Half Moon Harbor (5 page)

“Aye. They'll swim on you to be certain, but you needed something to wear. I put a large plastic dustbin liner in there to put your smelly things in.”

“Thank you,” she said, giving herself an internal eye roll as she thought how she'd been drooling over his sea of a bed and imagining the two of them rolling in those white linen sheets . . . all while he'd been thinking of her as a “smelly thing.” Which she was.
Yeah, it's past the time to get your head back where it needs to be. On business. And business only.

She turned and climbed up the stairs again, wincing as she grabbed on to the railing with her splintered palm. “I won't be but a few minutes. Then we can make the calls—”

“Here, let's have another look,” he said, taking her good hand before she could dodge the assist and helping her step up onto the loft floor.

“It's okay,” she said, damning the hint of breathlessness in her voice. It didn't help that not only was he wearing even less than the last time he'd touched her, but he was framed by the impossibly wide expanse of bed behind him. Made even more inviting by the rumpled pile of old, faded quilts and oversized pillows.
Eyes on the splinters, not on the bed. Or the towel. And for God's sake, stop thinking about what's under it.

“Come on into the bathroom with me. I've got tweezers there.” At her arched eyebrow, he grinned and it so effortlessly transformed him from brooding Irishman back into irrepressible charmer, she couldn't help but be a bit transfixed by the glow of it. He wiggled his dark eyebrows. “I don't tweeze me brows if that's what yer thinkin'. When you live on the docks, splinters are a part of life.”

“I bet,” she managed, trying to ignore how dry her throat was. And how it was pretty much the only dry part she had left. She slid her hand free. Not touching was a good idea. Getting some distance was even better. “I'll find them. Just wait here and I'll be out fast.” She didn't want him phoning anyone while she was cleaning up, but she couldn't stand the smell of herself another second. That he was all clean and soapy-smelling, and it appeared he'd shaved while he was in there, only made her feel more gross and uncomfortable.

“Medicine cabinet, top shelf for the tweezers, bottom shelf for the alcohol. It'll go faster if you allow me.” He nodded to her injured left hand. “You're left-handed.”

“How did you—”

“I tend to notice details. It's part of my craft.”

Disconcerted that he'd been paying that close attention, she stammered, “Right. Shipbuilding. Boats by hand. I saw the sign when I came in.”

“And yet you didn't notice it when you were off buying up a piece of my property.”

“I—the first thing I looked at was the boathouse at the other end. It sits apart a little and has its”—she broke off, not wanting to get into the part where she also owned one of his piers—“other selling points. The big boathouse in the middle blocked yours from view, so I didn't see it, or that it had obviously been renovated.” She thought back, wondering how she could have missed it, and realized that Cami might have steered her specifically to keep her view of Brodie's place blocked. But she wasn't entirely sure. She waved a quick hand. “What you've done is amazing. And the sign outside—that's impressive artwork. Yours?”

He shook his head. “Not part of my skill set. 'Twas a local, a new local.” His gaze darted to the open area below, and she caught a brief, wistful look that she'd have missed if she hadn't been staring at him.
Like a besotted idiot.

“Same local who did the renovation?”

He blinked, looked back to her, and nodded once, the wistful moment gone, but her curiosity over who had engendered that reaction from him lingered. She wondered if the recipient knew of his interest. Wistful meant unfulfilled, or no longer fulfilling. Hmmm . . . “What's her name?”

“Alex MacFarland,” he said almost absently, then instantly sharpened up, and she knew he regretted giving her the information.

Why, she wasn't entirely sure. Presumably because he didn't want to give her any help with her renovation, but it could be more than that. In fact, she'd bet it was.

“How did you know it was—”

“A woman?” she finished for him.
Because I'm not blind. And because I wish a man would look all wistful like that when he thought about me.
“Good guess.” She glanced down at the lower level. “If she designed this, she's more than a little talented. Multifaceted.”

“She restores lighthouses. By trade. Comes from a long line who've done the same. So she's used to thinking outside the box.”

