The Return Of Rafe Mackade (The MacKade Brothers 1)

The cold slapped her like a fist, sending her back two steps. She stood, one hand gripping the rail, the other pressed to her stomach as she struggled to get back the breath the icy air had stolen.

"You've got guts," Rafe murmured from behind her.

Though her eyes were still wide in shock, she looked down and met his levelly. "I wondered if it had just been my imagination. How do the laborers go up and down these steps without—?"

"Not everyone feels it. I'd say the ones who do grit their teeth and think about their paycheck." He walked up the steps to take her hand. "How about you?"

"I'd never have believed it if I hadn't experienced it." Without protest, she let him lead her down to the main level. "It should make for some interesting breakfast conversation among the guests, once you're open."

"Darling, I'm counting on it. Give me your coat. We've got the heat for this part of the house up and running." He slipped her coat off himself. "It's on low, but it takes the edge off."

"You're telling me." Pleased that it seemed warm enough to make shivering unnecessary, she flipped back her hair. "What's going on upstairs?"

"A little bit of everything. I'm putting in an extra bath. I want you to dig up one of those claw-foot tubs, a pedestal sink. Reproductions'll do, if you don't have any luck finding originals."

"Give me a few days. Well." She rubbed her hands together, not from cold, but nerves. "Are you going to show me, or do I have to beg?"

"I'm going to show you." He'd been itching to, looking out the window every five minutes to watch for her. But now that she was here, he was nervous. He'd slaved for more than a week, twelve-and four-teen-hour days, to make that one room, that one spot, that one step, perfect.

"I think the paint turned out." Rather than reach for her hand, he tucked his in his pockets and walked into the parlor ahead of her. "It's a nice contrast with the trim and the floor, I think. Had a little trouble with the windows, but I just had to diddle with the framing."

She didn't speak. For a moment, she merely stood in the doorway. Then, quietly, her boots clicking on the floor, she stepped inside.

It gleamed. The tall, elegant windows, with their graceful arches sent sun streaming over the newly polished floor of lovely old pine. The walls were a deep, warm blue against creamy carved trim in the most delicate of ivories.

He'd turned the window seat into a charming alcove, scrubbed the marble on the fireplace until it shone like glass. The molding along the ceiling bloomed with delicately carved florets that had been smothered and choked by the grime of decades.

"It needs furniture, drapes, and that mirror you picked out for over the mantel." He wished she would say something, anything. "I have to replace the pocket doors, yet." Scowling, he jammed his hands deeper into his pocket. "Well, what's the problem? Did I miss some vital, authentic detail?"

"It's absolutely wonderful." Enchanted, she ran a finger down the glossy trim of a window. "Absolutely perfect. I didn't realize you were this good." With a quick laugh, she glanced back at him. "That wasn't meant as an insult."

"It wasn't taken as one. I was pretty surprised myself, the first time I realized I had a talent for putting something together."

"It's more than that. It's bringing something to life. You must be proud."

He was, he realized, moved, and just a little embarrassed. "It's a job. Hammer and nails and a good eye."

She angled her head, and he watched the sun beam through the window and glow golden on her hair. His mouth watered, then went bone dry.

"You're the last man I'd expect to be modest about anything. You must have killed yourself to get so much accomplished in so little time."

"It was mostly cosmetic in here."

"You've done something," she murmured, and looked around, turning a slow, graceful circle. "You've really done something."

Before he could comment, she was on her hands and knees, running her hands over the floor.

"It's like glass." She all but crooned over the golden planks. "Oh, look at the grain in this wood! What did you use? How many coats?" When he didn't answer, she tossed her head and sat back on her heels. The dazzled smile faded when he only stared at her. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Stand up."

His voice was raw. As she rose to her feet, he kept his distance. He didn't dare touch her now. If he did, he'd simply never be able to stop.

"You look right in here. You should see yourself, how right you look. You're as polished and perfect as this room. I want you so much I can't see anything else but you."

Her heart did a long, unsteady cartwheel in her chest. "You're going to make me stutter again, Rafe." She had to make a conscious effort to pump air in and out of her lungs.

"How long are you going to make me wait?" he demanded. "We're not kids. We know what we feel and what we want."