With a Little T.L.C. (7 page)

Was it because his family was only a few feet away inside the house? He didn't find her attractive? Or was he telling the truth and just wasn't interested in a serious relationship?

He finished signing out, then looked up. When he spotted her, a wide grin turned up the corners of his mouth. “Hi,” he said. “Didn't they just page you?”

“Yes,” she answered, lifting the receiver on the desk beside him. Her hand shook and she turned her back so he wouldn't see. “Liz Anderson,” she said into the phone.

“This is Ernie from the Office Supplies Warehouse.”

“Please tell me my computer desk is all together in one large, attractive and ever so functional piece,” she pleaded.

“Wish I could. But because of the sale and employees out with the flu we're backlogged two to three weeks.”

“Three weeks?” she cried. “My computer is scattered all over a card table and begging for a home.”

“Sorry. We'd be happy to refund your money if you'd like to look somewhere else.”

“No. I love that desk. It's perfect for my decor at home. And the price is too good.” She sighed. “I've waited this long, I suppose another three weeks isn't so bad.” She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned around.

“May I be of assistance?” Joe waited expectantly.

“Hold on, Ernie,” she said into the phone. Liz stared at Joe. “What?” she asked.

“I couldn't help overhearing. You bought a desk on sale. You're disappointed because the assembly is delayed for three weeks. I'm volunteering to put it together.”

“I couldn't ask you to do that.”

He frowned. “You don't trust me?”

“I didn't say that.”

“I listen between the lines,” he said.

“It's a major imposition,” she countered.

“How do you know? I'm pretty handy.”

She couldn't help glancing at his wide, strong forearms, revealed because he'd rolled up his shirt sleeves. Beneath his white shirt, she could almost see the muscles in his upper arms, the contours of his broad chest and the harnessed strength there. If he'd been wearing jeans and a T-shirt, she could believe he was a handyman. Good with his hands. And she wasn't thinking about assembling desks, she thought with a shiver.

“You're volunteering to put my desk together?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Sight unseen?”

“I've seen you.” His eyes twinkled.

“I was talking about the desk and you know it. You have no idea what it looks like or what kind of challenge it might be to put together. It could be the super deluxe model with two hutches and a top-of-the-line return.”

“Risk is my middle name.”

She couldn't help laughing. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely, it's what friends do,” he said. “But there's a price.”

Ah, she thought. Here it comes. But there was a rebellious part of her that couldn't help getting excited about the possibility of a pass. A part of her that thought experiencing a kiss and then some with Joe Marchetti would be worth the disillusionment later.

“A price? And that would be?”

“You have to call for the pizza.”

“Okay.” Relieved, she nodded and put the phone back to her ear. “Ernie?”

“First delivery on Saturday morning is eight sharp,” Ernie answered. “Meat lovers pizza with the works and a beer should cover his tab.”

“Thanks, Ernie,” she said laughing. She hung up the phone and turned to Joe.

“Who's Ernie?” he asked frowning.

“What time can you be there on Saturday?” she asked, ignoring his question.

“How well do you know this guy?”

“The desk parts and instructions will be at my
place at eight. If you need your beauty sleep, noon is fine with me.”

“Seven-fifty a.m. is good. I'll bring bagels.”

“I thought food was my responsibility.”

“Your responsibility is to take deliveries—desks and pizzas only. I'll be there in time to back you up. You can't trust guys named Ernie.” That said, he turned on his heel and exited through the lobby doors that automatically whispered open.

“But,” she said to herself, “can you trust guys named Joe?”

J
oe closed Liz's front door behind the delivery man and went back to the kitchen where she was making coffee. He needed it this morning and hoped it was ready now. He'd had a problem with insomnia all his life. But since meeting Liz, it seemed to have intensified. Now when he could finally fall asleep, dreams of her disturbed him.

Getting to her place early enough for the desk arrival hadn't been a problem. He'd been awake since around 4:00 a.m. He held back a yawn as he leaned against the center island work area and watched her gather mugs, milk and sugar.

“Late night?” she asked.

“Early morning,” he said. He didn't want to share the fact that he'd been awake before God and thoughts of her kept him from going back to sleep.

“Would you like to tell me her name?” she asked, glancing at him over her shoulder. Then she turned back to pour two cups of coffee.

“There is no she,” he lied. Her name is Liz, he thought. “So that was Ernie,” he said, deflecting her. He took the cup she held out.

Joe hadn't liked watching her talk and joke with another guy. And it didn't make him dance for joy that she was wearing a buttercup yellow T-shirt tucked into khaki shorts that hugged her hips and revealed her shapely legs to that guy. Not to mention her bare feet. He couldn't say why, but her bare flesh, even in limited quantities, made everything seem so much more intimate. Subtly sexy. And it annoyed him that she wasn't even wearing slippers when the delivery man arrived with her desk.

“Do you need cream and sugar?” Liz asked. When he shook his head, she put artificial sweetener and a little milk in her cup. “In answer to your question, yes, that was Ernie.”