A woman with her own proud heritage.
Figures
. He'd understand and appreciate that quality more than most, so of course he'd been drawn to it. That he'd been so quick to mention it said as much. She nodded, and, glancing back at him, noticed that while his praise was sincere, his expression was carefully professional now. She wouldn't have thought he'd have that kind of cool reserve in him. She'd have bet he tossed his charm around so effortlessly and often that a professional façade would be an unnecessary addition to his arsenal. Although in his line of work, he likely dealt mostly with men. Men who probably secretly wished they were him, while not-so-secretly making sure they kept their women away from him. And not necessarily because they distrusted Brodie.

“Have you started any projects yet? Boats, I mean?” she asked, changing topics, though she doubted she'd forget that wistful look anytime soon. Perversely, discovering his heart had even come close to being compromised, when she'd have bet her most challenging estate probate that he was a woman-of-the-moment, love-'em-and-leave-'emsighing kind of guy, only served to make her tingly parts that much more, well . . . tingly.
Danger, danger, Grace Maddox.

“Grab a quick rinse and meet me below,” he said by way of response. “I'll tell you whatever you want to know.”

That lilting edge of command in his tone, paired with that almost taunting promise, had her imagining all sorts of ways he could convince her to tell him whatever
he
wanted to know. Hell, she might have signed the boathouse back over to him. And she couldn't have rightly said that she'd have even minded if that was the kind of persuasion he was looking to employ in the effort.

If, you know, she didn't reek of dead fish.

“Right.” She made a gesture to the door behind her. “I'll—just let me—then we'll talk,” she managed. Cheeks hot and nipples hard, she escaped behind the bathroom door, then leaned back against it, feeling like the complete and utter idiot that she was. So cool as he thought wistfully about another woman, so calm as she so casually changed the subject.
See how worldly I am? How unaffected?

She snorted. “Right. You couldn't be more affected.” She nearly jumped out of her skin when a sharp knock came on the other side of the door. Pressing a fist to her pounding heart, she turned around, but didn't open it. “Yes?”

“You'll need towels.”

She cracked the door open, which was silly, since she hadn't so much as undone a button. But that didn't keep her from feeling somehow naked and defenseless around him.

He held out a folded set of thick, fluffy towels that matched the color of the deep blue water in the harbor. “Thank you,” she said, feeling more foolish by the moment.
For God's sake, get a grip, Grace. For real this time
. If she was going to see her dream through to fruition, she couldn't let the first little obstacle she encountered shake her up just because she wanted said obstacle to throw her on his bed and have his charming Irish way with her.

She took the towels. “I won't take long.” She started to close the door, but he kept it open. Her gaze flicked to his hand on the doorknob, then back to his face.

“Why are you here?” he asked, his expression still that of the distant professional.

Except she saw that there was nothing professional or distant in those green eyes of his. Storm-tossed seas came to mind.

“You said you've got family here and you were on about putting down new roots with the intent to build something. Presumably using my boathouse as the foundation. Not a law practice, apparently, as you claim that's no longer your professional intent. So . . . what, then? Is your family in shipping? Boatbuilding?”

She blinked, surprised by the question, though she quickly realized it probably seemed the most logical one for him to ask.

“Storage?” he prodded, when she didn't respond right away.

“An inn,” she blurted, knowing it was not how she'd intended to have this particular conversation, being on the defensive. “I'm going to turn your—
my
—boathouse into an inn. ”

His stormy green eyes went wide. “So, it's an innkeeper you are now, is it?”

He hadn't said it unkindly, or even mockingly. Still, she immediately felt her hackles rise. Probably because he'd have been well within his rights to be both of those things, considering. “Aye,” she said, mirroring his accent. “That I am.”

Or will be.
Just as soon as I figure out how to get you to stay out of my way.

She clicked the door closed right in his face. Then leaned her cheek against the freshly painted wood and tried desperately to regroup.

