stalked across the workshop floor, the heels of his worn cowboy boots clacking loudly, toward the full-sized refrigerator on the back wall. Yanking open the door, he grabbed a beer, twisted off the top, and took a long drink, hoping the icy froth would help with the tangle of hot knots inside him. When he closed the door and turned around again, he wasn’t alone.

“What’re you workin’ on?”

Startled, Cash told himself he was losing his touch if a ten-year-old could sneak up on him. He shifted a look at the boy standing in the long rectangle of light at the mouth of the shop. “You’re too quiet, kid.”

Jack Marconi straddled his bike, ratty sneakers planted on either side of the cross bar. His fists were curled around the handlebars and his hair hung down into the pale blue eyes so much like his sisters’. The boy shrugged and twisted the front wheel of his bike back and forth, making the rubber squeak against the concrete.

Cash sighed, walked to the radio on the workbench and silenced Steven Tyler mid-howl. “What’s going on, Jack?” he asked, leaning back against the edge of the waist-high worktable.

“Nothin’,” the kid said, and swung his right leg over the bike before letting it drop with a clatter.

There was a lot of
something
in that “nothin’,” Cash thought and frowned as he watched the boy stroll around the workshop. He never had people here. This was his own personal space. A private retreat where he could go to avoid the rest of the world.