“Are you Miss Foster?”
She nodded her head quickly in response to his sharp demand. And realized one of his feet had gone through the floorboards of the veranda and now the splintered fragments settled around his boot like jagged teeth.
“You broke my veranda.” Brilliant, Abby, she chastised herself. She crossed her arms in an old habit and bit down on her lip. The most gorgeous example of masculinity you’ve ever seen shows up on your doorstep and that’s what you come up with? You broke my veranda?
“Me? The damned thing is rotten through. You’re lucky I didn’t break my neck.”
Abby wasn’t sure how to respond. A part of her felt the need to be polite and apologize—after all, he was standing ankle-deep in splintered wood. At the same time, he was a stranger, uninvited, and he’d already damaged the property she’d only been in possession of for a scant hour. She was tired and his abrasive tone seemed to ride on her last nerve.
“I beg your pardon, but it appears you’re trespassing. I don’t know you and I certainly didn’t invite you here, Mr.…”
“Arseneault,” he answered. He gave his boot a good yank and pulled it from the hole. He planted both feet on the floor after testing the strength of the boards and then looked up at her with a grin that melted the edges off her annoyance. “Tom Arseneault. And from the looks of this place, you’re going to be seeing a lot of me.”
* * *
Tom looked down into Miss Foster’s astonished face as he issued his declaration. She was a pretty little thing, if you took away the coating of dirt that seemed to cover her from head to toe. Her mouth was a little too wide for the daintiness of her nose, and her hair was mousy brown, coated with dust, and fell limply to her shoulders. But she had good eyes—a nice clear blue, kind of like Penobscot Bay on a clear summer’s day. She wore faded, ripped jeans that seemed perfectly shaped to her figure and a plain cotton T-shirt that emphasized a nice pair of breasts. She was the kind of woman he probably would have given a glance to on the street—but not a second look. Tom’s first impression was of a sweet rather than a second-look kind of woman.
Until he saw her feet. She wore silly little flip-flops—the strappy bit that ran across the top of her foot crusted with sparkly stuff—and her toenails were painted hot pink. Ultrafeminine and sexy as hell.
Shaking off his sudden foot fetish, Tom tried to gather his thoughts. So the dusty little mouse had pretty feet. So what? She certainly didn’t embody what he imagined Marian’s heir to look like. He’d expected a man, actually, and older than the snippet of a girl before him. More regal, perhaps, in keeping with the family name and fortune. He frowned, not liking the feeling of being off balance. Miss Foster looked like she’d fit in at his cousin Jess’s craft shop stringing beads on hemp bracelets rather than having a head for business.
First thing he had to do was make her see how much she needed him. And he wouldn’t do that by glowering at her. It wasn’t her fault the floor was rotted through, and it wasn’t her fault she had sexy feet. He took a breath, slapped his best trust-me smile back on, and prepared to make nice. But her uptight little voice cut him off before he could begin to argue his case.
“I have never heard of you, Mr. Arseneault,” she replied, as if oblivious to his smile. The pert nose lifted a little higher into the air. “But you can take your big boots and your bigger attitude and leave the way you came.”
Had he really just thought she wasn’t regal? The proclamation was delivered in such a dismissive tone that he laughed. He couldn’t help it. She was going toe-to-toe with him like she was the Queen of England. Maybe there was a good dose of Foster blood in her after all. She looked so serious it was very nearly adorable.
“Honey,” he said smoothly, “we started off on the wrong foot.” He chuckled, looking down at his foot recently freed from the porch. “Why don’t we just talk and—”
Her cheeks colored. “I’m not your honey, my name is Abigail. I asked you to leave, and I am not afraid to call the police.”
“You don’t want to do that,” he replied, his smile sliding away. All he needed was for Bryce to answer the phone. There’d be no end to the teasing. God knew Bryce didn’t need any more ammunition. It was already to
o easy for Jewell Cove’s chief of police to get beneath Tom’s skin.
“Oh?” Her gaze brightened as if she sensed a victory in her grasp. “And why not?”
“Trust me, I’m doing you a favor. You’ll look stupid.”
She pursed her lips. “Do I seem like the kind of woman who worries about looking stupid?”
She raised an imperious eyebrow. Impressive, he thought, with a glimmer of respect. Abigail Foster had a glint of challenge in her blue gaze that intrigued him. He was willing to call her bluff just to see how it would all work out. “Go ahead,” he prompted. “Ask for Bryce Arseneault. That’d be my brother, by the way.”
She looked like she wanted to stomp her foot and he marveled at how cute she appeared just then. Immensely satisfied, he hooked his thumbs in his jeans pockets. The sooner this mess of an introduction got over with, the sooner they could get down to business.
A sound of frustration escaped her lips. She went inside and surprised him by slamming the door in his face. He checked his watch. One minute. He’d give her one minute before knocking. He was pretty sure she’d come back out. And when she did, he’d make a better case for himself. He’d gone about it the wrong way, trying charm and humor. It didn’t usually fail him.
Twenty seconds. Ten.
The door opened, precluding the need for him to knock and make nice. She stood in the gap, clicking her cell phone off. “Right. Bryce says hello and that Mary expects you for dinner at five-thirty.”
He could rub it in her face but decided not to. The blush tainting her cheeks right now was satisfaction enough. He looked around the sagging veranda, caught sight of the crumbling chimney, the cracked paint around the windows. “You’re lucky it was me who put their foot through just now. Someone else might have been right angry. Maybe would have sued. It’s a litigious world we live in.”
Her lips puckered like a drawstring bag. “I feel so fortunate,” she replied, and the sarcasm washed over him. He liked it. It seemed to level the playing field somehow. She might be tiny, but he guessed that she’d make a worthy opponent if given the opportunity.
Despite her quirky toes and ripped jeans, he just bet Abigail Foster liked to dot all her i’s and cross all her t’s, the complete opposite of his more laid-back approach to business. And looking at those pursed lips and the challenging glint in her eyes, he felt a shiver of anticipation that had nothing to do with the house and everything to do with the client.
Abigail might be the Type A organizer, but things just weren’t done that way in Jewell Cove. They were normally settled over a pint at the Rusty Fern followed by a handshake. If she stayed, she’d soon learn how things were done. And how they weren’t.