Everywhere and Every Way(15)

Not that he was interested in seducing her, of course.

He shoved the thought aside and concentrated on the road. "Trust me, it won't be a problem."

"Good."

He drove and studied her from the corner of his eye. He wondered how  many outfits she owned that were white. This was more a buttercream, but  close enough. Tailored slacks that looked silky soft. Sandals with  three-inch kitten heels. A sleeveless knit sweater molded to her high,  full breasts, and the tiny V dip giving a tempting glimpse of smooth,  pale skin. A delicate pearl pendant hung in the hollow of her neck. The  truck smelled of lemons and wildflowers. Way too girly for him. But  nice. Really nice.

"Is there a reason why you don't get along with your brothers?"

Oh, yeah. Bucketloads. But he wasn't gonna tell her. "Yeah."

"What?"

"We got issues."

She shook her head, but her lips curved in a half smile. "I bet you do. Get in line."

He let out a bark of laughter. "At least we're both mysterious. Always hated an open book."

"You? Funny, I figured open books would be the only ones you wanted to read."

"Ah, you got the wood references, huh? Now we're using books for  Freudian purposes? Cool. Let's just say easy reads are good for quick  entertainment and temporary satisfaction. Nothing wrong with it. Our  culture thrives on such books."

She straightened up in her seat as if getting ready to rise to his  challenge. "Actually, I agree. I just think we enjoy those types of  books while we search for a more complex, deeper read. Think Tolstoy."

He gave a fake shudder. "I'd rather bring James Patterson to bed than old Leo. More fun."

"Overdose on Patterson, and suddenly you can't recognize the quality and  classic taste of other . . . books. Then you can be ruined for life."

He gave her a heavy-lidded sidelong glance. "Speak for yourself. Maybe  I'm looking for a balance. A little of this, a little of that. A book  that's interesting, but not soul sucking."         

     



 

She crinkled her nose. "Like Shakespeare?"

He almost swerved off the road. "I'd rather get a root canal with no Novocain."

She gave a delicate snort. "Dramatic, much? Guess you're not a romantic."

"Sorry, princess, but Shakespeare was a pansy and prolific at bullshit. I like a writer who's more direct."

"Got it. You're looking for Stephen King."

Her words were filled with pure satisfaction, like she'd figured out all  his secrets. He opened his mouth to contradict her, then closed it with  a snap. Holy. Shit. She'd nailed it. He hated admitting it, but even  Cal knew a fair win needed to be acknowledged.

"How the hell did you know that?"

Morgan crossed her arms in front of her chest, her face smug. The motion  pulled her jacket tight across her chest, outlining those full, plump  breasts that had been on his mind way too much lately. He'd woken up  last night wondering what color her nipples were. Dark peach? Pale pink?  Or ruby red like a ripe strawberry? After that thought, it took him a  long time to get back to sleep, and only after he'd taken care of  business.

With her name on his lips as he came.

As if she sensed the subtle change in his thoughts, the sexual tension  in the car suddenly crackled like a bowl of Rice Krispies. He heard a  tiny pull of her breath, and just like that, he craved to pull the car  over and slam his mouth over hers to swallow the sound whole.

Instead, he gripped the wheel tighter and focused his attention on the road.

Finally she answered. "King offers the perfect combination. He's direct,  incorporates real-life situations tangled with enough interesting  fiction to keep the reader arrested. He delves into the human soul and  isn't afraid to go deep. He's entertaining and avoids being called a  literary writer or a hack. He's everything you want in a . . . book."

King was his favorite writer. And he'd never really thought about women  relating to books, but suddenly all the pieces came together. Yeah, she  was right. If he found a woman as good as a book from King, it would be  all over for him. But of course, Morgan Raines didn't read King and . . .  wait. How would she know all that if she never read him?

"You read King?"

She rolled her eyes. "Everyone does."

"But you're not looking for King in your own book, right? You're more of a Jane Austen babe."

