The MacGregor Brides (24 page)

“It’s more efficient than scribbling notes on paper, and my plans and outlines can’t be misconstrued.”

“Yeah, you’re in charge.”

“It’s my house,” she snapped.

He shot her a bland look. “Who said it wasn’t?”

He moved beyond her, into the small front parlor, and instantly thought that whoever had painted the molding should have been beaten mercilessly. “Cozy.”

“Cramped,” she corrected. “I want the right wall taken out. The room beyond is just as cramped, equaling two wasted spaces, in my opinion.”

It was a good move, but she so clearly thought so, there was no need to confirm it—and there was an irresistible desire to challenge it. “Old, traditional houses like this don’t like structural changes.”

“The wall goes.”

With unhurried, long-legged strides he strolled over, looked it up, looked it down. “Probably screw up this nice random-width pine floor.”

“Then you’ll just have to fix it.” She walked through the still-empty room, her steps echoing hollowly. “I want the molding stripped down to natural wood, and there’s some minor plasterwork you can see for yourself. The stone needs to be repointed on the fireplace, but the mantel is in excellent shape. And over in here …”

She strode out and into the next room, waiting for him to follow. “The patio door is too small. I want the opening widened, an atrium installed. Walnut, beveled glass, brass hardware.”

He saw the results in his head, approved them, but shrugged. “That’s going to mean cutting into the brick.”

“I’m aware of that, Murdoch.”

“It’s going to cost you.”

The sneer was in her eyes. “We’ll discuss your estimate after you’ve worked it up. But to continue, naturally, all the walls will need to be repainted or repapered, and the fireplace in here …” She cocked her head, measuring the line and distance from the fireplace in the next room. “I’ll want this mantel replaced with one to match the other. And the flue here’s been blocked off. It needs to be opened. Thermal glass for all the windows, of course.”

“Of course.”

Ignoring the smirk, she brushed past him and continued. If it had been his father, she would have asked opinions, discussed strategies. They’d have been laughing over something by now, or been on their hands and knees examining the floor molding.

She would do none of those things with the son.

Her voice was as stiff as her spine, Cullum thought. And he wished to God she didn’t smell so good. It was distracting, having that warrior-goddess fragrance assault him whenever he got within three feet of her.

He did his best to keep his distance.

He considered her a snotty, cold, bossy and arrogant woman. Anything but his type. The fact that he
occasionally wondered what she would taste like was, in his opinion, just a reflex, and nothing more.

They moved through the first floor, room by room. It was a great house, he mused, but then, he’d never known Julia MacGregor to buy a loser. She had an eye for buildings; he could respect that. And he could respect the fact that whatever she bought, she tended well.

But she never shut the hell up, he decided, and she treated him as if he were brain-dead, explaining and outlining every point and change.

Replacement tiles in the powder room. Yeah, yeah. New hardware for the pedestal sink. Did she think he couldn’t see that the current faucet was rusted and clunky? He had eyes, didn’t he?

They spent nearly an hour in the kitchen. Julia wanted a complete redesign there, all of it built around two points—the old brick hearth that she wanted in working order again, and the wall-spanning chestnut breakfront.

He was pleased to shut down a couple of her ideas as unworkable, and even more pleased to replace her plans with his own.

“You’ve got plenty of room.” He stood in the center of the kitchen, on a shiny linoleum floor. “Why do you want to waste it?”

“That’s not—”

“It’s just plain stupid to have the stove and refrigerator that far apart. You want a flow, a traffic pattern. Aesthetics and convenience. It’s pretty obvious you don’t cook.”

She angled her head. “And in your little world, women whip up hot meals nightly for their weary men.”

“In my little world, people who cook eat better. You can keep your sink under the double windows there. The counter comes around here. You curve it, give it a nice fluid look.” His gestures were brisk, economic, those of a man accustomed to being in charge—and being obeyed. “Dishwasher here, stove there, fridge there. Keep the pantry under the back steps. Get rid of the ugly door on it. Now, if I were you—”

“You’re not.”

“I’d run another length of counter out here. A serving and conversation bar. It’d break up the space, really use it. Then you take that summer porch, make it part of the room. Get rid of the wall.”

She winged a brow. “I thought old, traditional houses didn’t care for structural changes.”