“We'll see about that, Grace Maddox,” came his voice—far too softly, far too confidently, and all so very, very Irish—through the closed door and right at her ear . . . as if his lips were pressed directly against it. “We'll just see about that.”

“I
nnkeeper, my skinny Irish arse,” Brodie grumbled, then added a few far more colorful thoughts under his breath as the fragrant steam eased under the closed door to the bathroom and filled the loft air. He caught Whomper giving him a baleful eye while keeping a safe distance near the top of the iron stairs. “Don't go chiding me with that look. You might have turned her head with that woe-is-me mug, but you won't trick me. I wrote the book on those tricks.”

Whomper just blinked at him and somehow managed to look even smaller and more vulnerable.

“Och, for the love of—” Brodie slapped his thigh. “Come here before ye break me heart.”

Instantly perky, the scruffy mongrel wasted no time in getting a running start and launching himself into Brodie's arms. Laughing, he fell back on the bed, twisting his head this way and that to avoid the tongue bath of adoration Whomper insisted was his due reward. “Enough,” he said, finally lifting the still-damp mutt away, then laughing again as Whomper merely dangled, legs akimbo, tongue lolling, simply happy to be with his chosen human of the moment. “If only your mistress were half as affable as you.” He plopped the dog on the quilt next to him, then rolled up to sit on the edge of the bed, casting his gaze toward the closed bathroom door.

He hadn't looked at every crossed
t
and dotted
i
on the forms she'd handed him earlier, but they'd looked mighty official and orderly. Given she was a lawyer, the chance of their being anything other than completely valid was slim to none. And given he didn't doubt she was, or had been, a very smart lawyer, he also assumed they were ironclad, no loopholes.

He debated the wisdom of calling Cami Weathersby and inviting her and her husband Ted, who was the leader of the town council, to come join the conversation. He wasn't sure if this was a case of personal vengeance on Cami's part, or another of Ted's big plans to raise the town's profile, or some twisted combination of the two. But though it would seem logical to call them, the fact that they'd taken pains to keep him in the dark about the boathouse sale until it was completed led him to think that perhaps it would be best to come at it from a different angle.

Sue Clemmons was also an unwise choice. Though a darling woman and a source of great assistance over the past year as he'd tried to sort through the labyrinth of ownership documents, deeds, and various and sundry other paperwork that detailed the long and storied history of the Monaghan shipyard property, she'd also not seen fit to let him know that one of his buildings was about to be sold out from under him. Why, he didn't know, which was something he needed to find out first.

“What the hell,” he grumbled, disturbed, and yes, hurt, to think that the townsfolk who'd so readily embraced him and his cause, many of whom he called friend as well as neighbor, might not be at all what they seemed.

By the time he heard the water cut off in the shower, he'd pulled on an old pair of jeans, a clean white tee, and a faded blue hoodie with twin
U's
stamped and peeling off the front. In deference to the morning chill, he'd tucked his bare feet into one of the half dozen pairs of aging boat shoes lying about, only half paying attention if one actually matched the other, not really caring if it did. Then he'd gone down to the main floor, made a pot of strong Irish breakfast tea, and began going over the contracts in more detail.

He heard the creak of floorboards, then the slight groan of metal as Grace started down the steps. “You went in my bag,” she said, referring to the papers he was poring over.

Not bothering to look up, he said, “You bought my boathouse without my knowledge or consent. I think the scales of fairness swing in my favor.” He flipped another page. “Besides, you offered them to me earlier. Yet another thing I can't say in return.”

“I didn't know about you,” she repeated.

“And if you had?” He lifted his gaze then, and almost choked on his sip of tea. He hadn't given any thought to what she'd look like post-shower, but not in his wildest dreams—and he was a man who knew from wild dreams—would he have conjured up the vision standing before him.

