It's a Wonderful Wife (11 page)

Cadi covered her mouth. “I have no idea what that is,” she said behind her hands, “but if you're impressed, then so am I. Oh, Stanley,” she cried, throwing herself at him and squishing her sketchbooks between them, “she sounds like your perfect complement.”

“Maybe,” he said. “Assuming Glace and Kerr Architecture and Whistler's Landing aren't
too
intimate for her.”

“Kerr and
Pinky
Architecture,” Cadi said, trying to catch the books as she stepped back.

“It's Pinsky, not Pinky,” he muttered, bending to pick up the one she missed, then waving it in the air. “But I still need something to show the Covingtons on Friday.”

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Cadi rushed to her desk, reached into the narrow space between it and the wall, then straightened holding a long, thick roll of papers. “I thought of this last night while you were napping and planned to give it to you before I left. You don't need to decipher my Covington drawings,” she explained, walking back and handing him the roll, “because I want you to build them this house.”

Stanley carefully unrolled the old set of plans out on the table, then simply stared down at the front page in silence. “This is your father's house,” he finally whispered, lifting uncertain eyes to hers. “The one he designed for your mother. Owen brought me in here the night of our engagement party and showed me these plans, saying he'd cajoled Sandra into marrying him by building her this house, but that it burned down on Christmas Eve ten years later.”

Cadi gestured in the direction of the kitchen. “Realizing by then they probably wouldn't ever have children, they built this Cape in its place. Only Dad had to raise the roof facing the ocean when Mom suddenly got pregnant with me. Take it, Stanley,” she said, nodding at the plans. “It's a beautiful home and deserves to have a family living in it. Work your own magic updating it to the twenty-first century, and I promise that Marilyn Covington will immediately recognize it as the house she didn't know she wanted.”

“She asked for a coastal-cottage showpiece, not a New England farmhouse,” he halfheartedly argued, looking down and reverently turning the pages.

“Marilyn was all over the place about what she wanted,” Cadi countered with a laugh. “One minute she was describing a palace and the next minute a small college dormitory. She has
six
kids. Trust me, when she sees all those bedrooms and bathrooms and that huge eat-in farm kitchen, she's going to fall in love. And if you stretch the garage to three bays and add a nanny suite above it, George Covington is going to start calling you for marital advice for being able to read his wife's mind.”

Stanley carefully rerolled the fifty-year-old plans and held them to his chest with a sad smile. “When he showed me these plans, Owen said he'd imagined the house filled with the children he and Sandra had hoped to have. Hell, Cads,” he whispered, “I almost came clean about our deception when he said he wouldn't mind if you and I updated it for ourselves.” He lifted the roll away from his chest. “Are you sure you want to give it to the Covingtons?”

“I'm sure. I'd rather see it being lived in instead of collecting dust in a corner.” She headed for the kitchen. “You just make sure you write
nanny suite
in big bold letters that George Covington can't miss.” She shot a smile over her shoulder. “And you might want to wear a raincoat to your meeting on Friday, because Marilyn is going to throw herself at you and burst into tears of gratitude.”

“I don't remember them asking for a nanny suite,” he said, following.

“Then you and George must both have selective hearing, because I distinctly remember Marilyn asking for an oversized extra bedroom with an attached bath.” Cadi stopped in front of the cat carrier sitting on the counter to see Wiggles glaring out at her. “And since I doubt there's going to be a
seventh
little Covington, that little request told me Marilyn is quietly planning to hire a nanny to help her keep track of the six she already has.” She tapped Stanley on the chest. “Which is why I'm relieved you're open to taking on a female partner, and why I think you and Sarah should sit in on each other's meetings with clients. Men and women
hear
differently, Stanley, and I can't tell you how many times I put something in a model that my father had overlooked even though he'd taken pages and pages of notes.”

“Sarah's going to think I'm incompetent if I ask her to sit in on meetings.” He shook his head. “I'm not sure that's how it's done in large firms. In fact, I don't think anything about how Owen worked with clients was normal. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if Sarah ends the interview the minute she sees I still use a drafting table instead of a computer.”

