Kiss the Bride (20 page)

“I’m not quitting.” She hardened her jaw.

“Fine by me.”

“I’ve got work to do.” Drawing herself up to her full height, she went over to the corner, picked up a putty knife, and started tackling the aged linoleum.

Nick came up behind her. “Why did you offer to wait to get paid until after the house sells? That doesn’t sound like good business to me.”

She didn’t answer him for the longest moment. She was trying to decide if he even deserved an answer. “Because I needed this job as much as your grandmother needed it done.”

“You?” He made a dismissive noise. “You’re an oil heiress. You’re engaged to a prominent doctor. You’re stunningly beautiful. Why would you need a job?”

“It’s complicated.” Her face was burning red again as she felt the telltale flush creep up her neck. No matter how hard she tried to suppress it, he seemed to have a magical ability to make her blush.

“I’ve got two good ears.”

She ignored him. She’d already talked too much, gave him too much ammunition to use against her. Darn her need to be liked. She wished she didn’t care what he thought about her, but she did. Disgruntled with herself, she grabbed a chunk of linoleum and yanked it up from the subflooring.

“You blush every time I give you a compliment. Why is
that?” He came over to lean one shoulder against the wall in front of her.

“You’re in my way.”

“I know that.”

She raised her head and glared at him point-blank. “I realize you’re a cop and interrogating people just comes naturally to you, but I’d appreciate it if you dropped this whole line of questioning and helped me get this old flooring up.”

He grabbed a piece of linoleum from the opposite end of the kitchen and pulled up a long hunk of it. He opened the back door, chucked the brittle strip out onto the back lawn, and then started again. In half an hour, they met in the middle of the room, the floor sticky and raw from the glue of the old linoleum.

They looked at each other, but neither of them spoke. Two people standing in the middle of a vacant room, uncertain what to make of each other.

“I was unattractive as a child,” she said, not knowing why she was telling him this. “The proverbial ugly duckling.”

Nick tilted his head and studied her. “Well, I’d say you’ve blossomed into a hellaciously beautiful swan.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“You want me to haul you over in front of a mirror and prove to you otherwise?”

“What you’re seeing isn’t real, Nick. It’s all packaging.”

“What are you talking about? Don’t you notice the heads swiveling and the tongues drooling when you walk down the street?”

“Nose job.” She touched her nose with her fingertips. “Until I was fourteen I resembled the Wicked Witch from
The Wizard of Oz.
”

“No way.”

She put a hand to her waist. “Or you could say I looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy’s blind date. And then there were the teeth.” She raised her upper lip, revealing her teeth that she knew were perfectly straight and dazzlingly white. Five grand worth of veneers could do that for you. “I could have given Bugs Bunny a run for his money, except I stuttered like Porky Pig. Oh”—she snapped her fingers—“I almost forgot the Coke-bottle glasses.”

“I’m sure you’re exaggerating. Women have a tendency to denigrate their looks.”

“It’s true. Just ask my mother. She’ll be the first to tell you I was a total train wreck.” Under her breath she mumbled, “Lord knows she’s told me often enough.”

“I think I get it,” he said.

“Get what?”

“Why you lowballed your bid on my grandmother’s house.”

“Really?”

“Lack of self-confidence,” he said.

“Partially,” Delaney conceded.

“And you lack self-confidence because your mother never believed in you until you had your nose done, lost weight, underwent LASIK surgery, got braces, and stopped stuttering.”

Her eyes widened. “How did you know?”

“Why else would you be so hard on yourself?” His voice was kind, his eyes kinder still. “Come on, Delaney, it’s way past time to stop beating yourself up for your sister’s death. You didn’t kill her. You weren’t responsible. Let go of the blame.”

Dammit, just when he was making it easy for her to resist him, he turned sweet. She couldn’t bear the
understanding expression on his face. It was too much. She could handle feelings of lust for him. Lust was just lust, but this feeling—this was dangerous stuff.

“I’ve just remembered something,” she said, feeling bad about lying but knowing she had to get out of here before something really dangerous happened.

“Yeah?”

“I’ve got an appointment to give a bid on a house in west Houston at ten. With the traffic, I’ll be lucky to make it. Sorry to bail on you like this, but we made a good start.”

“You’ve been here less than an hour,” he said.

“I know, I’m sorry.” The way he was looking at her was making things worse. “I gotta go.”

“See you tomorrow?”

“Uh-huh.” She forced a smile, grabbed her purse, and ran from the house while she still had the strength of will to tear herself away.

O
kay, phase one of Operation: House Stage Ouster had been a rousing success. Nick had gotten Delaney to reveal her doubts and fears and insecurities. He knew where her vulnerabilities lay, knew just how to wound her. Problem was, he didn’t want to wound her. In fact, he felt an overwhelming urge to protect her. From her mother, from her fiancé, from the entire world.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Tender feelings were not part of the plan.

Last night, unable to sleep, he’d tiled the entire kitchen by himself in spite of the pain in his knee. This morning, he was tired and achy and ready to abandon his plans to chase her off. Face facts, he wanted her around. And that thought was scary as hell.

“Come on,” he muttered. “You can’t let your feelings for her derail your own needs. She’s marrying someone else. It’s not like you have a chance with her. Hell, you don’t want a chance with her. You’re through with all that romantic mumbo jumbo.”

Oh, yeah?

“Yeah.”

Then prove it, Vinetti. Tactic #2—Undermine Your Enemy. Start it today.

Right. He could do this.