The navy blue track pants and old faded tee shouldn't have been remotely provocative on her, especially since they shrouded her slight frame. And yet, somehow, all the extra fabric in the pants had pooled around her ankles in a way that left the rest clinging to shapely legs and a much curvier bum than he'd noticed on the docks, thanks to the coat she'd been wearing. Topping that, his old, pale green T-shirt had been turned siren hot by the fact that apparently her undergarments had also been tainted by the fish smell, and she clearly wasn't wearing a bra. His gaze dipped lower again, and he shifted in his seat as his body responded to the realization that she'd probably had to go commando . . . everywhere.

He might have even gotten past the full breasts with those pointy little nipples and the limber thighs and . . . damn. He shifted in his seat again. But there was no getting past the hair. That plain brown, pulled-back-in-a-tail hair was a completely different beast. Released on its own recognizance, it was a damp, wild thing with a life of its own, curls and waves bouncing and coiling about her head like Medusa's snakes. Only a hell of a lot sexier.

“I've made tea,” he said, knowing it sounded every bit as inane as he suddenly felt. He started to push back his chair and stand, thinking that doing something, anything, to redirect his attention would be a good idea, only to realize at the last possible moment that standing would reveal certain . . . reactions. While fair was fair given the raging nipples she was sporting, standing seemed rather a bit too . . . aggressive on his part.

“If I had known about you,” she said, ignoring the tea comment, “I'd have made a point of meeting you and discussing things before going forward. As I said before, I was led to believe that the entire property had been abandoned decades ago.”

“Cami told you that?” he asked, turning his attention back to the papers, willing his body to turn its attention to something else, as well.

“You know, I ran our conversations through my mind while I was in the shower, and I realized that she was careful in how she presented the place, but the intent was for me to believe that it was abandoned and up for grabs.” Grace went down the stairs and bent to ruffle the fur on Whomper's head, sending him into blissful, wriggling rapture.

Brodie glanced over in time to see her heart in her eyes as she gave the mutt a scratch behind the ears for good measure.

Only a hint of that indulgent smile remained when she straightened and crossed the room toward the small kitchen, but he knew it would be a very long time before he erased that look from his mind.
Lucky dog.

She cast him a quick glance, but he was mercifully saved from having to pretend he wasn't looking at the front of his old T-shirt when she skirted the table and went directly to the teapot still sitting on the stove.

“So,” she said, filling the empty teacup he'd left on the counter for her, “what did you do to annoy the Cove's number-one Realtor? Or is that advertisement not true, either? She seemed pretty knowledgeable about the area, I will say. Said she was born here.”

Caught off guard by the insult, Brodie's mouth dropped open, but it only took him a moment to regroup. “You've concluded after knowing me for less than an hour that it was somehow something I've done. Would this be a broad gender classification I'm being assigned, or have I done something to specifically lead you to that assumption?”

He saw the hint of a smile ghost her lips as she pulled out a chair and set across from him, cradling her teacup between her hands. That reminded him. “Did you get the splinter out?” He nodded to her palm.

“Mostly. I borrowed a few Band-Aids from the medicine cabinet.” She lifted her hand and flashed him a palm covered with two small strips. “I hope you don't mind. And no, I wasn't man bashing, merely making an observation based on, well, my observations.” A wry smile peeked out more fully around the corners of her teacup and did the damndest thing to him.

He was reaching across the small table for her hand before he even realized his intent—which was to touch her. Somehow, some way. He gently pried her hand from the teacup, which she set down.

Her lifted eyebrows clearly indicating her surprise at the move. And yet, she didn't pull her hand away. “It's fine.”

“Mostly,” he echoed, then cradled her hand while tugging the small strips up and off. “Well, ye've gone and butchered it up now, haven't you?”

“I got the biggest one.”

A smile threatened at the hint of defensiveness in her tone. Didn't take kindly to having her judgment questioned, this one. It didn't bode well at all for him with the recent turn of events, and yet, his amusement hovered just the same.

“Well, I'm not too proud to say I'm something of an expert at splinter removal. Sit tight.” He scooted his chair back, crossed the room, and spryly took the iron stairs a few at a time.