Good one, he thought, but shrugged his shoulders. “It’s already too late for that. If you’re going to figure out how to take out one, you can take out two. You ditch the screens, put in windows, then use that part of the L for a sitting area. I could run a bench under the windows.”

Oh, it was coming together beautifully in her mind. “I saw this terrific old church pew last week.”

“Even better. You’ll never use the porch the way it’s set up now for anything but junk space. This way you’d bring those gardens inside—not that they don’t need work—and add some great light.”

She wanted it, absolutely. “Well, I’ll consider it.”

“Fine, and you’ll want to get rid of the floor covering.”

“It’s brand-new.”

“Odds are it’s covering up more random-width pine.”

“Nobody’s that stupid.”

He took out a pocketknife, flicked the blade. Those green eyes flashed with challenge. “Bet?”

She waffled between wanting him to be right and hating being wrong. “All right, take up a corner. But if you’re wrong, you take five percent off your estimate.”

“If I’m right, you do the kitchen my way.”

She nodded. “Deal.”

He walked to the corner closest to the back door, and got down on his knees. It took him less than two minutes. “You’re going to be very happy.”

“Just subflooring, huh?” Smug, she walked over, peered down. “Oh.” She scrambled down to her hands and knees, thrilled to see the pine boards. “What idiots. Take off some more.”

“Likely it’s scratched, scarred and stained.” He worked off more linoleum. “So they took the easy route and covered it up.”

It was like finding buried treasure. Julia had to stop herself from ripping at it with her bare hands.

They were hip-to-hip now, shoulder-to-shoulder. The curling cloud of her hair brushed his cheek. The scent of it drew him, and without thinking, he turned his head, inhaled.

She felt the flutter, the quick answer to it in the pit of her stomach. She straightened so quickly she nearly bashed his nose with her head. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.” What the hell had gotten into him? was all he could think. Was he completely insane?

“You were sniffing me.”

“Get a grip. I was breathing. It’s just something I do to get through the day.”

The fact that her pulse was dancing a jig infuriated her. Her mouth was dry, her skin hot. “Well, don’t do it around me,” she snapped, and got quickly to her feet. “Let’s go through the second floor and get this over with.”

“Fine.” He closed the blade and shoved the knife back in his pocket, because it was tempting to jab it into his own heart as punishment for his momentary lapse. “And don’t worry, MacGregor, I’ll make sure I hold my breath.”

“Idiot,” she muttered under her own as she stalked from the room. But she wasn’t sure which one of them she was referring to.

* * *

Daniel MacGregor imagined he was puffing on a cigar. Tipped back in the massive leather chair in his massive office in his massive home, he blew imaginary smoke rings at the ceiling while he listened to his good friend Michael Murdoch on the telephone.

“So the boy bought it.”

“He did, indeed,” Michael told him. “I hacked a bit, held my nose when I called him.” Michael did so now, making his voice stuffy and wheezy. “You’ll have to see to Julia today, I told him. I’m feeling poorly. He didn’t care for it,” Michael continued, his voice clear as church bells on Sunday. “But he’s a good boy and takes pride in the company.”

“He’s a fine boy, your Cullum.” Daniel grinned at the ceiling, shifted the telephone to his other ear. He’d known Michael Murdoch for fifteen years, respected him as a professional, liked him as a man. He’d grieved with him when Michael lost his wife a decade before. And plotted with him nearly as long.

“So, it’s a big job,” Daniel continued. “It’ll take a few months, more or less, and keep them rubbing up against each other.”

“I’ll be sick for a week or two—gives me a chance to catch up on my reading. Then I’ll be feeling a little off my feed for a week or two more. By that time, Cullum will be deep into the project. I’ll be able to convince him he should follow it through. He’ll want it by that point in any case.”

“Don’t understand for a minute why the boy hasn’t made a move toward the girl already. They’ve known each other for years. Two strong, healthy, attractive people.” He shook his head sadly,
stroking his soft white beard. “I tell you, Michael, children today have to be led along by the hand or they get nothing important done.”

“There’s a spark between them, Daniel. You and I, we’re just blowing on it a bit. It’s time for my Cullum to settle down, find his happiness.”

