Barbara Delinsky - The Carpenters Lady

THE CARPENTER'S LADY

From the waist down, he was promising. His jeans fit him like the hide of a lion, gliding over hard muscle as he twisted on the dolly beneath the truck in search of an elusive valve. Weathered from wear, the denim traversed a rangy path from the worn leather

of his belt to that of his work boots. When he bent one knee up in an attempt to lever himself properly, the muscle of his other thigh tensed, drawing the faded material taut.

Feeling like the voyeur she'd never been, Debra Barry cleared her throat. "Excuse me? Graham Reid?" When the topless body made no move to respond, she stepped

closer and bent from the waist to assure her self

that there was indeed a man above the

lean hips beneath the truck in the service station bay. "Hello?"

His wrench hit the cement with a soft

clang as he muttered an oath.

Straightening

his torso, he used his flexed leg to guide the dolly forward. With the emerging of a chest, shoulders and head, Debra found herself face-to-face with the man she'd been sent to see. He was dirty, with streaks of grime on his face and hands and on his forearms where the sleeves of his heavy wool shirt had been rolled back. That, too, had seen cleaner days, as had his hair, a shaggy thatch that cleared his forehead only by virtue of his still-prone position. But his eyes were clear, clear and amber, staring at her as though she'd personally sabotaged his truck.

"Yes?" came his voice, deep and remarkably impassive.

"I'm looking for Graham Reid," she returned

in relief. At least he hadn't lashed out at her as those eyes had hinted he might have done. But then, this was New Hampshire, not New York. This was a rural man,

not a city man. His temperament would be that much more even. She'd have to remember that.

"Yes."

She raised a brow in anticipation. "You're Graham Reid?"

"Yes." This time his voice was firmer and bore a note of impatience. With his hands grasping the footboard of the truck above his head, he continued to stare at her. Debra took a deep breath. "I need a carpenter.

You've been recommended. I wonder

if we might talk."

When the man simply continued to stare, she wondered if she'd somehow offended him. Had it not been for his eyes, she might have suspected that he hadn't understood her request. But those eyes were sharp, looking at nothing but her face, yet seeming to see everything at once. Suddenly, she grew self-conscious.

"You are a carpenter, aren't you?" she queried in frustration. "Or is it your father... or some other Graham Reid whose work

I've seen?"

The man on the ground blinked as though brought back from a daydream, then gave a shove with his hands, rolled free of the truck and stood in one fluid move. Debra half wished he'd remained on the ground. If she'd thought that his eyes were intimidat ing,

she hadn't counted on his superior

height or the commanding breadth of his chest and shoulders.

"You've seen my work?" he demanded in that same level voice.

"Yes. I made stops at both the Hardys" and the Lavelles' before I came looking for you. There seemed little point in taking your time or mine to talk," she reasoned, "if I didn't like your work to begin with." A flash of something akin to respect passed through his gaze, though it was gone so quickly she half-suspected she'd imagined it.

Graham Reid rubbed his hands on the

back of his pants, extended his right in belated introduction, but turned it up just before hers met it and studied the grease, then shrugged and let it fall to his side. His gaze took in her own immaculate appearance, skimming the soft blouse and fitted jeans beneath her open hip-length parka and resting momentarily on the toes of her fine

leather boots before returning to her face.

"Sorry about that. Wouldn't want to get you dirty."

"No problem," she countered quickly, anx ious

to get down to business. "That was your work I saw this morning, wasn't it?"

"It was." He cocked his hands on his hips.

"It's impressive," she ventured. But when he held her gaze unwaveringly, without any sign of appreciation, she forced herself on.

"I've bought a house just outside of town and want some work done on it. It's a large job, but you'd be well compensated." At his look of mild disinterest, she added cautiously,

"You are available, aren't you?"

"No."

Taken aback by his abruptness, she

frowned. "No? That's strange. I was told that

you were just finishing a job. In fact, Mr. O'Hara went out of his way to tell me that he was sure you'd be able to help me." The amber eyes narrowed. "O'Hara, was it?" He grimaced and looked away, focusing on a distant mountaintop. "O'Hara's a crafty

one," he murmured more softly, then returned his full attention to Debra. "But I'm afraid I can't help you." Turning, he bent to

retrieve the wrench he'd dropped beneath the truck, leaving Debra nothing but the broad expanse of his back to study. She wasn't about to be satisfied with that alone.

"Then... you have another job lined up?"

"Nope." Wrench in hand, he straightened and crossed the garage to replace the tool on its hook. Debra followed.

"I don't understand. If you're finishing one job and don't have another in the offing, why won't you consider mine?"

Digging into the pocket of his shirt, he withdrew the broken stub of a pencil, looked at it in disgust before tossing it aside, then began to search the open shelves for one that was in better condition. Debra's question hung in the air while the shuffle of nails and screws went on until he found what he wanted. Tearing a sheet of paper from a grimy pad, he covered it with a broad scrawl.

"Here are a couple of names. Either of these men should be able to help. And they need the work far more than I do."

"But it's your work I want," she protested, finding the sheet thrust in her hand nonetheless as Graham stalked off toward a soft

drink machine, fished in his pocket for change and came up empty-handed. Within seconds, she produced the coins he needed and threaded them into the slot. "What'll it be?"

J

He hesitated for just a moment. "Mountain Dew. I'll owe you."

"Forget it. Call it a consultation fee." Determined,

she pulled hard on the knob,

waited for the can to drop, then boldly handed it to the man beside her.

He held it briefly, wavering, thirstily anticipating

the cool contents of the can. Yet one

part of him didn't want anything from a woman wearing designer jeans and imported boots, particularly as strong-minded

a woman as this one appeared to be.

Unfortunately, though, while strong

minded meant trouble, it also intrigued him. When his finger found the ring at the top of the can and drew it back, letting loose a gentle hiss, he couldn't help but feel it was Pandora's box he'd knowingly opened.

"Can we talk?" she asked again, glancing around for a suitable spot, looking back in time to see the carpenter take a deep swig of the drink. His throat was strong, its muscles channeling both the liquid and her gaze lower, down a path of hair-roughened skin past one empty buttonhole to one not so, where she was forced to let the fluid continue alone. Stunned by her fascination with the raw strength he exuded, she quickly

averted her eyes to study the quiet cluster of buildings just beyond, on the town's main street. "Is there a restaurant nearby?" she asked softly. "It's been a while since breakfast."

Graham's lips twitched at one corner.

"I'm

not exactly dressed for dining," he noted with wry exaggeration of the words.

Debra was undaunted by his mockery. "I wasn't thinking of the Ritz," she quipped.

"Surely there's a sandwich shop that wouldn't be offended by the sight of grease."