“Or the woman manages to drag you into the twenty-first century.” Cadi touched his arm. “You just need to be upfront with her, Stanley, and explain that you started right out of school with an old-fashioned, small-town architect, and that's why you're specifically searching for a contemporary partner. And don't sell yourself short. There's a good chance you can teach Sarah Pinky a thing or two about drafting.”

“It's Pin-
ski
,” he corrected, tucking the house plans under his arm to pick up Wiggles' carrier. “And now it's time for you ladies to disappear,” he said, striding onto the back deck, “and for me to park my ass at my ancient drafting table and flesh out that concept for Stapleton before I find myself designing
fish
houses on the bottom of the Gulf of Maine.”

•   •   •

Swatting at something tickling her ear as she crouched in the bushes, Cadi could only hope this wasn't a harbinger of future adventures. She might be eager to spread her wings, but unceremoniously being forced to leave town had turned all those beautiful butterflies in her belly into angry bees. Cadi held her breath when she saw Stanley's boring old pickup speeding toward her and didn't start breathing again until he drove past without noticing her tire marks. She stood up and headed deeper into the woods, feeling a bit guilty for asking him to go back and check that all the cellar windows were locked, but she'd needed to buy enough time to race ahead and pull down the dirt road at the edge of her property.

Besides digging out her father's old house plans last night while Stanley had slept, she'd also filled several boxes with supplies and quietly lugged them out to the shed. It wasn't that she was being sneaky; she simply hadn't wanted to admit that if she didn't have something to keep her mind occupied, she'd probably go crazy worrying about him having to deal with Stapleton all by himself. She also hadn't wanted a drawn-out discussion on how she was going to build a model while on the run, mostly because she hadn't wanted to explain that she had absolutely no intention of moving every couple of days like a criminal. She could fabricate trees and rocks and even walls and windows, but there was no way she could pack and unpack a sheet of plywood every morning and night once she actually started assembling the model, much less fit it in the SUV with everything else.

And anyway, if chipmunks had enough brains to live in a world full of predators and not get eaten, surely she could find a safe place to set up shop.

Because honestly? She really couldn't see Wiggles sleeping in motel rooms filled with strange smells every night and being stuck in her carrier all day every day. Wigs was a Bengal—a cross between a small wild Asian leopard and a domestic short-haired cat—whose entire life revolved around coming and going at will through her cat door to spend hours patrolling the peninsula. Which meant that without a camper to call home, she gave Wiggles three or four days before the independent little bugger turned into the traveling companion from hell.

Cadi veered off the tote road when she reached her SUV, made her way through the narrow section of woods, then stopped beside a large tree and looked around. Seeing nothing but seagulls and a few immature loons bobbing on the gentle waves, she scrambled down the steep bank and ran along the beach, then scaled the bank again behind the tool shed. She calmly walked to the front and opened the double doors, pulled out the garden cart loaded with boxes, then wheeled it toward the beach path farther up the peninsula. It took longer than she expected to drag the heavy cart back along the rock-strewn beach, and the steep bank forced her to abandon it above the high tide mark and lug one box at a time up to the SUV—her huffing and puffing fourth trip making her wonder if she was having fun yet.

She slid in behind the steering wheel with a winded groan, reached a finger through the door of the crate belted into the passenger seat, and stroked Wiggles' cheek. “I'm sorry it's not the traveling conditions I promised, but try to hang in there, kiddo, and I'll see if I can't find a way to make this work.” She started the engine and headed out the narrow dirt road. “Which means our first stop is going to be the L.L.Bean outlet in Ellsworth to buy camping equipment. I should probably get two tents,” she went on, even as she wondered if she was going to spend the entire trip talking to a cat. “One of them large enough to set up a work table,” she continued out loud, mentally reminding herself to buy a folding table. And a cooler, sleeping bag, blow-up mattress, cookstove, lantern, pots and dishes and . . . Good Lord, she needed
everything
.

She pulled onto the main road heading away from Whistler's Landing and suddenly smiled. Besides thanking Jesse Sinclair for nudging her off her comfortable couch, it would appear she also owed him for suggesting she buy a roomy SUV instead of a small, sporty coupe.

