"Who are they?" she asked in dismay.
"Your construction crew."
She met Marc's gaze and must have looked as confused as she felt because he quickly elaborated.
"They're here to clean the place up and start putting in your shelving and countertops."
"What? Why?"
Her ex-husband's expression went from being amused at her utter shock to exasperated at her apparent denseness. "It's all part of the expansion plan, remember? We've got to get this section of the building renovated for The Sugar Shack's mail-order distribution and that Cookie of the Month thing you have in mind."
Her gaze swung from Marc to the workers outside, to Marc, to the workers … She now knew exactly how wild animals felt when caught in the middle of the highway by bright, oncoming headlights.
"I don't understand," she said with a slow shake of her head. "I didn't hire them. They can't start working here because I haven't rented the space yet. I don't have the money."
Marc gave a perturbed sigh. "Why do you think I'm here, Vanessa? Aside from wanting to spend time with Danny. Don't you remember what we discussed last night?"
She remembered last night. Vividly. And she remembered his parting shot that he hadn't used a condom, she hadn't been on the pill and she might very well be pregnant with his child. Again. The rest was a bit more of a blur, especially at this particular moment.
One of the workers came to the door. Marc made a motion with his hand, indicating that he needed a minute or two more, and the man nodded, returning to his truck.
"Look, it's taken care of, okay?" Marc told her. "I talked to the building's owner about the modifications we want to make. The space will be rented in your name, and part of the agreement will include permission to make any changes we see fit to better our business. Brian is putting together the paperwork and will deliver the contracts today. I'll have him get me a copy of the key from the landlord, but for now I need the one you have."
"But … " She was starting to sound like a broken record. "If Brian hasn't talked to Mr. Parsons yet, how do you know he'll agree to let us-me-rent this space?"
His mossy green eyes sparkled with self-assurance. "Vanessa," he said slowly, as though speaking to a small child or particularly slow adult. "It's taken care of. The building is for rent, I told Brian to rent it. What more do you need to know?"
She was finally catching on. Or rather, finally fully absorbing the situation and Marc's deep-rooted resolve to stay in town.
"Let me guess. 'Money is no object,'" she mimicked, adopting a low, masculine voice that was clearly supposed to be his. "You told Brian what you wanted-with no limit on how much you were willing to spend-and are leaving him to do whatever he has to for you to get your own way."
Releasing her elbow, he propped his hands on his hips, letting out a frustrated breath. "What's wrong with that?" he wanted to know.
She wished she could say nothing. She wished she didn't mind that he was using his wealth and prestige to assist her in her business and help to make the bakery an even bigger success.
There had even been a time when that sort of power and cocky confidence would have impressed her. Now, though, it only made her nervous.
"I don't want to be indebted to you, Marc," she told him softly, honestly. "I don't want to owe you anything, or know that The Sugar Shack has only expanded, is only successful, because you rode into town and saved the day with the Keller family fortune."
"Why does it matter where the capital comes from, Vanessa? The important thing is that you're getting your additional space and branching out into mail order."
Shaking her head, she crossed her arms beneath her brea**sts and took a step back. "You don't understand. It does matter, because if you come in waving your checkbook around and running roughshod over me and everyone else in this town, then it's not my business anymore. It's just another insignificant acquisition for Keller Corp's multimillion-dollar holdings."
Widening his stance, he copied her defensive position of arms over chest. "Don't give me that. You asked Brian Blake to look for an investor you could work with. Preferably a silent one who would be willing to flush copious amounts of money into the bakery, but not have much say on how it was run or what you did with the cash. For the most part, that's exactly what I'm doing. So your problem isn't that I'm 'waving my checkbook around,' as you so eloquently put it. Your problem is that it's my checkbook."
"Of course that's my problem," she snapped, his earlier frustrations rubbing off on her. "We've been down this road before, Marc. The money, the influence, expecting everyone and everything to fall into line simply because your name is Keller."
Uncrossing her arms, she raised her hands to cover her face for a minute, trying to collect her thoughts and her temper. Once she lowered them, her tone was more subdued.
"Don't get me wrong, I liked it for a while. I enjoyed the lifestyle being your wife afforded me. The parties, the wardrobe, never having to worry about making ends meet."
Oh, yes. After a lifetime of struggling, of working her fingers to the bone just to get by, marrying into money had been a welcome reprieve.
"But you have no idea what it was like to be your wife and live under that roof without truly being a Keller."
His eyes narrowed, their green depths filling with genuine confusion. "What are you talking about? Of course, you were a true Keller. You were my wife."
"That's sure not how it felt," she admitted softly, remembering all the times his mother had made a point of reminding her that she was a Keller by marriage only, making her feel as though she had no business even crossing the threshold of Keller Manor without a mop and feather duster in her hands.
"I'm sorry." His arms slid from his chest and he started to reach for her, then seemed to think better of it and dropped his hands to his sides. "I never meant to make you feel like an outsider."
Guilt stabbed through her at the hurt look on his face. She opened her mouth to tell him that he hadn't been nearly as big an offender as his mother, but a sharp rap on the glass cut her off, startling them both.
The same worker as before, apparently the man in charge of the rest of the crew, made an impatient face and tapped his watch. Time, as they said, was money, and he obviously wasn't making any standing around on the sidewalk. Of course, Vanessa was sure Marc was paying them well, and most likely by the hour, regardless of whether they were actively working or not.
Marc lifted a hand, giving him the just a second gesture before turning back to her. "I'm going to need that key before these guys decide to sledgehammer their way in here."
She licked her lips and swallowed, reluctant to do his bidding. She and Marc had been on the verge of an honest-to-goodness adult conversation. One where she'd finally almost worked up the courage to tell him the truth behind why she'd gotten fed up and left in the first place. She'd tried so many times in the past to let him know how she was being treated, how much she felt like an outcast in what was supposed to be her own home, but she'd never quite been brave enough to blurt it out.
Part of her had believed that if he loved her enough, if he understood her as much as a husband was supposed to understand his wife, then he would know what she was trying to say all the times she'd hinted at her growing unhappiness. Now, she realized that nobody should be expected to be a mind reader, especially someone of the male persuasion.
If only she had been wise enough and gutsy enough to simply tell him what was going on. Things might have turned out so differently.
But that was water under the bridge and any chance they might have had of wiping the slate clean this morning had disappeared with the carpenter's untimely interruption.
Licking her lips again, she inclined her head. "I'll get the key," she said, turning on her heel and hurrying away.