"Of course."

He relaxed. Yeah, he was right about her. She might show breaks in her  facade, but he still bet late at night, with her proper heels and white  suit on, her pleasure reads contained stuffy, old-fashioned, and very  proper characters who'd put him to sleep if he ever deigned to pick them  up. "Just as I thought. So your perfect book would contain structural  rules regarding relationships, neatness, and as few twists and turns as  possible. Right?"

"Correct."

Now he was the one who felt smug. He knew her just as well. "What book are you reading at the moment?"

She jumped a bit and averted her gaze. Pulled at the hem of her white  skirt. "It's a series of books called the Inn BoonsBoro. They focus on  certain stories linked to a historic inn located in Boonsboro, Maryland.  Quite interesting."

"Sounds it." Not. Sounded more like B for boring, but at least he had  his hormones under control again. Nonfiction books other than those  about construction were the worst. Dry, dry, dry. At least they  confirmed what books they were both looking for. Of course, they were  polar opposites. "We're here."

He pulled the truck off the road and down the isolated winding path up  the hill that led to the prime piece of real estate overlooking the  harbor. He cut the engine and stared at the sprawling acres in front of  him.

The Rosenthals had picked well. Both solitary like a king overlooking  from his throne and close enough to the bustle of the marina, where  expensive, artsy shops, seafood restaurants, and cafés tempted  pedestrians to lose their money and their time. Surrounded by rolling  hills and sparkling water, and nestled snug in the center of town, where  retired Wall Street bankers, celebrities, and old money mingled.  Harrington was pure aristocrat, as sought-after as upcoming Chelsea in  Manhattan, as pricey as Westchester County in New York, and as beautiful  as the Hudson Valley.

But even more exclusive, if possible.

The land was shrinking, and opportunities were scarce. Having a zip code  in Harrington meant something, and Caleb knew that was another reason  for this pick. A part of him withered at throwing his blood, sweat, and  tears into a property that wouldn't be loved on a permanent basis. But  as his father used to say over and over, business was business and green  was green. Money ruled, not emotions. In work, play, love, and family.         

     



 

His mother had thought differently and fought to raise them with other  values. She lost when she left. His father's victory was a total  eradication of anything they'd had with their mother.

Pushing the thought aside, he concentrated on the job at hand. He  grabbed the paint spray can, the initial plans, and a pen. "Let's go."

Initial markers had already been set, but Caleb wanted to inspect every  inch before his team came in and broke ground. His brothers excelled at  renovation, customization, and property. But he loved the process of  building, one beam at a time, watching something beautiful come from  nothing. It soothed his soul and quieted his mind. The smell of sawdust,  the bang of a hammer, the whine of saw against wood. It was worth  everything. Another reason he went from project to project without rest,  without relaxing vacations or torrid love affairs that eventually broke  into pieces. This, out of everything in the world, was solid.

This lasted forever. Or as long as forever could get.

"They chose well," he murmured, his gaze sweeping the horizon. Birds  screeched overhead, and the wind blew hot and heavy against his face.  The spread of vivid green seemed to stretch endlessly, burning his eyes.

"I picked it out," she said quietly. "They wanted to be in the center of  town next to the water, but I finally convinced them to build here."

He raised a brow. Yes, the town center had the highest, most exclusive  properties, but Caleb agreed with Morgan. This had more potential and a  quieter dignity you couldn't get from bordering the water. She had  vision, too.

Caleb got down to business. They went over the markings, confirming  where the deck and hot tub would be placed to guarantee both privacy and  stellar views. Walking around the sketch lines, they talked porches and  garage and isolated the garden areas where his landscapers would sweep  in and make everything look like Martha Stewart lived here.

He caught the soft smile curving her lips and the dreamy look in her  eyes as she gazed at the empty land, seeing something no one else could.  "How'd you get into this business?" he asked abruptly. "It's kind of an  odd job to get interested in."