But then she sighed. She supposed she'd have to include his wife on her wedding invitation, even if it meant being outshone by Jesse's beautiful and sophisticated—and by then likely pregnant—Mrs. Right.

As for her
Mr.
Right, Cadi hoped his adventure was getting off to a more promising beginning, because she wouldn't be sending invitations to anything if the poor guy got discouraged enough to turn around before they even had a chance to meet.

TEN

Not quite ready to admit that bouncy blonde curls and sparkling blue eyes may have played a role in his decision to end his eighteen-day, four-continent flying marathon in Maine instead of New York, Jesse stopped in front of Glace & Kerr Architecture and shut off his truck, only to scowl at the closed sign on the door. Even though he hadn't been able to give an exact time, he knew Stanley was expecting him this afternoon, since the man had returned his email confirming their appointment.

And to his thinking, 1:30 p.m. was considered afternoon on any continent.

Jesse closed his eyes and rested his head on the steering wheel, surprisingly close to roaring in frustration. It had taken him longer to fly to Brazil and back than it had to wrestle his boats away from the longshoremen. But then he'd had to spend two days in New York trying to keep a frenzied logistics department from self-destructing, and two freaking
weeks
flying all over Europe and northern Africa to personally soothe disgruntled clients threatening to switch their business to Starrtech. So if spending eighteen days of his life that he'd never get back in more time zones than he could count wasn't bad enough, there was also the fact that Cadi hadn't answered any of the texts he'd sent her. And now, adding insult to injury, it appeared his architect had stood him up. So not only was the realization he might be leaving here
again
without a copy of his house plans adding to his foul mood, he'd been hoping Stanley could give him some insight as to why Cadi wasn't responding to his texts—preferably
before
he hunted her down to ask her in person.

The least the woman could have done was acknowledge receiving his flowers.

Jesse sat up at the sound of a vehicle and watched in his rearview mirror as an older-model pickup pulled up behind him, his relief at seeing Stanley behind the wheel vanishing when he realized the female passenger—whose head of wildly spiked dark hair barely showed above the dash—was
not
Cadi. He got out and walked around his truck to meet them on the sidewalk.

“Mr. Sinclair,” Stanley said as he extended his hand. “I hope you haven't been waiting too long.” He ended the handshake on a wince. “Our new client's building site wasn't quite as accessible as he led us to believe, and his wife insisted on showing us every page of the idea book she's spent the last two years putting together,” he explained, gesturing at the thick binder the definitely petite, mid-thirtyish woman was hugging to her decidedly ample chest. “I'd like you to meet Sarah Pinsky, who as of ten minutes ago has agreed to become my new partner.”

“Ms. Pinsky,” Jesse said, shaking the hand she extended after shifting the binder.

“Stanley showed me photographs of your island, Mr. Sinclair,” she returned, her warm smile crinkling bright green eyes framed by neon red glasses that matched her lipstick—which also matched several streaks in her spiked hair. “And although it's definitely off the beaten path, I certainly understand why you chose to build out there. The sunrises must be spectacular.”

Not that he'd had the pleasure of seeing one yet. “And did Stanley also show you the plans for the equally spectacular house he designed to take advantage of those sunrises?”

“Um . . . no,” she said, looking at Stanley then back at Jesse. “But if it's anything like the beautiful homes he's taken me to see this past week, I can definitely picture it sitting on that high granite ridge, where you'll have commanding views out every one of its windows.”

“Actually, he tucked the house up against a lower, southeast-facing bluff,” Jesse said as he also glanced at Stanley, only to wonder at the man's suddenly guarded look. He smiled at Sarah. “And it's
window
, as in one long, floor-to-ceiling wall of glass. And based on the short glimpse I got of the model a couple of weeks ago, I'm going to need a second job not only to pay for all that concrete and steel, but also to move that much tonnage across three miles of open water.” The magnitude of which he'd spent a good portion of his flight-time contemplating, which would have been a lot easier if he'd had the plans and accompanying spec-sheets.

“Concrete and steel?” Ms. Pinsky repeated, looking at Stanley in surprise. “But I thought Glace and Kerr built its reputation on designing large, New England cottage–style homes.”