Whomper thumped his tail and whined low, apparently torn on whether to give merry chase or stay by Grace's side.

You picked a good one, you did, Grace. Loyal, he'll be.

“Stay down there with your mistress,” Brodie called to the pup, whose tail took on a much merrier wag, eyes shining once again. “I'll be back in a jiff.”

Grace looked between the two of them and merely rolled her eyes. But he didn't miss the way she reached down and reassured the mutt with another scratch between the ears.

He gathered from what he'd overheard and her other comments that Whomper was a recent addition to her life, possibly part of the big move and new future plans she was undertaking. He also gathered that acquiring a canine companion hadn't necessarily been part of the original plan and wondered if she'd given real thought to any of it, or if she was on some kind of pre-midlife bender. “First a pet owner and now she fancies herself an innkeeper as well,” he murmured under his breath.

He returned to find she'd pressed the strips back across her palm and was rinsing out her teacup in the sink.

“Have a sit-down,” he instructed. “We'll get you right as rain.”

She turned and leaned against the counter, folding her arms and tucking her hands away for good measure. “Do you always assume people will do whatever you tell them to do?”

She'd said it lightly enough, but his brows rose all the same. “I'm only tryin' to help.”

She surprised him once again by laughing. A full-on, heartfelt guffaw.

“I think I've just been insulted.”

With her wild hair, casual clothes and all of her carefully constructed defenses nowhere in sight, the woman standing before him was a far cry from the suited-up, laced-up lawyer he'd met on the docks. Of course, there had been the colorful and equally heartfelt swearing. . . . He didn't want to be intrigued by her, and yet there was no escaping it.

She sat down across from him, peeled the bandages back herself, and sporting a fairly self-satisfied grin, plopped her left hand, palm up, on the table between them. “Do your worst.”

“Never, lass,” he said, taking up her hand again. “Only me best.”

She let out a spurt of sound that was more giggle than laugh, and he aimed one arched brow in her direction before bending to the task.

“Oh, don't go being offended,” she said, as he tilted her palm this way, then that, trying to find the jutting ends of the little bastards still wedged in the soft flesh of her palm. “I don't doubt your claim. I laughed because you sincerely have no idea how charmed you are, do you? And I don't mean charm
ing.
I know you're well aware of your natural-born assets.”

He glanced up briefly at that, but opted to remain silent as he resumed his task. She'd said it kindly enough. And it was true enough.

“What I mean is, you're kind of clueless about the end result of being so blessed. You're so used to rolling through life, flashing those dimples and wielding that brogue of yours, a wink of your green eyes, soliciting smiles wherever you go with this bit of flattering nonsense or that, I'm betting folks fall happily in line with whatever it is you have in mind even when you're not trying to persuade them to your way of thinking. So, you don't really understand resistance, do you? Because it simply doesn't happen to you—which is why it was funny, the look you gave me, as if you couldn't fathom why I wouldn't just plop down and let you dig in the palm of my hand.”

“It's no' about charm or gettin' my way.” He glanced up briefly again, noting that when her eyes danced with laughter, they turned a particular shade of bluish-green that reminded him of the waters of home. “It's about doing what makes the most sense.” He bent his head again and tried not to think of dancing eyes. Or home. He'd agree that a little Irish accent could go a long way toward charming his way into others' good graces. Here in the States. At home, his brogue wasn't special. And neither was he. “Hold still now. This might hurt a little.”

He made quick business of plucking out the tiny slivers, and other than a few winces and a sucked-in breath here or there, she didn't so much as flinch. He dabbed a little of the antibiotic he'd brought downstairs with him onto a fresh bandage and gently pressed it to the pink sides of her palm, then put another crossways to help hold it in place. “There.” He rubbed the side of his thumb over the calluses that ran across the top of her palm and the bottom pads of her fingers and risked another look at those dancing sea eyes.

“Rowing,” she said in answer to his silent question.

That surprised him, though why he wasn't sure. “You row? To where? You live on an island and boat to work, do you?”