To rev himself up, he thought of his toughest undercover assignments. If he could maneuver criminals and thugs and the underworld, he could certainly handle one high-bred young house stager.

What to do? How best to undermine her without really hurting her feelings?

He plotted. He schemed. He connived and came up with a kind yet devious plan. He would goad her into causing her own demise.

Nick took a trip to the souvenir shops on Seawall Boulevard and after striking out in several stores, finally found what he was looking for. Satisfied with his purchase, he had it gift wrapped. Then he hurried back to Nana’s and found Delaney standing on the back porch, looking sumptuous in a red tank top and a blue-jean skirt, and all the underhanded subterfuge just flew right out of his head.

Delaney had given herself a good talking to after what had happened the previous day, and convinced herself she could indeed work around Nick Vinetti without succumbing to this charms. Donning her mental armor, she arrived at Lucia’s house with a professional smile plastered on her face.

She was pleasantly surprised to find that Nick had tiled the kitchen and done a superb job at it too. The man was skilled with his hands, she’d give him that. She bragged on him, but not too enthusiastically. She didn’t want to give him any ideas. Didn’t want any repeat of yesterday’s familiarity. Happy to have another thing ticked off her to-do list and encouraged by the progress they were
making, Delaney decided to accelerate her plans. Painting was next on the agenda, and she ambitiously aimed to get two bedrooms done that day.

An hour and a half later, they were deeply into painting the bedroom Lucia had used as a library. They’d already completed the first coat on three walls and were working on the final one.

She and Nick stood next to each other, not speaking, just painting. Surprisingly, in their work, the silence felt uncomplicated and easy.

Then Delaney went and spoiled the peace by noticing they were painting in tandem—starting high and then pulling downward in slow, easy strokes. Her stomach dipped at the realization they were operating in total sync.

The rhythm was hypnotic. Sexual. Almost like foreplay.

Dip, brush, sweep, dip, brush, sweep.

Disconcerted, Delaney broke the pattern. She stopped painting and lifted the tip of her brush from the wall. She waited—for what she could not say—hand hovering, paint dripping. Splat. Splat. Splat. Onto the plastic drop cloth.

Nick stopped painting too and looked over at her, his bold stare caressing her intimately.

The sharp crackling of erotic current running between them raised the hairs on Delaney’s arms. She shifted her gaze to the wall, pretending to assess the paint job.

“It looks good,” he murmured, but he was not studying the wall. She could feel the heat of his gaze on her face. He was looking at her. “Real good.”

His words echoed in the empty room.

Real good.

Closing her eyes, she willed herself not to shiver, then quickly opened them again. “Uh-huh.”

He reached out and took the paintbrush from her, his
fingertips barely grazing her skin, and then balanced her brush, along with his, over the top of the paint can.

“You thirsty?” he asked.

She nodded and noticed perspiration had plastered his cotton muscle shirt against his toned chest. She was sweating too, but it wasn’t from the summer heat. She could smell the salt air blowing in on the cool breeze. Hear the sounds of seagulls in the distance, calling to one another above the neighborhood noises. A car chugging up the street, children playing tag in the alley, a dog barking in the yard next door.

He disappeared for a minute and then came back with two ice-cold beers. He twisted off the tops, tossed them onto the drop cloth, and walked back across the room. His limp was barely noticeable. He handed her one of the longneck bottles.

It was cold and damp in her hand, and Delaney realized she’d never drunk beer directly from the bottle, only in an iced mug, and even then, only twice. Beer, Honey was fond of saying, was a middle-class beverage and best left for the middle class.

Without ever taking his eyes off her, Nick tilted his head and took a long swallow from his bottle.

Her gaze tracked from his lips to his throat. She watched his Adam’s apple work and this time she did shiver.

Anxiously, she shifted her attention away from him, looking for something else to focus on. She surveyed the paint job.

It looked fresh and white and…

Bland.

All the personality of Lucia’s house was being whitewashed.

“What’s the matter?” Nick asked, coming up behind her. He was standing so close she could feel his body heat.

“You were right.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

“In what way?”

“The room looks so generic. Like it could be in any house in America.”

“I thought that was the point. It’s what you said would help the house sell better.”

“It is.”

“But you want more.”

“I want the house to sell for Lucia.”

“Is that the real reason?” he asked. “Or are you just more comfortable playing it safe?”

She looked at him. There was challenge in his eyes.

“We could take the paint back,” he continued. “Get another color. You could give your creativity full rein and not worry about what some upscale yuppie buyer wants in a vacation home. You could really do this house justice if you just allowed yourself to shake things up.”

He was tempting her, egging her on, but the truth was she wanted to do it. Wanted to use Lucia’s house as a canvas to create a bit of magic.

“We could do a Tuscan theme,” Nick suggested. “Reflect Nana’s heritage.”

“But the research I’ve done tells me…”

“Screw research.” He took her by the shoulders and turned her around to face him. He placed his hand over her heart. It thumped erratically. He was the devil, pure and simple.

“What does your heart tell you?” he whispered.

“I can’t be selfish about this.”

“The right person will find the house charming.”

“But your grandmother needs to sell the house as soon as possible.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if the house went to someone who could love it the way my grandparents did? Someone who could appreciate all the love that went into it?”

It sounded so good. She wanted to believe it was possible. She wanted to let go. To take a chance. But she was also afraid.

“Hang on,” he said. “I’ve got something I want to give you. I was going to give it to you later, after you finished the house, but I think it might be better for you to have it now.”