“We have,” Stanley said, grasping her elbow and turning her toward the door. “But Jesse asked for something . . . less traditional. Why don't you go on in and start officially settling into your new office while Mr. Sinclair and I take a little walk.”

“
Mr. Sinclair
prefers to see his plans,” Jesse said once Sarah disappeared inside.

Stanley studied him as if trying to gauge his mood, then headed across the road.

Jesse bit back a curse and followed. “Can you at least tell me how Cadi is doing? I sent her several texts over the past couple of weeks, but she never responded.”

“She's traveling,” Stanley said, turning onto the lane leading down to the pier. “And she didn't answer because her phone apparently got ruined a couple of weeks ago, and she's been using a prepaid phone until she decides which new model she wants to get.”

“Traveling? She purchased a motorhome already?”

Stanley shot him a tight grin. “No, she took your advice and bought a sporty little SUV, loaded it with camping equipment, and left a couple of weeks ago to shop for a motorhome.”

“But I thought she didn't want to travel without her cat.”

“She's not.” He shrugged, this time his grin derisive. “Apparently Cadi thinks Wiggles would rather sleep in a tent than stay with me.”

Jesse stepped in front of him when they reached the beginning of the pier, forcing Stanley to stop. “Then can you please give me her new cell number?”

Stanley folded his arms over his chest, his stance somewhat defensive. “I'd rather not.”

Jesse felt his mood darken further at the feeling that Stanley was hiding something. But what really worried him was that he suspected it concerned Cadi. Because the easygoing architect he'd been dealing with for the last six months appeared to have vanished, replaced by an edgier, more intense, and definitely guarded . . . prevaricator.

Well, Cadi had said she intended to burn her sketchbooks to force Stanley to find a new partner. Hell, maybe she'd tossed a few house plans on the fire with them.

“Mind telling me why you'd
rather not
?”

“Because I don't want you bugging her to rebuild your models. She's on a much-needed, long-overdue adventure.”

Jesse relaxed slightly. “And if I promise not to mention the models?”

Stanley's eyes narrowed again, obviously trying to decide why else he would want Cadi's number. The easygoing architect suddenly reappeared and shook his head with a grin. “Give her some time, Jesse. She's been waiting twenty-nine years for the sweet taste of freedom.”

“I don't want to clip her wings. In fact, I consider her eagerness to travel one of her more appealing traits. Right up there,” he drawled, “with her fondness for snooping and telling lies.”

Stanley stiffened, once again turning defensive. “Why would you say—”

“Stanley! Stanley!” Sarah Pinsky shouted as she ran down the lane toward them. “You need to come. Quick!”

“Why? What's going on?” he asked, having to catch the frantic woman when she ran into him trying to stop. “Sarah, what's wrong?”

“Man in your office . . . beat up . . . says he's your brother,” she stammered between huge gulps of air as Stanley held her shoulders and bent to look her level in the eye. “I went to put your mail on your desk and found him . . . tied to your chair . . . he snapped at me to go get you.” Sarah Pinsky chased after him when Stanley took off up the lane. “I didn't call the police yet,” she continued as Jesse also followed. “We need to call them.”

“No cops,” Stanley growled over his shoulder, barely dodging a car that had to slam on its brakes when he sprinted across the road without looking.

Jesse caught Ms. Pinsky in time to stop her from running into the same car and guided her over to the sidewalk, but stopped her from going inside as he looked around for . . . hell, he guessed for anything that didn't look right. “You didn't see anyone else or hear anything before going in Stanley's office? The guy didn't call out when he heard you arrive?”

The panting woman hugged herself and shook her head. “I think he was passed out and only came to when I screamed.”

“Do you want to sit in my truck while I go inside?”

She shook her head again, dropping her arms and squaring her shoulders. “No, I'm over my initial shock and want to help. I'm a volunteer EMT for the town I live in near Denver.”

“Okay. But if the guy really is his brother,” Jesse said, leading her inside, “I think we should follow Stanley's lead until we know the reason he doesn't want to call the authorities.”

“Jesus, Aaron,” they heard Stanley whisper thickly, “what in hell did he do to you? And for chrissakes,
why
?”

