Linda Turner - Heaven Can't Wait

“The hell it is!”

“I’m sorry, Murdock, but it is. If you don’t believe me, go look for yourself.”

He was already on his feet, stepping around his desk. “All right, I will. Let’s go.”

Following her outside, his long legs quickly carried him to the east wing where the electricians had started roughing in the wiring the second the cement had been approved. Another shorter woman would have had a difficult time keeping up with him, but Pru’s legs were only a few inches shorter than his and she matched him stride for stride. So when he stepped inside the shell of a building and inspected the wiring that was already in place and soon to be concealed behind Sheetrock, she was right there with him.

“Son of a bitch!”

The softly snarled curse echoed like a scream in the empty building. Watching him closely, Pru slowly released the breath she had been unobtrusively holding, any doubts that Murdock might have known of the subterfuge vanishing when she saw the fury in his eyes.

“Have you checked the rest of this wing?”

She jumped when he turned on her suddenly, his blue eyes dark and piercing. She saw in an instant that he wasn’t mad at her, but at whoever did this. And she didn’t want to be in their shoes when he caught up with them. The fur was going to fly.

She nodded. “It’s all the same.”

He cursed again, a low, fluent damnation of the bonehead who didn’t know the difference between American and imported wiring. “What about the material that hasn’t been installed, yet?” he asked tersely. “Have you checked that?”

“No, of course not. I only inspect the work in progress and after it’s finished.”

“Then let’s go check it out.”

With her at his side, he hurried outside and crossed to the stockpile of supplies that were stacked high under sheets of protective plastic. Tossing the plastic out of the way, he found the wiring right where it was supposed to be. A single glance told him all he needed to know. It wasn’t made in the U.S.A.

Stunned, feeling like someone had sucker punched him in a kidney, Murdock never knew how long he stood there staring in disbelief at the useless wiring. His teeth locked on a string of unprintable curses, he didn’t make a sound, but the rage building in him must have been apparent because Pru suddenly reached over and touched the tensed muscles of his forearm.

“It could just be an innocent mix-up,” she said hopefully. “Someone else’s order probably got delivered here by mistake. It happens all the time. You can straighten it out with a few phone calls.”

The lines bracketing his mouth deepening, Murdock knew the mistake couldn’t be explained—or corrected—that simply. Sure, screwups happened. But this project had had more than its fair share and each one hit him right where it hurt the most—in the pocketbook. If it didn’t stop, and damn soon, he’d be lucky to walk away from the job with the shirt on his back.

“I’ll take care of it,” he told her grimly. “And don’t worry about the east wing. It’ll be rewired, of course.” Letting out a heavy sigh, his eyes met hers. “It looks like I owe you an apology. Oh, yes, I do,” he insisted when she started to shake her head. “I did everything but accuse you of lying.”

“You’ve been under a lot of stress,” she said quickly, disturbed at the thought of him apologizing to her for something that was perfectly understandable considering their adversarial working relationship. “With everything that’s been going on around here, who can blame you?”

His lips starting to twitch, Murdock gazed down at her. “Let me get this straight. You’re making excuses for me being a jackass?”

Put that way, Pru couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

Her sexy laughter rolling over him like a heat wave, Murdock knew it was a sound that would haunt his dreams if he didn’t put some distance between them, and damn soon. Before the thought had fully formed, he took a step away from her. “Well, you don’t have to, but I appreciate your understanding.” His voice too husky, he took another quick step. “I’ve got to find Roy and see how this happened without anyone noticing. Thanks for your help.”

Leaving her with her own reports to file, he went in search of Roy and found him deep in a conversation with one of the plumbing subcontractors. He’d been Murdock’s right-hand man for more than five years. In all that time he’d never missed a day of work. He’d also never screwed up on a supply order. Murdock couldn’t believe he had this time, either. He was too dependable, too good at what he did. So what the hell had happened?

He was still asking himself that same question a few minutes later when the plumber went back to work. Roy turned toward him, took one look at his stony expression, and groaned. “Don’t tell me. We flunked another inspection.”

Murdock nodded. “The wiring in the east wing. It’s not American-made.”

“What? You’ve got to be kidding! It has to be. I ordered it myself.”

His words rang true enough, but it wasn’t what he said that concerned Murdock. It was his eyes. In his years in the construction business, he’d met his share of crooks and swindlers, and he’d become pretty damn good at spotting a lie in a man’s eyes. If Roy’s confused puzzlement was an act, he was in the wrong business. With that kind of talent, he should have been in Hollywood.

Just that quickly, a suspicion he hadn’t allowed himself to acknowledge shriveled up and died, abruptly easing the tension that knotted the muscles at the back of his neck. Relieved, he expelled a short breath and asked, “What exactly did you order?”

“Just what you put in the specs.”

“That’s not what was delivered.”

“The hell it wasn’t! You know I always double-check the supplies when they come in, and everything checked out. I’ve got the receipts to prove it.”

“Then we’ve got a bigger problem than I thought,” he said grimly. Quickly and succinctly, he told him about what he and Pru had discovered when they’d inspected the cache of supplies. “If the correct supplies were delivered like you say, then that can only mean one thing. Someone stole the right wiring and replaced it with the imported so the theft wouldn’t be noticed. Someone who knew the foreign stuff would be worthless to us.”

Jerking off his hard hat to wipe his sweating brow, Roy shot him a hard look. “You think it’s one of the workers?”

“I don’t know.”

Glancing at the crew that worked around them, he didn’t want to think that someone on his payroll was responsible for the theft. He’d worked with most of the men on and off for years. He knew their families, had been to their homes, had even, on occasion, loaned a few of them money when they’d gotten themselves in a tight financial spot. He couldn’t believe any of them would steal from him, lie to him.

But a common thief wouldn’t know the difference between American- and foreign-made materials. And if he was a junkie looking for something to hock to get his next fix, he sure as hell wouldn’t go to the time and expense of replacing what he’d stolen. No, the problems he’d had from the first day ground had been broken couldn’t be blamed on a sticky-fingered stranger. Only someone who knew construction could cause this much trouble. And only someone who had it in for him would. Now all he had to figure out was which one of the dozens of the crewmen he considered friends was working against him. And why.

“At this point, we can’t rule out anyone,” he said tersely. “Whoever it is, they’d damn well better enjoy themselves while they can, because their days are numbered. I’ll nail them even if I have to go the expense of putting in surveillance cameras to do it.”