“Agreed.” For punctuation, Daniel thumped his fist on the desk. “And Julia needs to do the same. Why, the girl’s twenty-five years old. What’s she waiting for?” Then he smiled, settled back again. “They’ll make beautiful babies together for us, Michael.”

Blissfully unaware that her life was being arranged for her, Julia sat in the center of her bed, poring over books of samples. Wallpaper, paint, tile. She had mountains of catalogs listing hinges, doorknobs, bathroom and kitchen hardware. She scribbled down possibilities and recorded her final choices.

It had taken two weeks of meetings, of negotiations, and of snarling arguments, for her and Cullum to finalize the projected work, the deadlines and the estimated costs.

She’d had no choice but to accept him as head contractor on the job. When she slipped into the Murdoch offices and saw how tired and worn Michael Murdoch was, she’d stifled all complaints.

Until he regained his strength, he’d be riding his desk. She didn’t want to be responsible for making him feel he had to drag himself to the site and supervise.

She shifted, sliding her legs from left to right for comfort. The morning had been spent at a settlement for a property she’d sold. She had yet to change out of the short summer-blue skirt and jacket she’d worn for the meeting.

Absently she tapped her fingers on a swatch of floral wallpaper. She had a weakness for colored stones, and a trio of them winked on her hand. Others gleamed at her ears, her wrist.

Because she’d pulled out the pins the minute she stepped into her room, her hair tumbled wildly over her shoulders. She hummed to herself, enjoying the background noise of saws and hammers traveling up from the first floor.

Men at work, she thought. Terrific music.

Cullum could only be grateful she didn’t look up when he stepped into the doorway. She would have seen his tongue slide out of his mouth and hit his shoes.

My God, the woman had legs, yards of them, and that tiny little skirt wasn’t covering up much. She didn’t look the least bit like a businesswoman. More like a pagan goddess. It almost made a man forget she had a smart mouth and a snakebite temper.

When she idly rubbed a hand high on her thigh, he rolled his eyes to the ceiling, begging for mercy. He had to take two slow, steady breaths to pull himself in line.

“Got a minute, MacGregor?”

“Hmm?” The wild roses on dusky blue, or the sleek traditional stripes? Roses, she decided. Why be subtle?

“MacGregor? Jules?” He moved over, snapped his fingers under her nose and had the pleasure of seeing her gaze shoot up in shock.

“What?” Surprise was what had her heart jolting, she told herself.

“Your wall’s out. Thought you might want to see.”

“Oh. Sure. In a minute.” She hated to be taken unawares, not given time to engage all controls. “I’ll come right down.”

A man would be crazy to walk away from those legs when he could linger, Cullum decided. He sat
on the bed, amused when her eyes narrowed. “Getting ahead of yourself, aren’t you?”

“I was about to say the same,” she said primly.

“You won’t be needing wall coverings for some time yet.”

“It pays to think ahead.”

He leaned forward, studied the stripes she’d just rejected. “Boring.” His gaze traveled up those legs. “That’s about the only thing you’re not.”

“Let’s see, compliment or insult?” She resisted tugging at her skirt. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “Insult,” she decided. “Get lost.”

“Why are you all dressed up?” He fingered her lapel, knowing she’d slap at his hand. She didn’t disappoint him.

“I had a settlement. The Court Street property.”

“Oh, yeah, nice place, but too downtown.” He spread open her paint-sample booklet, considered the choices. “This is the kind of thing you want in this room. Deep green. It’s rich and it’s restful.”

She’d been thinking along those lines. “Going into interior decorating, Murdoch?”

“You work on enough houses, you get ideas for what works.” His eyes, as rich and deep and green as the paint he’d chosen, latched on to hers. “And when you put time and effort and creativity into rehabbing a house, then the owners screw it up with the colors and furnishings, it ticks you off.”

Damn it, she agreed again. This was getting dangerous. “How’s your father?”

“He’s bouncing back.” But a shadow of concern flickered in his eyes. “I’ve never seen him take so long to throw off a cold. He said he’d been to the doctor. He’s got a prescription and orders to take it easy for another week or two.”

“That’s sensible.” Understanding nothing better than she understood family love and concern, Julia laid a hand on Cullum’s knee. “Oh, he’ll be fine. He’s as tough as they come.”