Jesse found it interesting that Stanley obviously knew the assailant, which implied that finding his brother tied to his chair was an unmistakable message—which had Jesse wondering what sort of trouble a small-town architect could get into. An angry husband or boyfriend of one of the women at his birthday party, maybe? Jesse stopped Sarah in the lobby. “Let's give them a minute,” he said softly, moving closer to the office door but staying just out of sight.

Jesse heard a pained, humorless chuckle. “Isn't it obvious? Stapleton wanted to make sure you knew what he thought of your house design.”

Nope, not fallout from the orgy; this was obviously business related.

It must have been one hell of an ugly house.

A hiss sounded over the sharp creak of a chair. “Christ, go easy, will you? My hands are numb and I think some of my ribs are cracked. Do you have any idea how long a ride it is here from New York
in the trunk of a car
? I swear the sadistic driver aimed for every pothole after we left the interstate.”

Stapleton,
Jesse silently repeated, trying to think if he knew anyone by that name from New York, even as he moved forward just enough to see Stanley reach inside a desk drawer.

“I'm sorry,” the obviously shaken man murmured, his hand emerging holding a large hunting knife. “The knots on your wrists are slick with blood. I need to cut you free.”

Aaron gave another pained chuckle. “Please tell me you've got something more lethal than that tucked in the back of your belt.”

Jesse looked down when he heard a muffled gasp and found Sarah had moved up beside him, her hands pressed to her mouth. He guided her away from the door just as Stanley snorted.

“I've been carrying since the morning I called you to find out what sort of trouble you'd gotten us
both
into. Quit tensing. You're making it worse.”

Aaron took a shuddering breath. “He said he's going to torch the restaurant if you and Ms. Glace aren't standing in his office in one week with a brand-new design.”

“I'm not letting that bastard within a hundred miles of Cadi.”

Jesse felt something the size of a cargo freighter slam into his chest.

“I'm also supposed to explain that if you show up without her,” Aaron added, “he's going to track down all your past and present clients and tell them what you and Owen Glace have been doing all these years. And then he said he'll . . . he'll just . . .”

“He'll what?” Stanley snapped above the sound of the chair bumping into the wall, immediately followed by more hissing. “Easy, Aaron. I'm sorry, but I figured the quicker the better. Let the blood start circulating before you try to move. Stapleton said he'll what?”

“Hell, it's circulating all over your floor.” Another shuddering breath. “He said if Cadi's not with you, he'll send his men to come get her. And that he won't . . .”

“He won't
what
?”

“That once he has her, he probably won't need you anymore. Christ, I'm sorry, Stanley. I never thought anything like this would happen.”

There was a long silence, then a heavy sigh. “No, you just sold your soul to a loan shark to open a restaurant.”

“I was told Ryan Stapleton was a venture capitalist who helped small startups.”

“And when you found out he wasn't, you sold the bastard
my
soul in return for a house.”

As well as Cadi's, apparently,
Jesse silently added, her sudden departure and prepaid—therefore untraceable—cell phone finally making sense. The woman wasn't out shopping for a motorhome; she was running from a loan shark. Not that he understood why Stapleton was including her in what was clearly Aaron's debt. And what sort of blackmail-worthy dirt could the bastard have on a backwater architect and his
dead
partner, anyway?

“What are we going to do?” Aaron whispered. “He's not going to stop until he gets what he wants or . . . or until we're both dead.”

“He can't kill what he can't find,” Stanley said. “Just like Cadi, you and I are going to disappear until I can figure a way out of this mess.”

Jesse was just about to start forward when Aaron asked, “Are you saying Cadi's not here? Christ, where is she?”

“I honestly have no idea, which is exactly what I told her I wanted. She bought camping equipment and is traveling around New England in a car with temporary plates. I made her promise to check in with me every couple of days, to only use cash and never stay in one place more than two nights, and to not come home until I give the okay.”

“Hell,” Aaron muttered, “you sound just like a brother I used to have. You remember that guy who was constantly pulling my stupid ass out of the wringer before he shipped me off to culinary school, then ran off to college and became a respectable architect?”