She'd seemed awfully friendly with him on the phone. Did she like the guy? Did she want to see him again, Joe wondered. And where had that thought come from? He shook his head. Since when had he developed a jealous streak? First his brothers and now this. It was stupid. Since when was he prone to jumping to conclusions? That was Liz's specialty.

Although since the party at his folks, he'd cured her of that particular ailment. But her question about the name of the woman who'd gotten him up early made him wonder. Was she even the slightest bit jealous? What would she say if he told her she was the one who had cost him sleep? And he'd been unable to control his strong reaction to seeing another man in her place.

“Okay then.” Feeling a little silly about his out-
of-proportion reaction, Joe decided to change the subject. “This is a nice place you've got here.”

The remark smacked of “nice weather we're having” or “how about those Lakers,” but it was the best he could do. Besides, it was the truth. She did have a nice place.

He'd been to her Encino home in the San Fernando Valley once before, when he'd picked her up for Stephanie's birthday party. But then she hadn't invited him in. She'd greeted him at the door with purse in hand and they'd left.

“I like it,” she said, looking around her kitchen. “It's only a year old, but I moved in when it was brand new.”

“Wasn't that a lot of work? Window coverings? Yards?”

“I learned to be handy. Blinds aren't that hard to install. And new is what I wanted. No bad history. A clean slate. Only good memories.”

Unlike the way she grew up. He wished he could erase all the bad stuff from her slate. All that baggage got pretty heavy to carry around. And he found he very much wanted to lighten her load. But he didn't think that was possible. At least he could show her she had nothing to fear from him. There wasn't anything he wanted from her. At least nothing more than friendship.

“Well, you've sure done a lot with the place in a year,” he said.

They were standing on a wood floor. Shiny cream-colored tiles covered the ample counter space. The walls were painted tan with white doors and moldings. White mini-blinds hid all the windows. At the far end of the family room, there was a used-brick
fireplace. In a semicircle before it sat a green-and-maroon plaid sofa, loveseat, and two wingback chairs in a coordinating shade. The room was well-decorated, but homey too. At least it felt that way to him.

After looking around, Joe met her gaze. “How big is the house?”

“About fifteen-hundred square feet. One bedroom and a den. Kitchen, family room combination and formal dining room. It's small, but my budget and I like that. It's perfect for me.”

Perfectly calculated to keep her personal space from admitting anyone else, he noted. But she was a lady who knew what she wanted and where she was going. He liked that. In fact he liked everything about her.

“Taking a wild guess, I bet that desk is going in the den.” He blew on his coffee, then took a sip.

Faking amazement, she shook her head. “You are just full of surprises, Joe. You're not just all brawn and no brains. There's some intelligence tucked away behind that pretty face.”

“Yeah, yeah. I'm a sure thing, lady. You don't have to use flattery to get the job done.”

“And speaking of the job, those boxes are waiting in the den.”

“Plural? As in more than one?” he said skeptically. “It really is a big desk.”

She led the way down the short hall to the room across from her bedroom. “Don't say I didn't warn you.”

He watched the seductive sway of her hips and ruefully acknowledged that he needed a warning. But not about the ups and downs of desk assembly. She
had a trim back and narrow waist. Her graceful, sexy movements were guaranteed to make a man sit up and take notice. She hadn't warned him about that. Not to mention the lush curves of her thighs that tapered to shapely calves and ankles. She was
so
not his type. His taste ran to tall, statuesque redheads. Liz was compact, curvy and cute. But man, oh, man. She packed a powerful punch in that petite body. Her rounded derriere was just the right shape and looked soft—the kind of soft that invited a man's touch.

Whoa, Joe. Suddenly he was glad that Liz kept her distance, because thoughts like that could take him to a place he didn't want to go—no way, no how. If he went there, it was a surefire way to send her running for cover. He found he wanted very much to have her around. The best way to do that was hands at his sides, nose to the grindstone.

But he couldn't help peeking into her bedroom. The quick look gave him an impression of utter femininity—queen-sized four-poster bed, floral spread, lots of pillows in shades of green, maroon and pink. And lace. That den of delicacy begged for a man's presence, if nothing else to help Liz tangle the sheets beneath that tempting coverlet. He pushed that thought away, wondering if it was a mistake for him to have volunteered to help her with anything. Sharing her space gave him all kinds of ideas.

She walked into the den and surveyed the two long, flat, rectangular cardboard boxes. “Here it is. Hard to believe the large, three-dimensional piece of furniture I fell in love with fits in those tiny boxes,” she said ruefully.

“Never fear,” he said. “Marchetti is here.”

“I'd feel better about that statement if you were a
construction worker instead of a people person.” She rested her hands on the hips he'd so recently admired. “I don't suppose the Human Resources Director has much experience in the field of building furniture.”

“Resources is the key word,” he said. “I'm a resourceful guy. No job too big, too small, too challenging.”

“I'll go get my tool box.”

He lifted one eyebrow. “Liz Anderson, tool chick?”

She grinned. “Joe Marchetti, carpenter dude?”

He grinned back. “Touché.”

