Kathy Altman - Staying at Joe's

Don’t look at his mouth, don’t look at his mouth, don’t look—

Her gaze lowered. His lips formed a smug curve, and for one desperate, self-hating moment she considered running. But she’d be running from the only solution to her problems.

“If I’m going to delay renovations for a month,” he said, “just to hold the hand of a man convinced there’s a market for PowerBars for pets, then I get two full weeks of labor from you. No complaints, no backtracking, no games. Agreed?”

She shrugged free of his touch. “It’s cleaning products that Mahoney’s into this time. And you and I both know it’s all one big game to you. Always has been. But don’t worry, I’ll do my part. Your part is to keep your hands to yourself.”

“You might change your mind about that. You might discover power tools turn you on.”

Oh, for God’s sake. “You start putting your hands where they don’t belong and I’ll start swinging my hammer. And my aim—” her gaze dropped suggestively “—might leave a lot to be desired.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your aim, slick. The problem has always been your choice of target.”

* * *

ALLISON ZIPPED UP the front of her “uniform” and let loose a laugh that came out sounding disturbingly frantic. What in God’s name had she gotten herself into? The only paint she’d ever applied had been to her fingernails. And any experience with hand tools had almost always ended in bloodshed and bandages.

She grimaced at her pale-faced image in the mirror and thought back to Joe’s earlier comment. By describing himself as a target he’d made it sound like she’d plotted against him a year ago. He didn’t understand she’d been trying to save the company’s reputation. And Joe’s along with it.

You always did put T&P first.

No. She’d done what she had to do. He didn’t remember it right. How could he, considering he’d been in a constant state of drunk at the time?

She bit her lip, turned her back on her reflection and regarded the piles of clothes on the bed. At least she’d found an honest-to-goodness mall, instead of having to do her shopping at a hardware store. When she’d arrived in Castle Creek the day before she’d planned on staying no more than an hour or two. Thank God for company credit cards.

Someone pounded on her door and she jumped.

“Move it, Kincaid. We have work to do.”

This could not be the same guy who’d cuddled a kitten two minutes after the thing had nearly made him break his neck. She’d picked up and already delivered his stupid PVC piping. What more could he want?

But of course, she knew. He wanted to teach her a lesson. She’d invaded his territory. Tried to make him feel guilty. The last place an ad-man wanted to be was on the receiving end of a sales pitch.

She closed her eyes and pulled in a slow breath. Pictured herself sitting behind that Account Executive nameplate, handing a bewildered and infuriated Sammy a stack of cash, wandering around an elegant apartment double the size of the place she lived in now.

Walking her mother into rehab. Again.

More pounding. She squeezed her eyes tighter and pictured a line of fire ants marching toward a trussed up Joe.

“Don’t make me come in there.”

She stalked to the door and yanked it open, bracing herself for a litany of smart-ass comments. Joe looked down at her clunky, sand-colored boots, and with the toe of his own boot nudged the nearest one.

“Show me.”

She hiked her pants leg and he nodded.

“This way.”

She followed him down the sidewalk, admiring the snug fit of his jeans despite herself. He stopped three doors down, in front of #5, and she raised her gaze just in time. Or maybe not, because he shot her an amused look as he searched his pockets for the keycard.

“How’s your room?” he asked idly.

“Fine.” Allison adjusted the clip in her hair and thought back to the soft lemon walls, the cozy tiled bathroom and the down comforter on the bed. She lowered her arms and sighed. “That’s not true, actually.”

She almost missed it—the subtle tightening of his fingers on the card.

“Problem?”

Huh. What she said mattered to him. Or rather, what she said about the motel mattered. Her chest cramped. He’d been a natural at advertising. Reveled in the challenge, expertly wooed his clients, basked in his many successes. But how much had he really cared? How much could he have cared, if he’d been able to walk away from it all?

Well, then. She’d have to make him care.

“Kincaid?” One eyebrow went up. “Problem with your room?”

“No. No problem. Just the opposite. The room is lovely.”

That one eyebrow remained suspended while wariness leaked in to replace the mockery. The fact that he didn’t believe her ticked her off, but she wasn’t going to beg the man to take a compliment. Besides. She’d cured herself of begging him a year ago.

He pushed open the door and stood back to let her in. She stopped on the threshold and stared.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

He’d traded an elegant capital-city condo with a killer location and a doorman for this? For God’s sake. One glimpse and she needed a drink.

The paneling on the walls bore so many scrapes and gashes, there wasn’t a lot of brown left to see. The ceiling sagged. The carpet was stained beyond color recognition—except for the duct tape holding it together. And even with the window wide open, the room smelled like well-used gym shoes.

She could only imagine the condition of the bathroom.

“You turned this—” she tipped her head in the direction of her own room “—into that?”

“First step is pulling up the carpet. I’ll let you handle that while I fix the sink next door. After that we’ll be yanking out paneling.”

“Wouldn’t it have been easier to burn the place down and start over?”

“Maybe in the beginning. Yell if you need anything.”

She backed out the doorway. “No way I’m working in there. Not without a tetanus shot and a hazmat suit.”

“What’s the matter? Afraid you’ll break a nail?”

Yes, as a matter of fact. “More like step on one.”

“That’s what boots are for.” He motioned at the room with his chin. “You don’t go in there, deal’s off.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah. I would.”

Tackett wouldn’t, though. The unspoken words danced like dust motes in the air between them.

“Fine,” she grumbled at last, rolling her eyes and drawing out the word so it came out fiiii-nuh.

With the faintest trace of a smirk, Joe pointed to a five-gallon bucket just inside the door. A mask and a pair of leather gloves lay on the carpet beside it, and from the bucket’s rim hung a well-used hammer.

“Use the claw side to pry the carpeting free of the tack strips along the walls. Then start rolling.”

He made it sound so easy. But she’d almost rather accept Sammy’s sickening proposition than crawl around in the filth at her feet. She shuddered. She’d have to go out and buy herself a loofah. Or twenty.

Joe swept out an arm, as if offering paradise. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Thank you so much.” Her hands tangled as she stared at the ruined carpet. “What if there’s something under there?”

“There is. It’s called a floor.”

An hour later, Allison had called Joe Gallahan every dirty name she could think of. She’d hoped to have the entire carpet up before he came back, just to show she could, but pulling the thing up had proved to be a lot harder than she’d imagined. It was heavy and thick with dirt, and kept sticking to the floor. Finally she’d resolved herself to cutting it free, inch by disgusting inch.