Nora Roberts - The Return Of Rafe MacKade - the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down

Regan kept her hands gripped tight in her lap. It was shocking how much she wanted to use them on him. To drag them through his hair, to test the muscles under that faded flannel shirt. But she didn’t. Her mind might have blurred for just an instant with astonished pleasure, even more astonishing greed, but she managed to hold on to her focus.

When he leaned back, she kept her hands where they were and gave herself time to level her voice. “We’re business associates, not playmates.”

“We have business,” he agreed.

“Would you have pulled that maneuver if I’d been a man?”

He stared at her. The chuckle started low, bloomed into a full laugh while she squirmed at the ridiculous way she’d phrased the question.

“I can give you a definite no on that one. I figure in that case you probably wouldn’t have kissed me back, either.”

“Look, let’s clear this up. I’ve heard all about the MacKade brothers and how they’re irresistible to women.”

“It’s been a curse all our lives.”

She would not smile—even if she had to clamp her teeth together. “The point is, I’m not interested in a quick roll, an affair, or a relationship—which should cover any and all possibilities.”

Damned if she wasn’t even more alluring when she went prim. “I’m going to enjoy changing your mind. Why don’t we start with the quick roll and work our way up from there?”

She rose sharply and pulled her coat on. “In your dreams.”

“You’re right about that. Why don’t I take you out to dinner?”

“Why don’t you take me back to my car?”

“All right.” Unoffended, he got up to pluck his coat from the peg. After he’d shrugged it on, he reached out and flipped her hair out from the collar of hers. “Nights are long and cold this time of year.”

“Get a book,” she suggested on her way down the hall. “Sit by the fire.”

“Is that what you do?” He shook his head. “I’m going to have to add a little excitement to your life.”

“I like my life just fine, thanks. Don’t pick me—” The order ended with an oath as he scooped her up. “MacKade,” she said with a sigh as he carried her to the Jeep, “I’m beginning to think you’re as bad as everyone says.”

“Count on it.”

It was a good sound. The thud of hammers, the buzz of saws, the whir of drills. Through it came the jingle of a radio set to country music, so that Wynonna wailed over the clomp of boots and male voices.

It was a noise, the music of labor, that Rafe had known all of his life. This was different from the clatter of the milking barn, the hum of a tractor in the field. He preferred it. He’d chosen it the day he left Antietam.

Construction work had probably saved him. He had no problem admitting he’d been looking to rumble when he roared out of Washington County a decade before on his secondhand Harley. But he’d needed to eat, so he’d needed to work.

He’d strapped on a tool belt and sweated out the worst of the frustration.

He still remembered when he’d stepped back and looked at the first house he’d had a part in building. It had come to him in a flash that he could make something that mattered. And that he could make something of himself.

So he’d saved, and he’d sweated, and he’d learned.

The first place he’d bought, in central Florida, was little more than a shack. He’d choked on drywall dust, hammered until his muscles wept with the strain. But he’d made a profit, and used that to buy again. To sell again.

In four years, the tiny shoestring company called MacKade had earned a reputation for reliable, quality work.

Still, he’d never stopped looking back. Now, standing in the parlor of the Barlow place, he understood he’d come full circle.

He was going to make something in the town he’d been so hell-bent to escape from. Whether he stayed or not after he was done was undecided. But he would, at least, have left his mark.

Hunkered down in front of the fireplace, Rafe studied the stone hearth. He’d already gone to work on the chimney, and was covered with soot and grime. She’d draw, he thought with satisfaction. The first thing he was going to do, when the new lining was installed to bring it up to code, was build a fire. He wanted to watch the flames and warm his hands on them.

He wanted just the right andirons, the right screen. He could depend on Regan for that.

With a little smile, he picked up his trowel to mix a bucket of mortar. He had a feeling Regan could be depended on for most anything.

With care, precision and enjoyment, he began to repoint the stone.

“I figured the boss would be sitting at a desk, running figures.”

Rafe glanced back and lifted a brow. Jared stood in the center of the room, his gleaming black shoes resting on a spattered drop cloth. For some reason, his black Wayfarer shades didn’t look out of place with his gray pin-striped three-piece suit.

“That stuff’s for lawyers and bookkeepers.”

Jared took off the sunglasses and tucked them into the pocket of his suit jacket. “And think what the world would be without them.”

“Simpler.” Rafe stuck his trowel in the mortar and gave his brother a once-over. “On your way to a funeral?”

“I had business in town, thought I’d drop by and see how things are going.” He glanced around the room, then back toward the hall when something crashed, someone cursed. “So, how’s it going?”

“Steady.” Rafe sighed when Jared took out a slim cigar. “Blow some of that over here, will you? I quit ten really long days ago.”

“Reforming yourself?” Obligingly, Jared walked over, crouched. He smoked lazily as he and Rafe frowned meaningfully at the stone. “Not too shabby.”

Rafe knocked a fist against the rose-grained marble. “An Adam, pal.”

Jared grunted, clamped the cigar between his teeth. “Need a hand around here?”

Blandly Rafe looked down. “You’re wearing your lawyer shoes.”

“I meant over the weekend.”

“I can always use another back.” Pleased with the offer, Rafe picked up the trowel again. “How’s yours?”

“As good as yours.”

“Still working out?” He gave Jared’s biceps a testing punch. “I still say gyms are for sissies.”

Jared blew out a stream of smoke. “Want to go a round, bro?”

“Sure, when you’re not dressed so pretty.” To torture himself, Rafe sucked in secondhand smoke. “I appreciate you handling the settlement on this place for me.”

“You haven’t got my bill, yet.” Grinning, Jared straightened. “I thought you were crazy when you called and told me to go after it. Then I did a walk-through.” He turned, still grinning. “And I knew you were crazy. You practically stole the place, but I figure it’s got to cost you two times the purchase price to make it livable.”

“Three times,” Rafe said mildly, “to make it the way I want it.”

“How do you want it?”

“The way it was.” Rafe scraped the edge of his trowel over stone, leveling his mortar.

“That’s always a tough one,” Jared murmured. “You don’t seem to be having a problem with labor. I wondered if you would, considering the place’s rep.”

“Money talks. Lost a plumber’s assistant this morning, though.” Wicked amusement sparkled in his eyes. “They were checking pipes in one of the second-floor johns. This guy claims someone clamped a hand on his shoulder. He was still running when he made it to the road. Don’t guess he’ll be back.”

“Any other problems?”

“Nothing I need a lawyer for. Did you hear the one about the lawyer and the rattlesnake?”

“I’ve heard them all,” Jared said dryly. “I keep a file.”