 

Liz slid her chair away from her kitchen table, stood up, then picked up Joe's empty dinner plate as well as her own. A very late dinner, she thought. But well worth it since her desk was assembled and organized. Joe had done a wonderful job, especially since the directions were about as long as
War and Peace
and as complicated as the Russian translation. She had ordered pizza for lunch, but as the hours of frustrating work added up, she knew a meal cooked with her very own hands was definitely what the tool-man deserved.

“Let me help you with the dishes,” he said standing, too.

“Are you kidding?” she protested. “You've done more today than one simple home-cooked meal can repay. No way do you have to help with cleanup.”

“That chicken was great,” he said.

“I wasn't fishing for compliments.”

“And I wasn't saying it just to flatter you. I sincerely enjoyed your cooking. Just be gracious and say thank you.”

“Thank you. I choose to believe you. And from a restaurant-type person like yourself, that was high praise.”

“I still want to help you clean up.” He put his hands on lean, jean-clad hips as he stared down at her.

She hadn't been prepared for her powerful physical response to his presence. Her breath caught at that ultra-masculine pose, not to mention the snug T-shirt that teased her imagination about what was underneath. Her imagination was just getting warmed up she realized, as her gaze wandered over his worn jeans covering muscular thighs.

All her gazing added up to torment for her nerves. As grateful as she was to have her desk, she was wondering if it had been a mistake to accept his offer of help. She'd meant what she'd told him about her house having no memories. Well, today she'd made a whole pile of them, and every last one starred Joe Marchetti.

“Okay, you can help with the dishes,” she said, her voice a husky version of her norm.

He nodded, then took two long strides to the sink where he turned on the water. He lifted a plate and started to rinse, wincing when water splashed on a nasty cut he'd acquired in the line of carpenter duty.

Liz's bedside manner kicked into high gear. “Okay, hero, it's time to dress that battle wound.” She reached over to shut off the faucet.

He glanced at his thumb, the slash where his screwdriver had slipped and gouged a long crevice. “It's just a flesh wound. No big deal.”

“This is me you're talking to. Never fear, Nancy Nurse is here. No laceration too big, too small or too
challenging. Just wait here while I go get a needle and thread from my sewing kit.”

A skeptical look crossed his face just before he ever so casually stuck his hand in his pocket. “No offense, Nancy, but I'd like a little novocaine with my sutures.”

“You? Just-a-flesh-wound Marchetti?” She grinned. “Don't be a wimp. I've got a turkey baster you can bite down on.” She turned away and started down the hall.

“Liz,” he called. “You really don't have to do this.”

“You don't want to have a big, ugly, scar marring that perfect body, do you?” Take it lightly, she thought, as she rummaged through her medicine cabinet. She carried her supplies back into the kitchen.

Joe inspected the disinfectant, ointment, and bandages she plopped down on the table. A wry expression turned up the corners of his attractive mouth. “You were pulling my leg,” he accused.

“Would I do that?”

“Yes. And take great satisfaction in making me squirm,” he added.

“I'm not kidding now, Joe, this really does need to be cleaned up. Infection can be nasty and painful. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.” She took his big hand into her smaller one.

The difference in their hands made her feel delicate and feminine to his bigger, tougher masculinity. That thought started her insides buzzing like a beehive at peak pollinating time. He had nice hands—long, strong fingers. She put the brakes on that train of thought before it could go any farther, like how those hands would feel holding her, touching her. Grabbing
the brown plastic bottle of peroxide, she pulled him over to the sink.

“This won't hurt a bit,” she said, unable to keep the twinkle from her eyes.

“You told me you're lying when you say that,” he protested.

“Don't be a baby. How bad can it hurt? This little scratch hardly slowed you down today.”

As she held his hand over the sink, their forearms brushed and bumped. Her breast scraped his arm and she thought he sucked in a quick gulp of air. Although she was disinfecting his wound at the same time so she couldn't be sure stinging pain wasn't what had caused his reaction.

“We need to let that bubble for a bit,” she said. She liked holding his hand. She liked being close to him, and enjoyed the scent of his aftershave as it burrowed inside her and started the buzzing all over again. How long could she keep him in this position without him getting suspicious, she wondered.

She reveled in his strength. His company wasn't bad either. He was charming and certainly not hard on the eyes.

“After we clean up the kitchen, want to watch a video?” The words were out of her mouth before she had a chance to think about them. Part of her wanted to call them back. Part of her was afraid he would turn down her offer.

“Sure,” he said.

“I just picked up a previously-viewed action thriller at the video store.”

He held up his wounded hand. “You haven't seen enough blood today?”

“Or I have an old musical guaranteed to clear the room of testosterone in five seconds flat.”

“Let's go with video number one. I'd hate to deprive you of your plasma quotient. Besides, if it's new, you should check it out and make sure there's nothing wrong with it.”

“Right,” she said, pretending to go along with his thought process. She poured a little more peroxide on his thumb. Couldn't be too careful.

“I have something I'd like to ask you,” he said.

Her body tensed. Habit sent her to the place where she believed badly of what he was about to say. She shook off the feeling. Anger bubbled up inside her as strongly as the peroxide on Joe's thumb. Her father and his chronic unfaithfulness had made her distrustful. She hated that he'd robbed her of the ability to meet a man without automatically assuming he was a deceptive jerk who would make a fool out of her.